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Philadelphia. J BLippmcotl k Co. 



BYmOM'S 



POETICAL wo MKS 




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lies ilie AirJu)!.- uf Childe Harolds P%bnagf 



THE 


1 


POETICAL WORKS 




OF 




LORD BYRO 


N, 


COMPLETE 




IN ONE VOLUME. 


1 


PHILADELPHIA: 




J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 




1841. 




Stereotyped by J. Fagan . , , Printed by Kay & Brother. 





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^JO 



CONTENTS OF BYRON'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Page 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 5 

ADVERTfSEMENT TO MURRAY'S LONDON 
EDITION , 7 

HOURS OF IDLENESS; A Series of Poems, original 

and translated 7 

Dedication 7 

Preface 8 

On the Death of a young Lady, Cousin to the Author, 
and very dear to him 8 

To E 8 

To D 9 

Epitaph on a Friend 9 

A Fragment 9 

On leaving Newstead Abbey 9 

Lines written in " Letters of an Italian Nun and 
an English Gentleman ; by J. J. Rousseau : founded 
onFacts" 9 

Answer to the foregoing, addressed to Miss — — — . 

Adrian's Address to his Soul when dying 

Translation from Catullus. Ad Lesbiam 

Translation of the Epitaph on Virgil andTibullus, by 
Domitius Marsus w 

Imitation of Tibullus. " Sulpicia ad Cerinthum •'. 

Translation from Catullus. " Lugete Veneres, Cu- 
pidinesque," &c 

Imitated from Catullus. To Ellen 

Translation from Horace. " Justum et tenacera," 
&c 

From Anacreon 

From Anacreon 

From the Prometheus Vinctus of Aeschylus 

To Emma 

To M. S. G , 

To Caroline 

To the Same 

To the Same 

Stanzas to a Lady, with the Poems of Camoens.... 

The First Kiss of Love 

On a Change of Masters at a great Public School .. 

To the Duke of Dorset 

Fragment, written shortly after the Marriage of Miss 
Chaworth ,^... 

Granta. A Medley 

On a distant yiew of the Village and School of Har- 
row on the Hill 

To M 

To Woman 

To M. S.ti 

To Mary, on receiving her Picture 

To Lesbia 

Lines addressed to a young Lady, who was alarmed at 
the Sound of a Bullet hissing near her 

Love's last Adieu 

Damaetas 

To Marion 

To a Lady who presented to the Author a Lock of 
Hair braided with his own 

Oscar of Alva. A Tale 

The Episode of Nisus and Euryalus 

Translation from the Medea of Euripides 

Thoughts suggested by a College Examination 

To a beautiful Quaker 

The Cornelian 

An Occasional Prologue to " The Wheel of Fortune " 

On the Death of Mr.Fox 

The Tear 

Reply to some verses of J. M. B. Pigot, Esq., on the 
Cruelty of his Mistress 

To the sighing Strephon 

To Eliza 

Lachin y Gair 

To Romance 

Answer to some elegant Verses sent by a Friend to 
the Author, complaining that one of his Descrip- 
tions was rather too warmly drawn 

Elegy on Newstead Abbey 

Childish Recollections 

Answer to a beautiful Poem, entitled" The Common 
Lot" 

To a Lady who presented the Author with the Velvet 
Band which bound her Tresses 

Remembrance 

Lines addressed to the Rev. J. T. Becher, on his ad- 
vising the Author to mix more with Society.... 

The Death of Calmarand Orla. An Imitation of Mac- 
pherson's Ossian 



Page 

L'Amitle est I'Amour sans Ailes 34 

The Prayer of Nature 35 

To Edward Noel Long, Esq 36 

Oh! had my fate been join'd with thine ! 86 

I would I vyerc a careless Child 37 

When I roved a young Highlander 38 

To George, Earl Delawarr 38 

To the Earl of Clare 38 

Lines written beneath an Elm in the Churchyard 

of Harrow 39 

Article on the " Hours of Idleness," from the Edin- 
burgh Review 89 

ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS: 

A Satire 41 

Preface 41 

HINTS FROM HORACE; being an Allusion in Eng- 
lish Verse to the Epistle " Ad Pisones, de Arte 

Poetica" S3 

THE CURSE OF MINERVA 64 

THE WALTZ; An Apostrophic Hymn to the Pub- 
lisher CG 



ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE 



70 



HEBREW MELODIES 4 72 

She walks in Beauty 72 

The Harp the Monarch Minstrel swept 72 

If that high World 72 

The wild Gazelle 72 

Oh! weep for those 72 

On Jordan's Banks 72 

Jephtha's Daughter 73 

Oh ! snatch'd away in Beauty's Bloom 73 

My Soul is dark 73 

I saw thee weep 73 

Thy Days are done 73 

Song of Saul before his last Battle 73 

Saul 74 

" All is Vanity, saith the Preacher" 

When Coldness wraps this sufiTering Clay 

Vision of Belshazzar 

Sun of the Sleepless 

Were my Bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be 

Herod's Lament for Mariamne 

On the Day of the Destruction of Jerusalem by Titus 
By the Rivers of Babylon we sat down and wept, 

The Destruction of Sennacherib 

A Spirit passed before me. From Job 

THE MORGANTE MAGGIORE OF PULCI 

Advertisement 



THE GIAOUR 

THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS 

THE CORSAIR 

LARA 

SIEGE OF CORINTH 

PARISINA 

PRISONER OF CHILLON 

BEPPO 

MAZEPPA 

THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 

Dedication 

Preface 

Canto I 



Canto II.. 
Canto III 
Canto IV 



THE BLUES; A Literary Eclogue. 

THE VISION OF JUDGMENT .. 

Preface 



THE AGE OF BRONZE; or. Carmen Seculare et 

Annus haud Mirabilis 

THE ISLAND 

OCCASIONAL PIECES, 1807—1824 

The Adieu. Written under the Impression that the 

Author would soon die 

To a vain Lady •.. 



To Anr 

To the Same 




(3) 



IV 



CONTENTS 



Page 
Tothe Author of the Sonnet, "Sad is my Verse,"<kc. 198 

On finding a Fan 198 

Farewell to the Muse 198 

To an Oak at Newstead 109 

On revisiting Harrow 199 

Epitaph on John Adams, of Southwell 199 

To my Son 199 

Farewell! if ever fondest Praver 200 

Bright be the Place of thy Soul 200 

When we two parted 200 

To a youthful Friend 200 

Lines inscribed upon a Cup formed from a Skull... 201 

Well! thou art happy ! 201 

Inscription on the Monument of a favourite Dog .. 201 
To a Lady, on being asked my Reason for quitting 

England in the Spring 202 

Remind me not, remind me not 202 

There was a Time, I need not name 202 

And wilt thou weep when I am low7 203 

Fill the Goblet again. A Snng 203 

Stanzas to a Lady, on leaving England 203 

Lines to Mr. Hodgson 204 

Lines written in an Album at Malta 204 

To Florence 204 

Stanzas composed during a Thunder Storm 205 

Stanzas written in passing the Ambracian Gulf .... 206 

The Spell is broke, the Charm is flown! 206 

AVritten after swimming from Sestos to Abydos.... 206 

Lines in the Travellers' Book at Archomenus 206 

Maid of Athens! ere we part 206 

Translation of the Nurses' Dole in the Medea 207 

My Epitaph 207 

Substitute for an Epitaph 207 

Lines written beneath a Picture..." 207 

Translation of Greek War Song 207 

Translation of Romaic Song 207 

On Parting 208 

Epitaph for Joseph Blackett 208 

Farewell to Malta 208 

To Dives. A Fragment 209 

On Moore's last operatic Farce, or farcical Opera .. 209 
Epistle to a Friend, in answer to some Lines exhort- 
ing the Author to be cheerful, and to " b.inish care" 209 

To Thyrza. " Without a Stone," &c 209 

Stanzas. "Away, away! ye Notes of Woe " .... 210 
Stanzas. " One struggle more, and lam free ".... 210 

Euthanasia. " When Time," <fec 210 

Stanzas. " And thou art dead, as young as fair " .. 211 
Stanzas. " If sometimes in the Haunts of Men " . 211 

On a Cornelian Heart, which was broken 211 

Lines from the French 211 

Lines to a Lady weeping 211 

" The Chain I gave," &c. From the Turkish .... 212 
Lines written on a blank Leaf of "The Pleasures of 

Memory" 212 

Address, on the opening of Drury Lane Theatre, 1S12 212 

Parenthetical Address, by Dr. Plagiary 213 

Verses found in a Summer House at Hales-Owen.. 213 

Remember thee 1 remember thee ! 2!3 

To Time 213 

Translation of a Romaic Love Song 214 

Stanzas, "Thou art not false, but thou art fickle" 2!4 
On being asked, what was the "Origin of Love ".. 214 
Stanzis. "Remember him, whom Passion's Power" 214 

On Lord Thurlow's Poems 215 

To Lord Thurlcw 215 

To Thomas Moore. Written the Evening before 

his visit to Mr. Leigh Hunt, May 19, 1813 215 

Impromptu. " When from the Heart " <kc 215 

Sonnet, to Genevra 215 

Sonnet, to the Same 215 

From the Portuguese. "Tu mi Chamas." 216 

The Devil's Drive; an unfinished Rhapsody 216 

Windsor Poetics 216 

Stanzas for Music. " I speak not," ikc 216 

Address for the Caledonian Meeting 217 

Fragment of an Epistle to Thomas Moore 217 

Condolatory Address to Sarah, Countess of Jersey, 

on the Regent's returning her Picture 217 

To Belshazzar 2 Jfc 

Elegiac Stanzas on Sir Peter Parker, Bart 218 

Stanzas for Music. " There's not a Joy," <kc 218 

Stanzas for Music. "There be none of Bi-auiy's 

Daughters," &c 218 

On Napoleon's Escape from Elba 2.9 

Ode from the French. •' We do not curse thee, 

Waterloo." 219 

From the French. " Must thou go, mv glorious 

Chief?" 219 

On the Star of "the Legion of Honour." From the 

French 220 



Page 

Napoleon's Farewell. From the French 220 

Endorsement to the Deed of Separation 220 

DOMESTIC PIECES: 1816: 

Fare thee Well 221 

A Sketch 222 

Stanzas to Augusta. "When all around," &c. ... 222 
Stanzas to the Same. "Though the Day of my 

Destiny 's over," <kc 223 

Epistle to the Same. " My Sister, my sweet Sister." 223 
Lines on hearing that Lady Byron was ill 224 

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT 
HON. R. B. SHERIDAN, spoken at Drury Lane 
Theatre 225 

THE DREAM 226 

DARKNESS 228 



Churchill's Grave ; a Fact literally rendered 

Prometheus 

A Fragment. "Could I remount," &c 

Sonnet to Lake Leman 

Romance muy Doloroso del Sitio y Toma de Alhama.. 

Ballad on the Siege and Conquest of Alhama 

Sonetto di Vittorelli. Per Monaca 

Translation from Vittorelli. On a Nun 

Stanzas for Music. "Bright he the Place," &c 

Stanzas for Music. "They say that Hope," &o 

To Thomas Moore. " My Boat is on the Shore," &c. .. 

On the Bust of Helen by Canova 

Song for the Luddites 

So we '11 go no more a roving 

To Thomas Moore. " What are you doing now,"<fcc. .. 

Versicles 

To Mr. Murray. "To hook the Reader," &c 

THE LAMENT OF TASSO 

E|iistle from Mr. Murray to Dr. Polidori 

Epistle to Mr. Murray. " My dear Mr. Murray, "&c. .. 
To Mr. Murray. "Strahan, Tonson, Lintot," <fec. .. 

On the Birth of John William Rizzo Hoppner 

ODE ON VENICE 

Stanzas to the Fo 

Sonnet to George IV. on the Repeal of Lord Edward 

Fitzgerald's Forfeiture 

Epigram, from the French of Rulhieres 

Stanzas. "Could Love for ever," Stc 

On my Weddi ng Day 

Epitaph for WilHam Pitt ,... 

Epigram. "In digging up your Bones," &c 1. .. 

FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 

Stanzas. "When a Man hath no Freedom," (fee... 
Epigram. "The World is a Bundle of Hny," <tc.. .. 

The Charity Ball 

Epigram on my Wedding Day. To Penelope 

On my Thirty-third Birth Day 

Epigram on the Braziers' Company having resolved 

to present an Address to Queen Caroline 

Martial, Lib. I. Epist. I 

Bowles and Campbell 

Epigrams on Castlereagh 

John Keats 

The Conquest. A Fragment 

To Mr. Murray. " For Orford and for Waldegrave," 

<kc 

The Irish Avatar 

Stanzas written between Florence and Pisa 

Stanzas to a Hindoo Air 

Impromptu 

To the Countess of Blessington 

Stanzas inscribed — " On this D ly I complete my 

Thirty-sixth Year" 

Append! X 

MANFRED 

MARINO FALIERO 

HEAVEN AND EARTH 

SARDANAPALUS 

THE TWO FOSCARI 



228 

228 I 

229 j 

229 ! 

230 I 
2o0 I 
23-2 
232 
232 
232 



CAIN 345 

WERNER 861 

THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED 889 

CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 

Appendix : — Notes to Childe Harold 

DON JUAN 



402 
447 
474 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF LORD BYRON, 



GEORGE GORDON BYRON, Lord Byron, was 
born at Dover, on the 22d January, 1788. He was 
the grandson of the celebrated Admiral Byron, and 
succeeded his great-uncle William Lord Byron, while 
at school, in 1798. His father was the admiral's only 
son, Captain John Byron of the guards, so notorious 
for his gallantries and reckless dissipation, by his 
second wife Catherine Gordon, an Aberdeenshire 
heiress, and a lineal descendant from the house of 
Huntley. By the eccentricity and misconduct of the 
old Lord Byron, and of the c plain his nephew, the 
reputation of the family of Byron, so ancient and 
honourable in English history, had been considerably 
tarnished, when it was fated to give birth to the first 
poet of his age. The former was tried by his peers 
for killing his relation, Mr. Chaworth, in a combat 
with swords, after a tavern dispute, under circum- 
stances so equivocal, that he was indicted for murder, 
and only saved from the penalty attendant on man- 
slaughter by pleading his peerage, an escape wliich 
did not prevent him from being consigned by public 
opinion to a life of seclusion and obscurity. Captain 
Byron, on the other hand, was so dissipated, that he 
obtained the name of the "mad Jack Byron." He 
was one of the handsomest men of his day, but so 
immersed in all the fashionable vices, that at length 
to be seen in his company was deemed discreditable. 
In his twenty-seventh year he seduced Amelia, mar- 
chioness of Carmarthen, daughter of the earl of 
Holdernesse, to whom, on a divorce following, he 
was united in marriage; This ceremony the ill- 
fated lady did not survive more than two years, when 
he took for a second wife Miss Gordon, whose fortune 
he quickly dissipated, leaving her a destitute widow 
in 1791, with a son, the celebrated subject of this 
article, then only three years of age. Previously to 
the death of her husband, having been deserted by 
him, Mrs. Byron prudently retired with her infant 
son to Aberdeen, where she lived in narrow circum- 
stances and great seclusion. It is necessary to be thus 
particular in these preparatory details, in the present 
instance, because the singularity of the circumstances 
attendant upon the early childhood of Lord Byron, 
seems to have operated very materially in the forma- 
tion of his very striking character. Until seven 
years of age the care of his education rested solely on 
his mother, to whose excusable, but injudicious in- 
dulgence, some of the waywardness by which it was 
subsequently marked, was even by himself attributed. 
Being then of a weakly constitution, that disadvan- 
tage, added to a slight malconformation in one of his 
feet, naturally rendered him an object of peculiar 
solicitude, and to invigorate his constitution, he was 
not sent to school, but allowed to brace his limbs upon 
the mountains in the neighbourhood ; where he early 
acquired associations, and encountered a mass of 
legendary lore which indisputably nurtured his poeti- 
cal tendencies. At the age of seven he was sent to 
the grammar-school at Aberdeen. In 1798, the death 
of his great-uncle, without issue, gave Byron the 
titles and estates of the family, on which, being then 
ten years of age, he was removed from the immediate 
care of his mother, and placed under the guardian- 
ship of the earl of Carlisle. On this change the 
youthful lord was placed at Harrow, where he dis- 
tinguished himself more by his Jove of manly sports 
and by his undaunted spirit, than by his attention to 
his studies. 

While yet at school, he fell deeply in love with 
Miss Chaworth, the daughter and heiress of the gen- 
tleman who had fallen by the hand of his great-uncle, 
whom he met with on his occasional visits to New- 
stead. This lady, ultimately, married another and 
more mature suitor. 

Lord Byron was deeply wounded by this disap- 
pointment, and to the latest period of his life regard- 
ed it with the most melancholy feelings. 
_ 



When between sixteen and seventeen, he was 
entered of Trinity College, Cambridge ; and here, as 
at Harrow, his dislike of discipline drew upon him 
much unavoidable rebuke, which he repaid with 
sarcasm and satire j and among other practical jokes 
kept a bear, which he observed he was training up 
for a degree. At nineteen he quitted the university, 
and took up his residence at the family seat of New- 
stead Abbey, where he indulged himself chiefly in 
amusement, and especially in aquatic sports and 
swimming. In 1807, while still at Newstead, he ar- 
ranged his early productions, which he caused to be 
printed at Newark, under the title of " Hours of 
Idleness," by George Gordon Lord Byron, a Minor. 
These poems, although exhibiting some indication of 
the future poet, also betrayed several marks of juve- 
nility and imitation, which induced the Edinburgh 
reviewers to indulge in a celebrated attack, much 
less distinguished for wit or acumen, than for unrea- 
sonable causticity and ill-nature. The ridicule and 
neglect produced by this critique, roused the anger of 
the rising poet, who took his revenge in his cele- 
brated satire of " English Bards and Scotch Review- 
ers." It is unpleasant to relate that about this time 
Lord Byron gave into a career of dissipation, too pre- 
valent among the youthful possessors of rank and 
fortune, when altogether uncontrolled. Thus his 
fortune was deeply involved before he had attained 
legal maturity, and his constitution much impaired 
by the excesses in which he spent it. 1 his however 
was not a course to last ; and in the year 1809, he 
determined to travel, and accordingly, in company 
with his fellow-collegian, John Cam Hobhouse, Esq., 
he embarked at Falmouth, for Lisbon, and proceeded 
by the southern provinces of Spain to the Mediter- 
ranean. His subsequent peregrination in Greece, 
Turkey, &c., need not be detailed here, having been 
rendered so famous by his fine poem of " Childe 
Harold's Pilgrimage." He returned home in June, 
1811, after an absence of two years, and had not long 
arrived before he was sunimogaed to Newstead, by 
the dangerous illness of his mother, who breathed 
her last before he could reach her. 

The publication of Childe Harold, which now took 
place, at once placed its author on the loftiest pin- 
nacle of poetic fame. The splendour and originality 
of the poem astonished and dazzled his contempora- 
ries. Panegyric flowed in upon him from almost 
every quarter, and his acquaintance became univer- 
sally courted. His manners, person, and conversa- 
tion, were well calculated to heighten the attraction 
at first created by his genius ; and it is to be regretted 
that, amidst the allurements and excitement presented 
in the glittering world of fashion. Lord Byron be- 
came involved in intrigues which were scarcely cal- 
culated to enhance his reputation for morality. 

The quick and scrutinising glance which Lord 
Byron had cast on Eastern character and manners, 
were now manifested in " The Giaour ; " " The 
Bride of Abydos ; " *' The Corsair," (the copyright 
of which, as well as that of Childe Harold, he gave 
to Mr. Dallas;) "Lara;" and "The Siege of Co- 
rinth ; " which followed one another in quick succes- 
sion. For parliamentary duties, he seems to have 
had a decided distaste; and it was not until his re- 
turn from the Continent that he ventured to speak. 
He made his maiden speech in February, 1812, from 
the opposition bench, against the frame-work bill, 
and was argumentative and lively, if not very 
original. Having now become a character whose 
support might be of considerable consequence, he 
was congratulated accordingly. Another time he 
addressed the house in support of Catholic emancipa- 
tion, nnd a third and last time on presenting a peti- 
tion from Major Cartwright. 

On the 2d of January, 1.^15, he married Anna Isa- 
bella, only daughter of Sir Ralph Milbanke Noel, 

(5) 



I Ui T riVi^i iTnn 



VI 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 



Bart., to whom he had proposed himself a year he- 
fore, and been rejected. The fortune received with 
his lady was not large, and his own having been pre- 
viously much enthralled, the reckless system of 
splendour which succeeded the marriage, could not 
be long maintained, and after enduring considerable 
embarrassments, it was finally settled that Lady 
Byron, who had presented his lordship with a daugh- 
ter on the 10th of December, should pay her father a 
visit until better arrangements could be made. From 
this visit. Lady Byron ultimately refused to return, 
and a formal separation ensued, the exact merits of 
which will most likely never be ascertained. This 
rupture produced a considerable sensstion in the 
world of fashion, and the most contradictory rumours 
prevailed, in the midst of which Lord Byron left 
England, with an expressed resolution never to 
return. He crossed over to France, through which 
he passed rapidly to Brussels, taking on his way a 
survey of the field of Waterloo. He then visited the 
banks of the Rhine, Switzerland, and the north of 
Italy, and for some time took up his abode at Venice. 
Here he was joined by Mr. Hobhouse, who accom- 
panied him on a visit to Rome, where he completed 
his third canto of " Childe Harold," which showed 
that his wounded mind had in no degree chilled his 
poetic fire. Not long after appeared " The Prisoner 
of Chillon, a Dream, and other poems ; " and in 1817, 
"Manfred," a tragedy, and the "Lament of Tasso." 
In one of his excursions from Italy, he resided for 
some time at Abydos, and thence proceeded to Tene- 
dos and the island of Scio, where he likewise staid 
three months, during which time he visited every 
classical scene, and frequently slept in the peasants' 
cottages, to whom his liberality made him a welcome 
guest. He also visited several other islands, and at 
length repaired to Athens, where he sketched many 
of the scenes of the fourth and last Canto of Childe 
Harold, which poem was published in ISIS. In the 
same year appeared the playful jeu d'esprit of 
"Beppo." In 1819, was published the romantic tale 
of "Mazeppa," and the same year was marked with 
the commencement of his "Don Juan." In 1S20, 
was published "Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice." 
In the same year appeared the noble dmma of 
"Sardanapalus; " "The Two Foscari," a tragedy; 
and " Cain," a mystery. 

When Lord Byron quitted Venice, after visiting 
several parts of the Italian dominions of Austria, he 
settled at Pisa ; where he became connected with the 
Gamba family, in whose behalf he endured some in- 
convenience, whicli ended in the banishment of the 
Counts Gamba, and the open residence of the Coun- 
tess with Lord Byron. In 1S22, in conjunction with 
Mr, Leigh Hunt, who on invitation had become his 
guest, and Mr. Percy Bysshe Shelley, the periodical 
publication called " The Liberal," was commenced, 
which, principally owing to the unhappy fate of Mr. 
Shelley, (who perished by the upsetting of a boat in 
the Mediterranean,) extended only to four numbers. 
In this work first appeared the celebrated " Vision of 
Judgment." '• Heaven and Earth," a mystery, also 
first appeared in the Liberal. The later Cantos of 
Don Juan, with " Werner," a tragedy, and the " De- 
formed Transformed," a fragment, bring up the rear 
of Lord Byron's performances. 

In the autumn of 1822, he quitted Pisa and winter- 
ed at Genoa, and now began to indulge those feeiinjs 
in regard to the efforts of the Greeks to throw off' the 
Mahometan yoke, which determined him to lend 
them the aid of his person, purse, and influence. In 
August, 1823, he embarked, accompanied by five or 
six friends, iu an English vessel which he had hired 



for the purpose, and arrived at the commencement of 
the third campaign. He established himself some 
time in Cephalonia, and generously advanced 12,000 
pounds sterling in aid of the cause which he had 
espoused. After due preparation, he sailed from 
Argostoli with two Ionian vessels, and taking con- 
siderable specie on board, he proceeded to Misso- 
longhi; where, afier considerable hazard and danger, 
and the loss of one of his vessels, he finally arrived, 
and was received with every possible mark of hon- 
our that Grecian gratitude could devise. H is influence 
was very salutary in the mitigation of the ferocity 
with which the war was waged on the part of the 
Greeks; but it was much more difficult to produce 
union among their leaders. He immediately began 
to form a brigade of Suliotes, five hundred of whom 
were taken into his pay, with a view to an expedition 
against Lepanto ; but such was the disorderly and 
unsettled temper of these troops, he was obliged to 
postpone it. This unexpected disappointment prey- 
ed on his spirits, and on the 15th February, he was 
attacked with a severe fit of the epilepsy. He had 
subsequently other attacks, but at length the violence 
of the disorder began to yield to the skill of his phy- 
sician, and he was recommended to remove for "a 
while from the flat, marshy, and unhealthful site of 
Missolonghi to Zante. This step, with his usual 
tenacity, he refused to take: "1 cannot quit Greece, 
(he wrote to a fiiend) while there is a chance of my 
being even of (supposed) utility. There is a stake 
worth millions ; such as I am, and while I can stand 
at all, I must stand by the cause. While I say this, I 
am aware of the difficulties, dissensions, and defects 
of the Greeks themselves, but allowance must be 
made for them by all reasonable people." On the 
expedition against Lepanto being given up, other pro- 
jects were proposed with reference both to military 
operations and to congresses for uniting eastern and 
western Greece ; but, unhappily, the fatal moment 
was at hand, which uas to deprive the Greek cause 
of its firm and energetic friend. 

On the 9th of April, Lord Byron, while riding out, 
got extremely wet; and, scarcely recovered from the 
effects of his former disorder, a fever ensued, which 
it is thought might have > ieided to copious bleeding 
in the first instance, but which, owing either to his 
own objection, or the inadequate opinion of the phy- 
sician of the nature of the disease, was destined to 
prove fatal on the evening of the 19th April, 1824. 
The body of Lord Byron was brought to England, 
and laid in state in London, but was subsequently 
escorted out of town by a funeral procession, of which 
several distinguished characters, and a number of the 
carriages of the nobility and gentry formed a part. 
It was received at Nottingham by the corporation, 
and attended to the place of interment at Hucknell, 
near his own seat of Newstead Abbey, where a plain 
marble slab merely records his name and title, date 
of death, and age. Besides his only legitimate child 
and heiress, Lord Byron left another daughter in 
Italy, to whom he left 5,000Z. on the condition of not 
marrying an Englishman. The successor to his 
estate and title was his cousin, Capt. George Anson 
Byron, of the royal navy. 

This is not the place to enter into an analysis of the 
merits of Lord Byron, nor to characterize speci- 
fically his various productions. But of one thing we 
may speak with a probability amounting almost to 
certainty— and that is, as to the permanency of his 
poetical reputation. Whilst the English language 
shall endure. Lord Byron's poems will be read wher- 
ever it prevails. 



THE 



WO R K S 



OF 



LORD BYRON 



ADVERTISEMENT TO MURRAY'S LONDON EDITION. 

At the distance of eight years from Lord Byron's death, in arranging his poetical works for this the first 
complete and uniform edition of them, it has been resolved, after much consideration, to follow, as closely as 
possible, the order of chronology. With a writer whose pieces do not prominently connect themselves with 
the actual sequence of his private history, another course might have seemed more advisable; but, in the case 
of one whose compositions reflect constantly the incidents of his own career, the developement of his senti- 
ments, and the growth of his character — in the case of a Petrarch, a Burns, a Schiller, or a Byron, — the 
advantages of the plan here adopted appear unquestionable. 

The poetical works of Lord Byron, thus arranged, and illustrated from his own diaries and letters — (to 
many of which, as yet in MS., the Editor has had access), — and from the information of his surviving 
friends, who have in general answered every enquiry with prompt kindness, — will now present the clearest 
picture of the history of the man, as they must ever form the noblest monument of his genius. 

Besides the juvenile miscellany of 1807, entitled " Hours of Idleness," and the satire of " English Bards and 
Scotch Reviewers," first published in 1809, the present volume embraces a variety of Occasional Pieces, many 
of them now first printed, written between 1807 and the summer of 1810. Its contents bring down, therefore, 
the poetical autobiography of Lord Byron, from the early days of Southwell and Harrow, to the time when he 
had seriously entered on the great work which fixed his place in the highest rank of English literature. 

Here the reader is enabled to take " the river of his life" at its sources, and trace it gradually from the boyish 
regions of passionately tender friendships, innocent half-fanciful loves, and that vague melancholy which hangs 
over the first stirrings of ambition, until, widening and strengthening as it flows, it begins to appear discoloured 
with the bitter waters of thwarted affection and outraged pride. No person, it is hoped, will hesitate to confess 
that new light is thrown on such of these pieces as had been published previously, by the arrangement and 
annotation which they have at length received — any more than that, among the minor poems now for the first 
time printed, there are several which claim a higher place, as productions of Lord Byron's genius, than any 
of those with which, in justice to him and to his reader, they are thus interwoven. 

Composed entirely of verses written between the ages of fifteen and twenty-three, this volume,i— even con- 
sidered in a mere literary point of view, — miist be allowed to stand alone in the history of Juvenile Poetry. 
But every page of it is in fact, when rightly understood, a chapter of the author's " confessions ;" and it is by 
contemplating these faithful records of the progress of his mind and feelings, in conjunction with those already 
presented in the prose notices of his life, — which mutually illustrate and confirm each other throughout,— 
that the reader can alone prepare himself for entering with full advantage on the first canto of Childe Harold. 

The Editor's notes are indicated by the addition of the letter E. 
London, June, 1832. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS/ 

A SERIES OF POEMS, ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED. 



Virginibus puerisque canto. Horace, lib, 3. Ode 1. 

M^t' cIq lit fidX^ diivtt pL-fiTt Ti vtCKtt. Homer, Iliad, x. 249. 

He whistled as he went, for want of thought. Dryden. 



TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 

FREDERICK, EARL OF CARLISLE, 

KNIGHT OF THE GARTER, ETC., ETC., 

THE SECOND EDITION OF THESE POEMS IS INSCRIBED, BY HIS 

OBLIGED WARD AND AFFECTIONATE KINSMAN,^ 

THE AUTHOR. 

1 The first of the IjOiidon edition. 2 First published in 1807. 

3 Isabel, daughter of William, fourth Lord Bvron (great-great uncle of the Poet), became, in 1743, the '«'ife of 
Henry, fourth Karl of Carlisle, and was the mother of the fifth Earl, to whom this dedication was mldreBsed. This 
lady was a poetess in her way. The Fairy's answer to Mrs. Grcville's "Prayer of Indifference," in Pearch'8 Col- 



lady was a poe 

lection, is usually ascribed to lie 



=rJ 



HOURS OF IDLENESS, 



PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 



In submitting to the public eye the following collec- 
tion, I have not only to combat the difficulties that 
writers of verse generally encounter, but may incur 
the charge of presumption for obtruding myself on the 
world, when, without doubt, I might be, at my age, 
more usefully employed. 

These productions are the fruits of the lighter hours 
of a young man who has lately completed his nme- 
teenth year. As they bear the internal evidence of a 
boyish mind, this is, perhaps, unnecessary information. 
Some few were written during the disadvantages of 
illness and depression of spirits: under the former in- 
fluence, " Childish Recollections," in particular, were 
composed. This consideration, though it cannot excite 
the voice of praise, may at least arrest the arm of cen- 
sure. A considerable portion of these poems has been 
privately printed, at the request and for the perusal of 
my friends. I am sensible that the partial and fre- 
quently injudicious admiration of a social circle is not 
the criterion by which poetical genius is to be esti- 
mated, yet, " to do greatly/' ^^'e must " dare greatly ;" 
and I have hazarded my reputation and feelings in pub- 
lishing this volume. " I have passed the Rubicon," and 
must stand or fall by the "cast of the die." In the 
latter event, I shall submit without a murmur ; for, 
though not without solicitude for the fate of these effu- 
sions, my expectations are by no means sanguine. It 
is probable that I may have dared much and done lit- 
tle j for, in the words of Cowper, " it is one thing to 
write what may please our friends, who, because they 
are such, are apt to be a little biassed in our favour, 
and another to write what may please every body ; be- 
cause they who have no connection, or even know- 
ledge of the author, will be sure to find fault if they 
can." To the truth of this, however, I do not wholly 
subscribe : on the contrary, I feel convinced that these 
trifles will not be treated with injustice. Their merit, 
if they possess any, will be liberally allowed : their 
numerous faults, on the other hand, cannot expect that 
favour which has been denied to others of maturer 
years, decided character, and far greater ability. 

I have not aimed at exclusive originality, still less 
have I studied any particular model for imitation : 
some translations are given, of which many are para- 
phrastic. In the original pieces there may appear a 
casual coincidence with authors whose works I have 
been accustomed to read ; but I have not been guilty 
of intentional plagiarism. To produce any thing en- 
tirely new, in an age so fertile in rhyme, would be a 
Herculean task, as every subject has already been 
treated to its utmost extent. Poetry, however, is not 
my primary vocation ; to divert the dull moments of 
indisposition, or the monotony of a vacant hour, urged 
me "to this sin:" little can be expected from so un- 
promising a muse. My wreath, scanty as it must be, 
is all I shall derive from these productions; and I 
shall never attempt to replace its fading leaves, or 
pluck a single additional sprig from groves where I 
am, at best, an intruder. Though accustomed, in my 
younger days, to rove a careless mountaineer on the 
Highlands of Scotland, I have not, of late years, had 
the benefit of such pure air, or so elevated a residence, 
as might enable me to enter the lists with genuine 
bards, who have enjoyed both these advantages. But 
they derive considerable fame, and a few not less 
profit, from their productions; while I shall expiate 
my rashness as an interloper, certainly without the lat- 
ter, and in all probability with a very slight share of 
the former, I leave to others " virum volitare per ora." 
I look to the few who will hear with patience " dulce 
est desipere in loco." To the former worthies I resign, 
without repining, the hope of immortality, and content 
myself with the not very magnificent prospect of rank- 
ing amongst "the mob of gentlemen who write;" — 
my readers must determine whether I dare say " with 
ease," or the honour of a poslhumnus page in " The 
Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors."— a work to 
which the Peerage is under infinite obligations, inas- 



much as many names of considerable length, sound, 
and antiquity, are thereby rescued from the obscurity 
which unluckily overshadows several voluminous pro- 
ductions of their illustrious beaiers. 

With slight hopes, and some fears, I publish this 
first and last attempt. To the dictates of young am- 
bition may be ascribed many actions more criminal 
and equally absurd. To a few of my own age the 
contents may afford amusement: I trust they will, at 
least, be found harmless. It is highly improbable, 
from my situation and pursuits hereafter, that I should 
ever obtrude myself a second time on the public; nor 
even, in the very doubtful event of present indulgence, 
shall I be tempted to commit a future trespass of the 
same nature. The opinion of Dr. Johnson on the 
Poems of a noble relation of mine,i " That when a 
man of rank appeared in the character of an author, 
he deserved to have his merit handsomely allowed," 
can have little weight with verbal, and still less with 
periodical censors ; but were it otherwise, I should be 
loth to avail myself of the privilege, and would rather 
incur the bitterest censure of anonymous criticism, 
than triumph in honours granted solely to a title. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADT, COUSIN 
TO THE AUTHOR, AND VERY DEAR TO 
HIM. a 

Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening gloom, 
Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove, 

Whilst I return, to view my Margaret's tomb, 
And scatter flowers on the dust I love. 

Within this narrow cell reclines her clay, 
That clay where once such animation beam'd ; 

The King of Terrors seized her as his prey. 
Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem'd. 

Oh ! could that King of Terrors pity feel, 
Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate ! 

Not here the mourner would his grief reveal. 
Not here the muse her virtues would relate. 

But wherefore weep ? Her matchless spirit soars 
Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day j 

And weeping angels lead her to those bowers 
Where endless pleasures virtue's deeds repay. 

And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven arraign, 
And, madly, godlike Providence accuse ? 

Ah ! no, far fly from me attempts so vain ; — 
I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse. 

Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear. 
Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face ; 

Still they call forth my warm affection's tear. 
Still in my heart retain their wonted place. 



1802. 



TO E . 3 

Let Folly smile to view the names 
Of thee and me in friendship twined ; 

Yet Virtue will have greater claims 
To love, than rank with vice combined. 



1 The Earl of Carlisle, whose works have long received 
the meed of public npplause, to which, by their intrinsic 
worth, they were well entitled. 

2 The author claims the indulgence of the reader more 
for this piece than, perhaps, any other in the collection; 
but as it was written at an earlier period than the rest 
(being composed at the age of fourteen), and his first essny, 
he preferred submitting it to the indulgence of his friends 
in its present state, to making either addition or altera- 
tion. 

3 This little poem, and some others in the collection, 
refer to a boy of Lord Byron's own age, eon of one of his 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



And though unequal is thy fate, 
Since title deck'd my higher birth ! 

Yet envy not this gaudy state ; 
Thine is the pride of modest worth. 

Our souls at least congenial meet, 
Nor can thy lot my rank disgrace ; 

Our intercourse is not less sweet, 
Since worth of rank supplies the place. 

November, 1802. 



TO D . 

In thee, I fondly hoped to clasp 

A friend, whom death alone could sever ; 
Till envy, with malignant grasp, 

Detach'd thee from my breast for ever. 

True, she has forced thee from my breast, 
Yet, in my heart thou keep'st thy seat ; 

There, there thine image still must rest, 
Until that heart shall cease to beat. 

And, when the grave restores her dead, 
When life again to dust is given, 

On thy dear breast I'll lay my head- 
Without thee, where would be my heaven ? 



February, 1803. 



EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. 

'* 'Ao-T^p nglv {iiv tXa/jLUts Ivl ^(xiolccv kclog.'" 

Laertius. 

Oh, Friend ! for ever loved, for ever dear ! 
What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour'd bier ! 
What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath, 
Whilst thou wasl struggling in the pangs of death ! 
Could tears retard the tyrant in his course ; 
Could sighs avert the dart's relentless force j 
Could youth and virtue claim a short delay, 
Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey ; 
Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight. 
Thy comrade's honour and thy friend's delight. 
If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh 
The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie, 
Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart, 
A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art. 
No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, 
But living statues there are seen to weep j 
Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, 
Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom. 
What though thy sire lament his failing line, 
A father's sorrows cannot equal mine ! 
Though none, like thee, his dying hour will cheer. 
Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here : 
But, who with me shall hold thy former place? 
Thine image, what new friendship can efface ? 
Ah, none ! — a father's tears will cease to flow. 
Time will assuage an infant brother's woe j 
To all, save one, is consolation known, 
While solitary friendship sighs alone. 

1803. 



A FRAGMENT. 

When, to their airy hall, my fathers' voice 
Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice : 
When, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride, 
Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side ^ 
Oh ! may my shade behold no scuiptur'd urns. 
To mark the" spot where earth to earth returns ! 
No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encuniber'd stone; 
My epitaph shall be my name alone : 



If that with honour fail to crown my day, 
Oh ! may no other fame my deeds repay ! 
That, only that, shall single out the spot ; 
By that remember'd, or with that forgot. 



ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 

"Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged 
days? Thou lookest from thy tower to-day : yet a few 
years, and the blast of the desert comes, it howla in thy 
empty court." — Ossian. 

Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds 
whistle ; 

Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gona to decay ; 
In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle 

Have choked up the rose which late bloom'd in the 
way. 
Of the mail-cover'd Barons, who proudly to battle 

Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, 
The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast 
rattle. 

Are the only sad vestiges now that remain. 
No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers. 

Raise a flame in the breast for the war-laurell'd 
wreath ; 
Near Askalon's towers, John of Horistan i slumbers, 

Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death. 
Paul and Hubert, too, sleep in the valley of Cressy ; ^ 

For tlie safety of Edward and England they fell : 
My fathers ! the tears of your country redress ye ; 

How you fought, how you died, still her annals can 
tell. 
On Marston,3 with Rupert,* 'gainst traitors contending. 

Four brothers enrich'd with their blood the bleak 
field ; 
For the rights of a monarch their country defending. 

Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd. 
Shades of heroes, farewell ! your descendant departing 

From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu ! 
Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting 

New courage, he '11 think upon glory and you. 

Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation,' 

'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret j 
Far distant he goes, with the same emulation. 

The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. 
That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish; 

He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown : 
Like you he will live, or like you he will perish : 

When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your 
own ! 

1803. 



LINES WRITTEN IN "LETTERS OF AN ITA- 
LIAN NUN AND AN ENGLISH GENTLE- 
MAN: BY J.J. ROUSSEAU: FOUNDED ON 
FACTS." . 

" Away, away, your flattering arts 
May now betray some simpler hearts ; 
And j'ou will smile at their believing. 
And they shall weep at your deceiving." 



tenants at Newstead, for whom he had formed a romantic 
attachment, of earlier date than any of his school friend- 
■hips. — E. 



1 "In the park of Horseley," says Thoroton, "there was 
a castle, some of the ruins of which are yet visible, called 
Horistan Castle, which was the chief mansion of Ralph de 
Burun's successors." 

2 Two of the family of Byron are enumerated as serv- 
ing with distinction in the siege of Calais, under Kdward 
III., and as amoi>s the knights who fell on the glorious 
field of Cressy. — E. 

3 The battle of Marston Moor, where the adharents of 
Charles I. were defeated. 

4 Son of the Elector Palatine, and nephew to Charles I. 
He afterwards commanded the fleet in the reign ot 
Charles II. 



10 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING, ADDRESSED 
TO MISS . 

Dear, simple girl, those flattering arts, 

From which thou 'dst guard frail female hearts, 

Exist but in imagination, — 

Mere phantoms of thine own creation ; 

For he who views that witching grace, 

That perfect form, that lovely face, 

With eyes admiring, oh ! believe ine, 

He never wishes to deceive thee : 

Once id thy polish'd mirror glance, 

Thou 'It there descry that elegance 

Which from our sex demands such praise, 

But envy in the other raises : 

Then he who tells thee of thy beauty, 

Believe me, only does his duty : 

Ah ! fly not from the candid youth ; 

It is not flattery, — 't is truth. 

July, 1S04. 



ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL WHEN 
DYING. 1 

[Animula ! vagula, blandula, 
Hospes, comesque, corporie. 
Quae nunc abidia in loca — 
Pallidula, rigida, nudula, 
Nee, ut soles, dabi3 jocos?] 

Ah! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite, 
Friend and associate of this clay ! 

To what unknown region borne. 
Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight ? 
No more with wonted humour gay, 

But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn. 



TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. 
AD LESBIAM. 

Equal to Jove that youth must be — 
Greater than Jove he seems to me — 
Who, free from Jealousy's alarms. 
Securely views thy matchless charms. 
That cheek, which ever dimpling glows, 
That mouth, from whence such music flows, 
To him, alike, are always known, 
Reserved for him, and him alone. 
Ah ! Lesbia ! though 't is death to me, 
I cannot choose but look on thee ; 
But, at the sight, my senses fly ; 
I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die ; 
Whilst trembling with a thousand fears, 
Parch'd to the throat my tongue adheres. 
My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short, 
My limbs deny their slight support. 
Cold dews my pallid fice o'erspread. 
With deadly languor droops my head, 
My ears with tingling echoes ring, 
And life itself is on the wing ; 
My eyes refuse the cheering light, 
Their orbs are veiled in starless night ; 
Such pangs my nature sinks beneath, 
And feels a temporary death. 



TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON VIRGIL 
AND TIBULLUS. 

BY DOMITIUS MARSUS. 

He who sublime in epic numbers roU'd, 
And he who struck the softer lyre of love, 

By Death's 2 unequal hand alike controll'd, 
Fit comrades in Elysiau regions move ! 



1 This and several little pieces that follow appear to be 
fragments of school exercises donu at Harrow. — E. 

2 The hand of Death is eaid to be unjust or unequal, as 
Virgil was considerably older than Tibullus at his decease. 



IMITATION OF TIBULLUS. 

"Sulpicia ad Cerinthum." — Lib. 4. 
Cruel Cerinthus! does the fell disease 
Which racks my breast your fickle bosom please ; 
Alas ! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain. 
That I might live for love and you again : 
But now 1 scarcely shall bewail my late : 
By death alone I can avoid your hate. 



TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. 

[Lugete, Veneres, Cupidinesque, &;c.] 

Te Cupids, droop each little head, 
Nor let your wings with joy be spread, 
My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead, 

Whom dearer than her eyes she loved : 
For he was gentle, and so true, 
Obedient to her call he flew. 
No fear, no wild alarm he knew, 

But lightly o'er her bosom moved ; 

And softly fluttering here and there, 
He never sought to cleave the air. 
But chirrup'd oft, and, free from care, 

Tuned to her ear his grateful strain. 
Now having pass'd the gloomy bourn 
From whence he never can return, 
His death and Lesbia's grief I mourn, 

Who sighs, alas ! but sighs in vain. 

Oh ! curst be thou, devouring grave ! 
Whose jaws eternal victims crave. 
From ■^A^hom no earthly power can save, 

For thou hast ta'en the bird away : 
From thee my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow, 
Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow ; 
Thou art the cause of all her woe, 

Receptacle of life's decay. 



IMITATED FROM CATULLUS. 

TO ELLEN. 

Oh ! might I kiss those eyes of fire, 
A million scarce would quench desire : 
Still would I steep my lips in bliss, 
And dwell an age on every kiss : 
Nor then my soul should sated be ; 
Still would i kiss and cling to thee : 
Nought should my kiss from thine dissev£ 
Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever j 
E'en though the numbers did exceed 
The yellow harvest's countless seed. 
To part would be a vain endeavour : 
Could I desist ? — ah 1 never — never. 



TRANSLATION FROxM HORACE. 

[Justum et tenacem propositi virum, Sec.] 

The man of firm and noble soul 
No factious clamours can control, 
No threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow 

Can swerve him from his just intent: 
Gales the warring waves which plough, 

By Auster on the billows spent, 
To curb the Adriatic main. 
Would awe his fix'd determined mind in vain. 

Ay, and the red right arm of Jove, 
Hurtling his lightnings from above. 
With all bis terrors there unfurl'd. 

He would, unmoved, unawed behold. 
The flames of an ex))iring world, 

Again in crasliing chaos roll'd, 
In vast promiscuous ruin hurl'd, 
Mi^ht lisrht his glorious funei-al pile: 
Still dauntless 'midst the wreck of e.arth he 'd smile. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



11 



FROM ANACREON. 

[GsXw Atysiv Arguoas, K. r. A.] 

I wish to tune my quivering lyre 
To deeds of fame and notes" nf fire j 
To echo, from its rising swell, 
How heroes fought and nations fell, 
When Atreus' sons advanced to war, 
Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar ; 
But still, to martial strains unknown, 
My lyre recurs to love alone. 
Fired with the hope of future fame, 
I seek some nobler hero's name ; 
The dying chords are strung anew. 
To war, to war, my harp is due : 
With glowing strings, the epic strain 
To Jove's great son I raise again j 
Alcides and his glorious deeds, 
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds. 
All, all in vain ; my wayward lyre 
Wakes silver notes of soft desire. 
Adieu, ye chiefs reiiown"d in arms ! 
Adieu the clang of war's alarms ! 
To other deeds my soul is strung, 
And sweeter notes shall now be sung j 
My harp shall all its powers reveal, 
To tell the tale my heart must feel ; 
Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim. 
In songs of bliss and sighs of fiame. 



FROM ANACREON. 

iMEO-ovvKTiais troO'' obpatj, «. t. X.] 

'T was now the hour when Night had driven 

Her car half round yon sable heaven j 

Bootes, only, seem'd to roll 

His arctic charge around the polej 

While mortals, lost in gentle sleep, 

Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep : 

At this lone hour, the Paphian boy, 

Descending from the realms of joy, 

Quick to my gate directs his course, 

And knocks with all his little force. 

My vision fled, alarm'd I rose, — 

" What stranger breaks my blest repose ?" 

"Alas !" replies the wily child 

In faltering accents sweetly mild, 

"A hapless infant here I roam. 

Far from my dear maternal home. 

Oh ! shield me from the wintry blast ! 

The nightly storm is pouring fast. 

No prowling robber lingers here. 

A wandering baby 'who can fear ?" 

I heard his seeming artless tale, 

I heard his sighs upon the gale : 

My breast was never pity's foe, 

Biit felt for all the baby's woe. 

I drew the bar, and by the light 

Young Love, the infant, met my sight; 

His bow across his shoulders flung. 

And thence his fatal quiver hung. 

(Ah ! little did I 'hink the dart 

Would rankle soon within my heart). 

With care I tend my weary guest, 

His little fingers chill my breast; 

His glossy curls, his azure wing. 

Which droop with nightly showers, I wring; 

His shivering limbs the embers warm ; 

And now reviving from the storm. 

Scarce had he fell his wonted glow, 

Than swift he seized his slender bow : — 

" I fain would know, my gentle host," 

He cried, "if this its strength has lost; 

I fear, relax'd with midnight dews. 

The strings their former aid refuse." 

With poison tipt, his arrow flies. 

Deep in my tortured heart it lies ; 



Then loud the joyous urchin laugh'd : — 
•' My bow can still impel the shaft : 
'T is firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it ; 
Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it ?" 



FROM THE^ PROMETHEUS VINCTUS OF 

.SISCHYLUS. 

[MfiSayi.^ b ndvra vipLuiv, k. t. A.] 

Great Jove, to whose almighty throne 

Both gods and mortals homage pay, 
Ne'er may my soul thy power disown, 

Thy dread behests ne'er disobey. 
Oft shall the sac:ed victim fall 
In seagirt Ocean's mossy hall ; 
My voice shall raise no impious strain 
'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main. 

How different now thy joyless fate, 

Since first Hesione thy bride, 
When placed aloft in godlike state, 
The blushing beauty by thy side, 
Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled, 
And mirthful strains the hours beguiled. 
The Nymphs and Tritons danced around, 
Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentless frown'd.i 
HaiTow, Dec. 1, 18C4. 



TO EMMA. 

Since now the hour is come at last, 

When you must quit your anxious lover; 

Since now our dream of bliss is past. 
One pang, my girl, and all is over. 

Alas ! that pang will be severe. 

Which bids us part to meet no more; 

Which tears me far from one so dear, 
Departing for a distant shore. 

Well ! we have passed some happy hours, 
And joy will mingle with our tears; 

When thinking on these ancient towers, 
The shelter of our infant years ; 

Where from this Gothic casement's height, 
We view'd the lake, the park, the dell. 

And still, though tears obstruct our sight. 
We lingering look a last farewell. 

O'er fields through which we used to run 
And spend the hours in childish play ; 

O'er shades where, when our race was done. 
Reposing on my breast you lay ; 

Whilst I, admiring, too remiss. 
Forgot to scare the hovering flies, 

Yet envied every fly the kiss 
It dared to give your slumbering eyes : 

See still the little painted bark. 

In which 1 row'd you o'er the lake; 

See there, high waving o'er the park. 
The elm I clamber'd for your sake. 

These times are past — our joys are gone. 
You leave me, leave this happy vale ; 

These scenes I must retrace alone : 
Without thee what will they avail ? 

Who can conceive, who has not proved, 
The anguish of a last embrace ? 

When, torn from all you fondly loved, 
You bid a long adieu to peace. 



1 Lord Byron in one of his diaries says, "My first Har- 
row verses, (that is, English, as Exercises), a translation 
of a chorus from the Prometheus of Aeschylus, were re- 
ceived by Dr. Drury, my grand patron (our head master) 
but coolly. No one had, at that time, the least notion 
that I should subside into poesy." — E. 



12 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



This is the deepest of our woes, 
For this these tears our cheeks bedew j 

This is of love the final close, 
Oh, God ! the fondest, last adieu I 



TO M. S. G. 



Whene'er I view those lips of thine, 
Their hue invites my fervent kiss ; 

Yet, I forego that bliss divine, 
Alas ! it were unhallow'd bliss. 

Whene'er I dream of that pure breast, 
How could I dwell upon its snows ! 

Yet is the daring wish represt, 

For that, — would banish its repose. 

A glance from thy soul-searching eye 
Can raise with hope, depress with fearj 

Yet I conceal my love, — and why ? 
I would not force a painful tear. 

I ne'er have told my love, yet thou 
Hast seen my ardent flame too well ; 

And shall I plead my passion now, 
To make thy bosom's heaven a hell ? 

No ! for thou never canst be mine, 

United by the priest's decree : 
By any ties but those divine, 

Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shalt be. 

Then let the secret fire consume, 

Let it consume, thou shalt not know : 

With joy I court a certain doom, 
Rather than spread its guilty glow. 

I will not ease my tortured heart. 

By driving dove-eyed peace from thine j 

Rather than such a sting impart, 
Each thought presumptuous I resign. 

Yes ! yield those lips, for which I 'd brave 
More than I here shall dare to tell; 

Thy innocence and mine to save, — 
I bid thee now a last farewell. 

Yes ! yield that breast, to seek despair, 
And hope no more thy soft embrace ; 

Which to obtain my soul would dare, 
All, all reproach, but thy disgrace. 

At least from guilt shalt thou be free. 
No matron shall thy shame reprove ; 

Though cureless pangs may prey on me, 
No martyr shalt thou be to love. 



TO CAROLINE. 

Think'st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes, 
Suffused in tears, implore to stay ; 

And heard unmoved thy plenteous sighs. 
Which said far more than words can say ? 

Though keen the grief thy tears exprest. 
When love and hope lay both o'erthrown ; 

Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast 
Throbb'd" with deep sorrow as thine own. 

But when our cheeks with anguish glow'd, 
When thy sweet lips were join'd to mine, 

The tears that from my eyelids flow'd 
Were lost in those which fell from thine. 

Thou could 'st not feel my burning cheek. 
Thy gushing tears had quench'd its flame. 

And as thy tongue essay'd to speak, 
In signs alone it breathed my name. 

And yet, my girl, we weep in vain. 
In vain our fate in sighs deplore ; 



Remembrance only can remain, — 
But that will make us weep the more. 

Again, thou best beloved, adieu ! 

Ah ! if thou canst, o'ercome regret, 
Nor let thy mind past joys review, — 

Our only hope is to forget I 



TO CAROLINE. 

When ITiear you express an affection so warm, 
Ne'er think, my beloved, that I do not believe ; 

For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm, 
And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive. 

Yet, still, this fond bosom regrets, while adoring, 
That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sear ; 

That age will come on, when remembrance, deploring, 
Contemplates the scenes of her youth with a tear j 

That the time must arrive, when, no longer retaining 
Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the 
breeze. 

When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining, 
Prove nature a prey to decay and disease. 

'T is this, my beloved, which spreads gloom o'er my 
features. 

Though I ne'er shall presume to arraign the decree, 
Which God has proclaim'd as the fate of his creatures, 

In the death which one day will deprive you of me. 

Mistake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of emotion, 
No doubt can the mind of your lover invade ; 

He worships each look with such faithful devotion, 
A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade. 

But as death, my beloved, soon or late shall o'ertake us. 
And our breasts, which alive with such sympathy 
glow, 

Will sleep in the grave till the blast shall awake us, 
When calling the dead, in earth's bosom laid low, — 

Oh ! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of 
pleasure. 
Which from passion like ours may unceasingly flow; 
Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss in full measure, 
And quaff the contents as our nectar below. 

1805. 



TO CAROLINE. 

Oh ! when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow? 

Oh ! when shall my soul wing her flight from this 
clay ? 
The present is hell, and the coming to-morrow 

But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day. 

From my eye flows no fear, from my lips Row no 
curses, 

I blast not the fiends who have hurl'd me from bliss 
For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses 

Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this. 

Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes 
bright'ning. 
Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream 
couid assuage. 
On our foes should my glance lanch in vengeance its 
lightning, 
With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage. 

But now fears and curses, alike unavailing, 
Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight ; 

Could they view us our sad separation bewailing, 
Their merciless heart would rejoice at the sight. 

Yet still, though we bend with a feign'd resignation. 
Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer ; 

Love and hope upon earth bring no more consolation. 
In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



13 



Oh ! when, my adored, in the tomb will they place me. 
Since, in lite, love aud friendship for ever are fled ? 

If again in the mansion of death 1 embrace thee, 
Perhaps they will leave unmolested the dead. 

1805. 



STANZAS TO A LADY, 
WITH THE POEMS OF, CAMOENS.* 

This votive pledge of fond esteem, 
Perhaps, dear girl ! for me thou 'It prize; 

It sings of J/)ve's enchanting dream, 
A theme we never can despise. 

Who blames it but the envious fool, 
The old and disappointed maid ; 

Or pupil of the prudish school. 
In single sorrow doom'd to fade ? 

Then read, dear girl ! with feeling read, 
For thou wilt ne'er be one of those j 

To thee in vain I shall not plead 
In pity for the poet's woes. 

He was in sooth a genuine bard ; 

His was no faint, fictitious flame : 
Like his, may love be thy reward, 

But not thy hapless fate the same. 



THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE. 

*A Bap/?tTos de ;k;op^ars 

'Epcora fiovvov i]X^'-' — Anacreon. 

Away with your fictions of flimsy romance ; 

Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove ! 
Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance, 

Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love. 

Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow, 
Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove ; 

From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow, 
Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love. 

If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse. 

Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove, 
Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse, 

And try the effect of the first kiss of love. 

I hate you, ye cold compositions of art : 

Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove, 
I court the effusions that spring from the heart. 

Which throbs with delight to the first kiss of love. 

Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes, 
Perhaps may amuse, though they never can move: 

Arcadia displays but a region of dreams ; 
What are visions like these to the first kiss of love ? 

Oh ! cease to affirm that man, since his birth, 
From Adam till now, has with wretchedness strove; 

Some portion of paradise still is on earth. 
And Eden revives in the first kiss of love. 

When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are 
past — 

For years fleet away with the winp of the dove — 
The dearest remembrance will still be the last, 

Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love. 



1 Lord Strangford's translations of Camoens' Amatory 
Versfs, and Little's Poems, are mentioned by Mr. Moore 
as having been at this period a favourite study of Lord 
Byron. — E. 



ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS AT A GREAT 
PUBLIC SCHOOL. 1 

Where are those honours, Ida ! once your own, 
When Probus 2 fiU'd your magisterial throne ? 
As ancient Rome, fast falling to disgrace, 
Hail'd a barbarian in her Caesar's place, 
So you, degenerate, share as hard a fate, 
And seat Pomposus where your Probus sate. 
Of narrow brain, yet of a narrower soul, 
Pomposus holds you in his harsh control ; 
Pomposus, by no social virtue svvay'd. 
With florid jargon, and with vain parade ; 
With noisy nonsense, and new-fangled i-ules. 
Such as were ne'er before enforced in schools. 
Mistaking pedaniry for learning's laws, 
He governs, sanctioned but by self applause, 
With him the same dire fate attending Rome, 
Ill-fated Ida ! soon must stamp your doom : 
Like her o'erthrown, for ever lost to fame, 
No trace of science left you, but the name. 

July, 1805. 



TO THE DUKE OF DORSET. 3 

Dorset ! whose early steps with mine have stray'd. 
Exploring every path of Ida's glade ; 
Whom still affection taught me to defend, 
And made me less a tyrant than a friend. 
Though the harsh custom of our youthful band 
Bade thee obey, and gave mt to command ^ 4 
Thee, on whose head a few short years will shower 
The gift of riches and the pride of power ; 
E'en now a name illustrious is thine own, 
Renown'd in rank, not far beneath the throne. 
Yet, Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul 
To shun fair science, or evade control. 
Though passive tutors, 5 fearful to dispraise 
The titled child, whose future breath may raise, 
View ducal errors with indulgent eyes. 
And wink at faults they tremtjle to chastise. 

When youthful parasites, who bend the knee 
To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee,— 
And even in simple boyhood's opening dawn 
Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn, — 
When these declare, " that pomp alone should wait 
On one by birth predestined to be great ; 
That books were only meant for drudging fools, 
That gallant spirits scorn the common lules ;" 



1 In March, 160.5, Dr. Drury retired from his situation 
of head-master at Harrow, and was succeeded by Dr. But- 
ler. --E. 

2 " Dr. Drury, whom I plagued sufficiently, was the 
best, tho kindest (and yet strict, too) friend I ever had; 
and I look upon him still as a father." — Bijron Diary. 

S In looking over my papers to select a few additional 
poems for this second edition, I found the above lines, 
which I had totally forgotten, composed in the summer of 
1805, a short time previous to my departure from Ifarrow, 
They were addressed to a young schoolfellow of high rank, 
who had been my frequent companion in some rambles 
through the neighbouring country : however.he neversaw 
the lines, and most probably never will. As, on a re-pe- 
rusal, I found them not worse than some other pieces in 
the collection, I have now published them, for the first 
time, after a slight revision. — [George-John-Fredcrick, 
fourth Duke of Dorset, born November 15, 1793. This 
amiable nobleman was killed by a fall from his horse, 
while hunting near Dublin. February 22, 1815, being on a 
visit at the time to his moth'T, the duchess-dowager, and 
her second husband, Charles Earl of Whitworth, then Lord 
Lieutenant of Ireland.] 

4 At every public school the junior boys are completely 
subservient to the upper forms till they attain a seat in 
the higher classes. From this state of probation, very 
properly, no class is exempt; but after a certain period, 
they command in turn those who succeed. 

5 Allow me to disclaim any personal allusionB, even the 
most distant. I merely mention generally what is too 
often the weakness of preceptors. 



^^^^T^fTdleness. 



' None dare to raise 'be ^WV'^Yid thee, boy, forbear ; 
Ask Ibine own beirt , i |^^„, 

, Bu^S now new scenes j-j^ -J- ^ ?,^ „,ind 
Yes 1 I ^rlT^^in^t^ bless^mankind. 
A soul, if ^^ell n"^l."r;"' ,i,re haughty, wla» 
1 Ah! though myself, bj^^at.^^ 
, Whom l»discrei.on Im^^^ 1 ^^ l,er own, 
' Though every error ^'^^J^P^^^^j^ fall alone ; 
And dooms n^'i'^^^i^J/^t no precept now can tame, 
I Though «^y.P™"ASl cannot claim. 
' I love the virtues ^^h.ch I c^^^ ^^^^ ^^ p^^..^, 

,T ,s n°\e°°"J,^(,ent meteor of an hour ; 
To gleam the 1*"'^^"; !„ feeble pride, 

' To swell some Peerage pa^ ge beside ; 

^Vith ^o«?-^Si"twS"ro'vdr?he com'n.on lot- 
Then share ^v ith W^ea ^r^ ^^^^ forgot ; 
m life just Sa^ed at, ;n;he ^^^ ^ ^^ 

1 While nought divides me ^^ ^^^^^ 

' Except the dull coW stone ma ,^^^,^ ^^^j^ 

' The mouldering '^;f"*'^^'°"^eJlected scroll, ^ 
, That well-emblazon d but ne l ^^^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^ 

Where lords, "°^«f "J, t{j "ss name behind. 

f„?e%'rds destined -- to be i^e^d^^^^.^ ^^^^^^ 
1 rain would 1 view t nee i ^^ .^jse, 

' Exalted mo'^^^'^,°°| carler pursue, 

A glorious and a lonS^^^f^^Pi^^t tol^T 

1 Spurn every vice, eacu. ^ g^^^ 

Not Fortune's mimon, but her^^^ ^^^. 



'TMii;£SS^^.l.ay. 

And call'd, pvoud bo^t^ i^^^ ^.^ ^^^ ^^, 
Another vievv, not lessre ^^^^^^ ^^ . 

^'',^'•^VeTe d andtvo^u;'d by the Nme; 

Far, far dist>«S" f ,t anTthe boast of song. ^ 

The pride «« P""^ ; thus preserve their name ; 

fh^Ji wtrirpTl'eace, and Friendship all 

"*^"^",j TO rv like the rainbow's hue, 
Hope, that could v-aryljkethe^^^^^^^,^ ^^^^ . 

And gild *eir pin "ns as ;; f^own'd away, 
1 PeacI, that reflection never ^^^^^^^^ 

By dreams « I^^J^^f.^i let childhood only tell ; 
, Friendship, whose "m ^^^.^ ^^ ,vell. 

Alas '. they love no^ ^f^-^g n^^er o'er 
' To these adieu "or let m ^^^^^^ ^^^.^,^ 
I Scenes hail d, as e>ci^^4 ^^,^ dark-blue deep, 
Receding slowly throu J ^^^^^^^ ^^.^^p. 

Beheld by eyes tha mourn > ^^^ ^^^ ^^^^ 

Dorset, fareweU I v^ 'U ^_ ^^^^^ 

Of sad remembrance m so ) ^^ j^f^j ,T„,nd 
, The coming morro^froj;\'^>i , t„ce behind. 
Will sweep my f rj^' JJ^e „.aturer year. 
And yet, Perhaps, >« ^om ^^^ .^^itTe, 

Since chance has throNvn ^^^ ^^^^^, 

Since the same senate na> ^^^ ^^^^ ^^ 

May one day cla^m our suit . ^^^^ ^^^^^ ^y 
We hence may meet, an ^.^^^^^ ^^^^^ 

With faint regard, or com ^_ ^^^^ 

For me, i^f^Seu" Jv vleal "r woe, 
A stranger to thyselt, ""^ ^^ ^^^.^ 



!<- «,nrf> ts once, in social hours rejoice, 

ISO more, as once, ^ wel -known voice. 

k; ' ;--H!irS sst":tr- 

I FRAGMENT. 

1 „.,,TTEN SHOBTLV AFTER THE MS«- 

"'{i^'frerifeSc?:!^-^ 
' "i^fre^isrSaTf- 

GRANTA.- A MEDLEY. 

Oh! could Le Sage's! demon's gift 
%. reahsed at my d^^^^^^^^^ ^,., ,,f, 
'r^il'^'ace'ltrS^Iarys spire. 

Then would, unroofd, old Granta's halls 

pJdSc inmates full display ; 
Tp^Iows who dream on lawn or stalls, 
^ The prS of venal votes to pay. 

Then would I view each rival wight, 
Against the next elective day. 2 



*xs;ren'?^-''«»'»''«»'" 

, „rf H .' indeed, may not demur •, 

J^relRws are sage reliec'-S men : 

'^iee";;;i.!;;rSt'S 

Each hopes that one may bf ^.s lot, 

lid therefore smiles on his pror ' 
Now from the soporific scene 

I'll turn mine eye, as night groN. 
To view, unheeded and unseen • 

^ The studious sons of Alma Mate. 
ThPre in apartments small and dar 
^ The candi.late for college prizes 
spl^SriSbv the midmght lamp; 
^''S"la?e to bed, yet early rises. 

5 on the death of J'j J;'^^;,, ^.„e k 
bnrSJu^l?ve^r^U%^Ta^.h^Ut,einpp. 
'"3Edward-HarveyHavv.e. third 1 
, Lordship died in lc24^^-t^ J 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



15 



ifices hours of rest 
precisely metres Attic ; 
i liis anxious breast 
; ig problems mathematic : 

" » false quantities in Scale,* 
les o'er the deep triangle ; 
)f many a wholesome meal ; 
rous Latin 2 doom'd to wrangle : 

I 2; every pleasing page 
thors of historic use ; 
to the letter'd sage, 
ire of the hypothenuse.3 

.j less are these occupations, 
t none but the hapless student, 
with other recreations, 
ring together the imprudent ; 

ing revels shock the sight, 
ce and infamy combine, 
ikenness and dice invite, 
sense is steep'd in wine, 

nethodistic crew, 
fis oC reformation lay : 
ittitude they sue, 
he sins of others pray : 

hat their pride of spirit, 
iltation in their trial, 
st largely from the merit 
ir boasted self-deniaL 

hi — from these I turn my sight. 
1!' ne is this which meets the eye? 
■I crowd, array'd in white,* 
■j; ! green in numbers fly. 

n air the chapel bell ; 
■^ 'd : — what sounds are these I hear? 
soft celestial swell 
ily on the list'ning ear. 

in'd the sacred song, 
■iii minstrel's hallow'd strain j 
vho hears the music long 
r wish to hear again. 

')uld scarcely be excused, 
I band of raw beginners ; 
)w must be refused 
; set of croaking sinners. 

en his toils were ended, 
[ these blockheads sing before him, 
1ms had ne'er descended, — 
nood he would have tore 'em. 

J- Israelites, when taken 
human tyrant's order, 
o sing, by joy forsaken, 
lian river's border. 

■ sung in notes like these, 
stratagem or fear, 
lave set their hearts at ease, 
. soul had stay'd to hear. 



1 



tie longer now, 
1 soul will stay to read ; 
nt, my ink is low ; 
; time to stop, indeed. 



ion on Greek Metres displays consider- 
auity, but, as might be expected in so 
\vW. lot remarkable for accuracy. 



1 le schools is of the canine species, and 



r 3f Pythagoras, that the square of the 
1 to the squares of the other two sides 
angle. 

li, the students wear surplices in chapel. 



Therefore, farewell, old Granta's spires ! 

No more, like Cleofas, I fly ; 
No more thy theme my muse inspires : 

The reader 's tired, and so am I. 



1S06. 



ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE VILLAGE AND 
SCHOOL OF HARROW ON THE HILL. 

Oh ! mihi praeteritos referat si Jupiter annos. — Virgil. 

Ye scenes of my childhood, whose loved recollection 
Embitters the present, compared with the past ; 

Where science first dawn'd on the powers of reflection, 
And friendships were formed, too romantic to last j 

Where fancy yet joys to retrace the resemblance 
Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied ; 

How welcome to me your ne'er-fading remembrance, 
Which rests in the bosom, though hope is denied ! 

Again I revisit the hills where we sported. 

The streams where we sw.im, and the fields where 
we fought ; 

The school where, loud warn'd by the bell, we resorted, 
To pore o'er the precepts by pedagogues taught. 

Again I behold where for hours I have ponder'd. 
As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone s I lay ; 

Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wander'd. 
To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting ray. 

I once more view the room, with spectators surrounded, 
Where, as Zanga,6 i trod on Alonzo o'erthrovvn ; 

While, to swell my young pride, such applauses re- 
sounded, 
I fancied that Mossop ^ himself was outshone : 

Or, as Lear, I pour'd forth the deep imprecation. 
By my daughters, of kingdom and reason deprived ; 

Till, fired by loud plaudits 8 and self-adulation, 
I regarded myself as a Garrick revived. 

Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you '. 

Unfaded your memory dwells in my breast ; 
Though sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget you : 

Your pleasures may still be in fancy possest. 

To Ida full oft may remembrance restore me, 
While fate shall the shades of the future unroll ! 

Since darkness o'ershadows the prospect before me. 
More dear is the beam of the past to my soul ! 

But, if through the course of the years which await me. 
Some new scene of pleasure should open to view, 

I will say,while with rapture the thought shall elate me, 
" Oh ! such were the days which my infancy knew." 

J806. 



TO M . 

Oh ! did those eyes, instead of fire. 
With briffht but mild atfection shine. 

Though they migh* kindle less desire, 
Love, more than mortal, would be thine. 



5 They shown tomb in the churchyard at Harrow, com- 
mandins a view over Windsor, which was so well known 
to be his favourite resting-place, that the boys called it j 
'•Byron's Tomb;" and here, they say, he used to sit for j 
hours, wrapt up in thought. — E. j 

6 For the display of his declamatory powers, on the 
speech-days, he selected always the most vehement pas- • 
sages; such as the speech of Zanga over the body of Alon- 
zo, and Lear's address to the storm. — E. 

7 Mossop, a cotemporary of Garrick, famous for his per- 
formance of Zanga. 

8 " My grand patron. Dr. Drury, had a great notion that 
I should turn out iin orator, from my tlueniy, my tuibu- 
lence, my voice, my copiousness of declamation, and my 
action." — Byron Diary, 



16 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



For thou art form'd so heavenly fair, 
Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam, 

We must admire, but still despair j 
That fatal glance forbids esteem. 

When Nature s'amp'd thy beauteous birth, 

So much perfection in thee shone, 
She feard tliat, too divine for earth. 

The skies might claim thee for their own : 

Therefore, to guard her dearest work, 
Lest angels might dispute the prize, 

She bade a secret lightning lurk 
Within those once celestial eyes. 

These might the boldest sylph appal, 
When gleaming with meridian blaze; 

Thy beauty must enrapture all ; 
But who can bear thine ardent gaze ? 

'T is said that Rerenice's hair 
In stars adorns the vault of heaven ; 

But they would ne'er permit thee there, 
Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven. 

For did those eyes as planets roll. 

Thy sister-lights would scarce appear: 

E'en suns, which systeniS now control. 
Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.! 

1S06. 



TO WOMAN. 

Woman ! experience might have told me 

That all must love thee who behold thee : 

Surely experience might have taught 

Thy firmest promises are naught ; 

But, placed in all thy charms before me. 

All I forget, but to adore thee. 

Oh, memory ! thou choicest blessing 

When join'd with hope, when still possessing; 

But how much cursed by every lover 

When hope is fled and passion 's over. 

Woman, that fair and fond deceiver, 

How prompt are striplings to believe her! 

How throbs the pulse when first we view 

The eye that rolls in glossy blue. 

Or sparkles black, or mildly throws 

A beam from under hazel brows ! 

How quick we credit every oath, 

And hear her plight the willing troth ! 

Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye. 

When, lo 1 she changes in a day. 

This record will for ever stand, 

" Woman, thy vows are traced in sand." 3 



TO M. S. G. 

When I dream that you love me, you '11 surely forgive ; 

Extend not ynur an^er to sleep j 
For in visions alone your affection can live,— 

I rise, and it leaves me to weep. 

Then, Morpheus ! envelope my faculties fast, 

Shed o'er me your languor benign ; 
Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last. 

What rapture celestial is mine I 

They tell us that slumber, the sister of death. 

Mortality's emblem is given ; 
To fate how I long to resign my frail breath, 

If this be a foretaste of heaven ! 



Ah ! frown not, sweet lady, unbend your soft brow, 

Nor deem me too happy in this j 
If I sin in my dream, 1 atone for it now, 

Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss. 

Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you may smile, 

Oh ! think not my penance deficient ! 
When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile. 

To awake will be torture sufficient. 



1 «<Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, 
Having some business, do intreat her eyes 
To twinkle in their spheree till they return." 

SJiahspeare. 



TO MARY, 
ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE.' 

This faint resemblance of thy charms. 
Though strong as mortal art could give. 

My constant heart of fear disarms, 
Revives my hopes, and bids me live. 

Here I can trace the locks of gold 
Which round thy snowy forehead wave, 

The cheeks which sprung from beauty's mould, 
The lips which made me beauty's slave. 

Here I can trace— ah, no ! that eye, 

Whose azure floats in liquid fire. 
Must all the painter's art defy. 

And bid him from the task retire. 

Here I behold its beauteous hue ; 

But where 's the beam so sweetly straying. 
Which gave a lustre to its blue. 

Like Luna o'er the ocean playing ? 

Sweet copy ! far more dear to me, 

Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art, 
Than all the livinglforms could be, 

Save her who placed thee next my heart. 

She placed it, sad, with needless fear. 
Lest time might shake my wavering soul, 

Unconscious that her image there 
Held every sense in fast control. 

Thro' hours, thro' years, thro' tirrie, 't will cheer ; 

My hope, in gloomy moments, raise; 
In life's last conflict 't will appear, 

And meet my fond expiring gaze. 



TO LESBIA. 

Lesbia ! since far from you I 've ranged. 
Our souls wi;h fond aifection glow not; 

You say 't is I, not you, have changed, 
I 'd tell you why, — but yet I know not. 

Your polish "d brow no cares have crost ; 

And, Lesbia ! we are not much older 
Since, trembling, first my heart I lost. 

Or told my love, with hope grown bolder. 

Sixteen was then our utmost age, , 

T\\o years have lingering past away, lov • 

And now new thoughts our minds engage, 
At least I feel disposed to stray, love ! 

'T is I that am alone to blame, 
I, thnt am guilty of love's treason ; 

Since your s^veet breast is still the same 
Caprice must be niy only reason. 

I do not, love ! suspect j'our truth, 

With jealous doubt niy bosom heav^ "°^J 

Warm was the passion of my youth, 
One trace of dark deceit it leaves r'^' 



3 or this "Marv," who is not to be cor^""^^;' y;"!" '^•" 
heiress of Annesley, or "Mary" of Abei'*^*"."' ^ ;"% "**' 
bei-n ascertained is, thnt she was of;" i"V,A*' ',.""' 
I .-quivocnl, sMtion in life. --and that '_'!.. ^?.'. "°'.!?j!"^' 
2 The last line is almost a literal translation from a golden hair, "of which," soys Mr. M 



Spanish proverb. 



, show a lock, ns well as her picture, anio 



?hi9 friends. "-E. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



17 



No, no, my flame was not pretended ; 

For, oh ! I loved you most sincerely ; 
And — though our dream at last is ended — 

My bosom still esteems you dearly. 
No more we meet in yonder bowers j 

Absence has made me prone to roving j 
But older, firmer hearts than ours 

Have found monotony in loving. 
Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpair'd. 

New beauties still are daily bright'ning; 
Your eye for conquest beams prepared, 

The forge of love's resistless lightning. 
Arm'd thus, to make their bosoms bleed, 

Many will throng to sigh like me, love ! 
More constant they may prove, indeed ; 

Fonder, alas ! they ne'er can be, love ! 



LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY. 

[As the author was discharging his pistols in a garden, 
two ladies passing near the spot were alarmed by the 
sound of a bullet hissing near them; to one of whom the 
following stanzas were addressed the next morning.] 1 

Doubtless, sweet girl ! the hissing lead, 

Wafting destruction o'er thy charms, 
And hurtling "i o'er thy lovely head. 

Has fiU'd that breast with fond alarms. 
Surely some envious demon's force, 

Vex'd to behold such beauty here. 
Impel I'd the bullet's viewless' course, 

Diverted from its first career. 
Yes ! in that nearly fatal hour 

The ball obey'd some hell-born guide ; 
But Heaven, with interposing power, 

In pity turn'd the death aside. 
Yet, as perchance one trembling tear 

Upon that thrilling bosom fell ; 
Which I, th' unconscious cause of fear, 

Extracted from its glistening cell ; 
Say, what dire penance can atone 

For such an outrage done to thee ? 
Arraign'd before thy beauty's throne, 

What punishment wilt thou decree ? 
Might I perform the judge's part, 

The sentence I should scarce deplore j 
It only would restore a heart 

Which but belong'd to thee before. 
The least atonement I can make 

Is to become no longer free ; 
Henceforth I breathe but for thy sake, 

Thou Shalt be all in all to me. 
But thou, perhaps, may'st now reject 

Such expiation of my guilt ; 
Come then, some other mode elect ; 

Let it be death, or what thou wilt. 
Choose then, relentless ! and I swear 

Nought shall thy dread decree prevent ; 
Yet hold — one little word forbear ! 

Let it be aught but banishment. 



LOVE'S LAST ADIEU. 
Act ^' a£t fit (pevyu. — Anacreon. 

The roses of love glad the garden of life. 
Though nurtured 'mid weeds dropping pestilent dew, 

Till time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife, 
Or prunes them for ever, in love's last adieu ! 



1 The occurrence took place at Southwell, and the 
beautiful Indy to whom the lines were addressed was 
Miss Hou in. — E. 

2 This ord is used by Gray, in his poem to the Fatal 
Sisters :- 

"Iron sleet of arrowy shower 
Hurtles through the darken'd nir." 

2* 2 



In vain with endearments we soothe the sad heart, 
In vain do we vow for an age to be true ; 

The chance of an hour may command us to part, 
Or death disunite us in love's last adieu ! 

Still Hope, breathing peace through the grief-swollen 
breast. 

Will whisper, " Our meeting we yet may renew :" 
With this dream of deceit half our sorrow 's repre&t, 

Nor taste we the poison of love's last adieu ! 

Oh ! mark you yon pair : in the sunshine of youth 
Love twined round their childhood his flow'rs as 
they grew ,• 

They flourish awhile in the season of truth. 
Till chill'd by the winter of love's last adieu ! 

Sweet lady ! why thus doth a tear steal its way 
Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in hue ? 

Yet why do I ask ? — to distraction a prey. 
Thy reason has perish'd with love's last adieu ! 

Oh ! who is yon misanthrope, shunning mankind ? 

From cities to caves of the forest he flew : 
There, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind ; 

The mountains reverberate love's last adieu ! 

Now hate rules a heart which in love's easy chains 
Once passion's tumultuous blandishments' knew j 

Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins ; 
He ponders in frenzy on love's last adieu ! 

How he envies the wretch with a soul wrapt in steel ! 
1 His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few, 
Who laughs at the pang that he never can feel. 
And dreads not the anguish of love's last adieu ! 

j Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o'ercast ; 
! No more with love's former devotion we sue : 
He spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast ; 
The shroud o'f affection is love's last adieu ! 

In this life of probation for rapture divine, 
Astrea declares that some penance is due ; 

From him who has worshipp'd at love's gentle shrine, 
The atonement is ample in love's last adieu ! 

Who kneels to the god, on his altar of light 
Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew : 

His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight j 
His "cypress, the garland of love's last adieu ! 



DAMiETAS. 

In law an infant,3 and in years a boy, 

In mind a slave to every vicious joy ; 

From every sense of shame and virtue wean'd ; 

In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend ; 

Versed in hypocrisy, while yet a child j 

Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild : 

Woman his dupe, his heedless friend a tool ; 

Old in the world, though scarcely broke from school j 

Damaetas ran through all the maze of sin. 

And found the goal when others just begin : 

Even still conflicting passions shake his soul, 

And bid him drain the dregs of pleasure's bowl ; 

But, pall'd with vice, he breaks his former chain, 

And what was once his bliss appears his bane. 



TO MARION. 

Marion ! why that pensive brow ? 
What disgust to life hast thou ? 
Change that discontented air j 
Frowns become not one so fair. 
'T is not love disturbs thy rest. 
Love's a stranger to thy breast ; 
He in dimpling smiles appears, 
Or mourns in sweetly timid tears, 



3 In law every person is an infant who has not attained 
the age of twenty-one. 



18 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Or bends the languid eyelid down, 

But shuns the cold forbidding frown. 

Then resume thy former fire, 

Some will love, and all admire; 

While that icy aspect chills us, 

Nought but cool indifference thrills us. 

Wouldst thou wandering hearts beguile, 

Smile at least, or seem to smile. 

Eyes like thine were never meant 

Tq hide their orbs in dark restraint j 

Spite of all thou fain wouldst say, 

Still in truant beams they play. 

Thy lips — but here my modest Mu?e 

Her impulse chaste must needs refuse : 

She blushes, curt'sies, frowns, — in short she 

Dreads lest the subject should transport me ; 

And flying ofl' in search of reason, 

Brings prudence back in proper season. 

All 1 shall therefore say (whate'er 

I think, is neither here nor there) 

Is, that such lips, of looks endearing, 

Were form'd for better things than sneering : 

Of soothing compliments divested, 

Advice at least 's disinterested ; 

Such is my artless song to thee, 

From all the rlow of ilattery free ; 

Counsel like mine is as a brother's, 

My heart is given to some others j 

That is to say, unskill'd to cozen, 

It shares itself among a dozen. 

Marion, adieu ! oh, pr'ythee slight not 
This wrrning, though it may delight not ; 
And, lest my precepts be displeasing 
To those who think remonstrance teazing, 
At once I '11 tell thee our opinion 
Concerning woman's soft dominion : 
Howe'er we gaze with admiration 
On eyes of blue or lips carnation, 
Howe'er the flowing locks attract us, 
Howe'er those beauties may distract us, 
Still fickle, we are prone to rove, 
These cannot fix our souls to love : 
It is not too severe a stricture 
To say they form a pretty picture ; 
But wouldst thou see the secret chain 
Which binds us in your humble train. 
To hail you queens of all creation. 
Know, in a word, 't is Animation. 



TO A LADY 

WHO PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR A LOCK 
OP HAIR BRAIDED WITH HIS OWN, AND 
APPOINTED A NIGHT IN DECEMBER TO 
MEET HIM IN THE GARDEN. 

These locks, which fondly thus entwine, 
In finr.er chains our hearts confine. 
Than all th' unmeaning protestations 
Which swell with nonsense love-orations. 
Our love is fix'd, I think we 've proved it, 
Nor time, nor place, nor art have moved it ; 
Then wherefore should we sigh and whine. 
With groundless jealousy repine, 
With silly whims and fancies frantic. 
Merely to make our love romantic ? 
Why should you weep like Lydia Languish, 
And fret with self-created anguish ? 
Or doom the lover you have chosen. 
On winter nights to' sigh half frozen ; 
In leafless shades to sue for pardon, 
Only because the scene 's a garden ? 
For gardens seem, by one consent, 
Since Shakspeare set the precedent. 
Since Juliet first declared her passion, 
To form the place of assignation, i 

1 In the above little piece the author has been accused 
by some candid readers of introducing the name of a lady 



Oh ! would some modern muse inspire, 
And seat her by a sea-coal fire ; 
Or had the bard at Christmas written, 
And laid the scene of love in Britain, 
He surely, in commiseration. 
Had changed the place of declaration. 
In Italy 1 "ve no objection ; 
Warm nights are proper for reflection j 
But here our climate is so rigid. 
That love itself is rather frigid : 
Think on our chilly situation^ 
And curb this rage for imitation ; 
Then let us meet, as oft we 've done, 
Beneath the influence of the sun ; 
Or, if at midnight I must meet you, 
Within your mansion let me greet you : 
There we can love for hours together. 
Much better, in such snowy weather. 
Than placed in all th' Arcadian groves 
That ever witness'd rural loves ; 
Then, if my passion fail to please. 
Next night I '11 be content to freeze ; 
No more I '11 give a loose to laughter. 
But curse my fate for ever after. 2 



OSCAR OF ALVA.3 
A TALE. 

How sweetly shines through azure skies. 
The lamp of Heaven on Lora's shore j 

Wliere Alva's hoary turrets rise. 
And hear the din of arms no more. 

But often has yon rolling moon 

On Alva's casques of silver play'd ; 
And viewed, at midnight's silent noon, 

Her chiefs in gleaming mail array'd : 
And on the crimson'd rocks beneath, 

Which scowl o'er ocean's sullen flow. 
Pale in the scatter'd ranks of death. 

She saw the gasping warrior low ; 
While many an eye which ne'er again 

Could mark the rising orb of day, 
Turn'd feebly from the gory plain. 

Beheld in death her fading ray. 

Once to those eyes the lamp of Love, 

They blest her dear propitious light ; 
But now she glimmer'd from above, 

A sad, funereal torch of night. 
Faded is Alva's noble race. 
And grey her towers are seen afar ; 
I No more her heroes urge the chase, 
I Or roll the crimson tide of war. 

I from whom he wrs some hundred miles distant at the 

I time this was written; and poor Juliet, who has slept so 

I long in "the tomb of all the Capiiletg," has been con- 
verted, with a trifling alteration of her name, into an 

I English damsel, walking in a garden of their own creation, 
during the month of December, in a village where the 
author never passed a winter. Such has been the candour 

J of some ingenious critics. ^Ve would advise these liberal 
commentators on taste and arbiters of decorum to read 

; Shakspeare. 

I 2 Having heard that a very severe and indelicate cen- 
sure has been passed on the above poem, I beg leave to 
reply in a quotation from an admired work, -'Carr's 
Stranger in France." — ''As we were contemplating a 

' painting on a large scale, in which, among other figures, is 

, the uncovered whole length of a warrinr, a prudish-look- 
ing lady, who seemed to have touched the age of despera- 
tion, after having attentively surveyed it through her 
glass, observed to her party, that there was a great deal 

I of indecorum in that picture. Madame S. shrewdly whis- 
pered in my ear, ' that the indecorum was in the re- 

,mark.' " 

I 3 The catastrophe of this tale was suggested by the story 
of " Jeronyme and Lorenzo," in the first volume of Schil- 
ler's "Armenian, or the Ghost-Seer." It also bears some 
resemblance to a scene in the third act of "Macbeth." 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



19 



But, who was last of Alva's clan ? 

Why grows the moss on Alva's stone ? 
Her towers resound no steps of man, 

They echo to the gale alone. 
And when that gale is fierce and high, 

A sound is heard in yonder hall j 
It rises hoarsely through the sky. 

And vibrates o'er the mouldering wall. 
Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs, 

It shakes the shield of Oscar brave ; 
But there no more his banners rise. 

No more his plumes of sable wave. 

Fair shone the sun on Oscar's birth. 
When Angus haii'd his eldest born ; 

The vassals round their chieftain's hearth 
Crowd to applaud the happy morn. 

They feast upon the mountain deer. 

The pibroch raised its piercing note j 
To gladden more their highland cheer, 

The strains in martial numbers float : 
And they who heard the war-notes wild. 

Hoped that one day the pibroch's strain 
Should play before the hero's child 

While he should lead the tartan traia. 
Another year is quickly past, 

And Angus hails another son ; 
His natal day is like the last, 

Nor soon the jocund feast was done. 

Taught by their sire to bend the bow. 

On Alva's dusky hills of wind, 
The boys in childhood chased the roe, 

And left their hounds in speed behind. 
But ere their years of youth are o'er, 

They mingle in the ranks of war ; 
They lightly wheel the bright claymore. 

And send the whistling arrow far. 

Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair. 

Wildly it stream'd along the gale ; 
But Allan's locks were bright and fair, 

And pensive seem'd his cheek, and pale. 
But Oscar own'd a hero's soul. 

His dark eye shone through beams of truth ; 
Allan had early learn'd control, 

And smooth his words had been from youth. 
Both, both were brave ; the Saxon spear 

Was shiver'd oft beneath their steel j 
And Oscar's bosom scorn'd to fear, 

But Oscar's bosom knew to feel ; 
While Allan's soul belied his form, 

Unworthy with such charms to dwell : 
Keen as the lightning of the storm. 

On foes his deadly vengeance fell. 
From high Southannon's distant tower 

Arrived a young and noble dame ; 
With Kenneth's lands to form her dower, 

Glenalvon's blue-eyed daughter came j 

And Oscar claim'd the beauteous bride, 

And Angus on his Oscar smiled : 
It soothed the father's feudal pride 

Thus to obtain Glenalvon's child. 
Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note ! 

Hark to the swelling nuptial song ! 
In joyous strains the voices float. 

And still the choral peal prolong. 
See how the heroes' blood-red plumes 

Assembled wave in Alva's hall ; 
Each youth his varied plaid assumes, 

Attending on their chieftain's call. 
It is not war their aid demands. 

The pibroch plays the song of peace j 
To Oscar's nuptials throng the bands. 

Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease. 

But where is Oscar ? sure 't is late : 
Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame ? 



While thronging guests and ladies wait. 
Nor Oscar nor his brother came. 

At length young Allan join'd the bride ; 

" Why comes not Oscar," Angus said : 
" Is he not here ? " the youth replied ; 

" With me he roved not o'er the glade : 
" Perchance, forgetful of the day, 

'T is his to chase the bounding roe j 
Or ocean's waves prolong his stay j 

Yet Oscar's bark is seldom slow." 
" Oh, no ! " the anguish'd sire rejoin'd, 

" Nor chase, nor wave, my boy delay j 
Would he to Mora seem unkind ? 

Would aught to her impede his way ? 

" Oh, search, ye chiefs ! oh, search around ! 

Allan, with these through Alva fly ; 
Till Oscar, till my son is found. 

Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply." 
All is confusion — through the vale 

The name of Oscar hoarsely rings ; 
It rises on the murmuring gale. 

Till night expands her dusky wings ; 
It breaks the stillness of the night. 

But echoes through her shades in vain ', 
It sounds through morning's misty light, 

But Oscar conies not o'er the plain. 

Three days, three sleepless nights, the Chief 

For Oscar searched each mountain cave : 
Then hope is lost ; in boundless grief. 

His locks in grey-torn ringlets wave. 
" Oscar ! my son ! — thou God of Heav'D, 

Restore the prop of sinking age ! 
Or if that hope no more is given. 

Yield his assassin to my rage. 

" Yes, on some desert rocky shore 
My Oscar's whiten'd bones must lie ; 

Then grant, thou God ! I ask no more, 
With him his frantic sire may die ! 

" Yet he may live, — away, despair ! 
Be calm, my soul ! he yet may live ; 

T' arraign my fate, my voice forbear 1 

God ! my impious prayer forgive. 

*' What, if he live for me no more, 

1 sink forgotten in the dust. 
The hope of Alva's age is o'er : 

Alas ! can pangs like these be just ?" 
Thus did the hapless parent mourn, 

Till Time, who soothes severest woe, 
Had bade serenity return. 

And made the tear-drop cease to flow. 
For still some latent hope survived 

That Oscar might once more appear ; 
His hope now droop'd and now revived. 

Till Time had told a tedious year. 
Days roU'd along, the orb of light 

Again had run his destined race ; 
No Oscar bless'd his father's sight, 

And sorrow left a fainter trace. 

For youthful Allan still remain'd. 

And now his father's only Joy : 
And Mora's heart was quickly gain'd, 

For beauty crown'd Ihe fair-hair'd boy. 

She thought that Oscar low was laid. 

And Allan's face was wondrous fair j 
If Oscar lived, some other maid 

Had claim'd his faithless bosom's care. 
And Angus said, if one year more 

In fruitless hope was pass'd away, 
His fondest scruples should be o'er. 

And he would name their nuptial day. 
Slow roU'd the moons, but blest at last 

Arrived the dearly destined morn : 
The year of anxious trembling past. 

What smiles the lovers' cheeks adorn ! 



20 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note ! 

Hark to the swelling nuptial song ! 
In joyous strains the voices float, 

And still the choral peal prolong. 

Again the clan, in festive crowd. 

Throng through the gate of Alva's hall ; 

The sounds of mirth re^-echo loud, 
And all their former joy recall. 

But who is he, whose darkened bro%v 

Glooms in the midst of general mirth ? 
Before his eyes' far fiercer glow 

The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth. 
Dark is the robe which wraps his form, 

And tall his plume of gory red ; 
His voice is like the rising storm, 

But light and trackless is his tread. 
'T is noon of night, the pledge goes round. 

The bridegroom's health is deeply quaff 'd j 
With shouts the vaulted roofs resound. 

And all combine to hail the draught. 
Sudden the stranger-chief arose, 

And all the clamorous crowd are hush'd ; 
And Angus' cheek with wonder glows, 

And Mora's tender bosom blush'd. 
" Old man ! " he cried, " this pledge is done j 

Thou saw'st 't was duly drank by me j 
It hail'd the nuptials of thy son : 

Now will I claim a pledge from thee. 
" While all around is mirth and joy, 

To bless thy Allan's happy lot, 
Say, hadst thou ne'er another boy ? 

Say, why should Oscar be forgot ? " 

*' Alas ! " the hapless sire replied. 
The big tear starting as he spoke, 

" When Oscar left my hail, or died, 
This aged heart w^as almost broke. 

" Thrice has the earth revolved her course 
Since Oscar's form has bless'd my sight ; 

And Allan is my last resource. 
Since martial Oscar's death or flight." 

" 'T is vrell," replied the stranger stem, 
And fiercely flash'd his rolling eye ; 

** Thy Oscar's fate I fain would learn ; 
Perhaps the hero did not die. 

" Perchance, if those whom most he loved 
Would call, thy Oscar might return j 

Perchance the chief has only roved ; 
For him thy Beltane yet may bum.i 

" Fill high the bowl the table round. 
We will not claim the pledge by stealth ; 

With wine let every cup be crown'd ; 
Pledge me departed Oscar's health." 

" With all my soul," old Angus said, 
And fiU'd his goblet to the brim : 

" Here 's to my boy ! alive or dead, 
I ne'er shallfind a son like him." 

" Bravely, old man, this health has sped j 
But why does Allan trembling stand ? 

Come, drink remembrance of the dead, 
And raise thy cup with fii'mer hand." 

The crimson glow of Allan's face 
Was turn'd at once to ghastly hue ; 

The drops of death each other chase 
Adown in agonizing dew. • 

Thrice did he raise the goblet high, 
And thrice his lips refused to taste ; 

For thrice he caught the stranger's eye 
On his with deadly fury placed. 



1 Beltane Tree, a Highland festival on the first of May, 
held near fires lighted for the occasion. — Beal-tain means 
the fire of Baal, and the name siill preserves the primeval 
origin of this Celtic superstition. — E. 



" And is it thus a brother hails 

A brother's fond remembrance here ? 
If thus atfection's strength prevails. 

What might we not expect from fear ? " 
Roused by the sneer, he raised the bowl, 

" Would Oscar now could share our mirth ! " 
Internal fear appall'd his soul ; 

He said, and dash'd the cup to earth. 
** 'T is he ! I hear my murderer's voice ! " 

Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming form. 
" A murderer's voice ! " the roof replies, 

And deeply swells the bursting storm. 
The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink, 

The stranger 's gone, — amidst the crew, 
A form was seen in tartan green. 

And tall the shade terrific grew. 
His waist was bound with a broad belt round, 

His plume of sable stream'd on high ; 
But his breast was bare, with the red wounds there, 

And fix'd was the glare of his glassy eye. 
And thrice he smiled, with his eye so wild, 

On Angus bending low the knee ; 
And thrice he frown'd on a chief on the ground. 

Whom shivering crowds with horror see. 
The bolts loud roll from pole to pole. 

And thunders through the welkin ring, 
And the gleaming form thro' the mist of the storm 

Was borne on high by the whirlwind's wing. 
Cold was the feast, the revel ceased. 

Who lies upon the stony floor ? 
Oblivion press'd old Angus' breast. 

At length his life-pulse throbs once more. 

"Away, away ! let the leech essay 
To pour the light on Allan's eyes : " 

His sand is done, — his race is run : 
Oh ! never more shall Allan rise ! 

But Oscar's breast is cold as clay, 

His locks are lifted by the gale j 
And Allan's barbed arrow lay 

With him in dark Glentanar's vale. 

And whence the dreadful stranger came, 

Or who, no mortal wight can tell ; 
But no one doubts the form of flame. 

For Alva's sous knew Oscar well. 

Ambition nerved young Allan's hand, 

Exulting demons wing'd his dart ; 
While Envy waved her burning brand, 

And pour'd her venom round 'his heart. 

Swift is the shaft from Allan's bow ; 

Whose streaming life-blood stains his side ? 
Dark Oscar's sable crest is low. 

The dart has drunk his vital tide. 

And Mora's eye could Allan move, 

She bade his wounded pride rebel : 
Alas ! that eyes which beam'd with love 

Should urge the soul to deeds of hell. 

Lo ! seest thou not a lonely tomb 

Which rises o'er a warrior dead ? 
It glimmers through the twilight gloom j 

Oh ! that is Allan's nuptial bed. 

Far, distant far, the noble grave 

Which held his clan's great ashes stood ; 

And o'er his corse no banners wave, 

For they were stain'd with kindred blood. 

What minstrel grey, what hoary bard, 
Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise ? 

The song is glory's chief reward. 
But who can strike a murderer's praise ? 

Unstrung, untouch'd, the harp must stand. 
No minstrel dare the theme awake j 

Guilt would benumb his palsied hand, 
His harp in shuddering chords would break. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



21 



No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse, 
Shall sound his glories high in air : 

A dying father's bitter curse, 
A brother's death-groan echoes there. 



THE EPISODE OF NISUS AND EURYALUS. 

A PARAPHRASE FROM THE ^NEID, LIB. IX. 

Nisus, the guardian of the portal, stood. 

Eager to gild his arms with hostile blood ; 

Well skill'd in fight the quivering lance to wield, 

Or pour his arrows through th' embattled field : 

From Ida torn, he left his sylvan cave, 

And sought a foreign home, a distant grave. 

To watch the movements of tlie Daunian host, 

With him Euryalus sustains the post ; 

No lovelier mien adorn'd the ranks of Troy, 

And beardless bloom yet graced the gallant boy ', 

Though few the seasons of his youthful life, 

As yet a novice in the martial strife, 

'T was his, with beauty, valour's gifts to share — 

A soul heroic, as his form was fair : 

These burn with one pure flame of generous love : 

In peace, in war, united still they move ', 

Friendship and glory form their joint reward ; 

And now combined they hold their nightly guard. 

" What god," exclaim'd the first, " instils this fire? 
Or, in itself a god, what great desire ? 
My labouring soul, with anxious thought oppress'd, 
Abhors this station of inglorious rest ; 
The love of fame with this can ill accord, 
Be 't mine to seek for glory with my sword. 
Seest thou yon camp, with torches twinkling dim, 
Where drunken slumbers wrap each lazy limb ? 
Where confidence and ease the watch disdain, 
And drowsy Silence holds her sable reign ? 
Then hear my thought : — In deep and sullen grief 
Our troops and leaders mourn their absent chief. 
Now could the gifts and promised prize be thine 
(The deed, the danger, and the fame be mine), 
Were this decreed, beneath yon rising mound, 
Methinks, an easy path perchance were found j 
Which past, I speed my way to Pallas' walls, 
And lead iEneas from Evander's halls." 

With equal ardour fired, and warlike joy, 
His glowing friend address'd the Dardan boy : — 
" These deeds, my Nisus, shalt thou dare alone ? 
Must all the fame, the peril, be thine own ? 
Am I by thee despised, and left afar. 
As one unfit to share the toils of war ? 
Not thus his son the great Opheltes taught ,• 
Not thus my sire in Argive combats fought ; 
Not thus, when Ilion fell by heavenly hate, 
I track'd ^neas through (he walks of fate : 
Thou know'st my deeds, my breast devoid of fear, 
And hostile life-drops dim my gory spear. 
Here is a soul with hope immortal burns. 
And life, ignoble life, for glory spurns. 
Fame, fame is cheaply earn'd by fleeting breath : 
The price of honour is the sleep of death." 

Then Nisus, — " Calm thy bosom's fond alarms: 
Thy heart beats fiercely to the din of arms. 
More dear thy worth and valour than my own, 
I swear by him who fills Olympus' throne ! 
So may I triumph, as I speak the truth. 
And clasp again the comrade of my youth ! 
But should I fall, — and he who dares advance 
Through hostile legions must abide by chance,— 
If some Rutulian arm, with adverse blow, 
Should lay the friend who ever loved thee low. 
Live thou, such beauties I would fain preserve, 
Thy budding years a lengthen'd term deserve. 
When humbled in the dust, let some one be, 
Whose gentle eyes will shed one tear for me ; 
Whose manly arm may snatch me back by force, 
Or wealth redeem from foes my captive corse ; 
Or, if my destiny these last deny. 
If in the spoiler's power my ashes lie, 



Thy pious care may raise a simple tomb, 
To mark thy love, and signalize my doom. 
Why should thy doting wretched mother weep 
Her only boy, reclined in endless sleep ? 
Who, for thy sake, the tempest's fur\' dared, 
Who, for thy sake, war's deadly peril shared ; 
Who braved what woman never braved before, 
And left her native for the Latian shore." 

" In vain you damp the ardour of my soul," 
Replied Euryalus ', " it scorns control ! 
Hence, let us haste ! " — their brother guards arose, 
Roused by their call, nor court again repose ; 
The pair, buoy'd up on Hope's exulting wing. 
Their stations leave, and speed to seek the king. 

Now o'er the earth a solemn stillness ran, 
And lull'd alike the cares of brute and man j 
Save where the Dardan leaders nightly hold 
Alternate converse, and their plans unfold. 
On one great point the council are agreed, 
An instant message to their prince decreed ; 
Each lean'd upon the lance he well could wield, 
And poised with easy arm his ancient shield ; 
When Nisus and his friend their leave request 
To offer something to their high behest. 
With anxious tremors, yet unawed by fear. 
The faithful pair before the throne appear : 
lulus greets them ; at his kind command, 
The elder first address'd the hoary band. 

" With patience" (thus Hyrtacides began) 
"Attend, nor judge from youth our humble plan. 
Where yonder beacons half expiring beam, 
Our slumbering foes of future conquest dream, 
Nor heed that we a secret path have traced, 
Between the ocean and the portal placed. 
Beneath the covert of the blackening smoke. 
Whose shade securely our design will cloak ! 
If you, ye chiefs, and fortune will allow. 
We '11 bend our course to yonder mountain's brow. 
Where Pallas' walls at distance meet the sight. 
Seen o'er the glade, when not obscured by night : 
Then shall iEneas in his pride return. 
While hostile matrons raise their offspring's urn ; 
And Latian spoils and purpled heaps of dead 
Shall mark the havoc of our hero's tread. 
Such is our purpose, not unknown the way ; 
Where yonder torrents devious waters stray, 
Oft have we seen, when hunting by the stream, 
The distant spires above the valleys gleam." 

Mature in years, for sober wisdom famed. 
Moved by the speech, Alethes here exclaim'd, — 
" Ye parent gods ! who rule the fate of Troy, 
Still dwells the Dardan spirit in the boy ; 
When minds like these in striplings thus ye raise, 
Yours is the godlike act, be yours the praise ; 
In gallant youth, my fainting hopes revive. 
And Ilion's wonted glories still survive." 
Then in his warm embrace the boys he press'd, 
And, quivering, strain'd them to his aged breast ; 
With tears the burning cheek of each bedew'd, 
And, sobbing, thus his first discourse renew'd : 
" What gift, my countrymen, what martial prize 
Can we bestow^, which you may not despise ? 
Our deities the first best boon have given — 
Internal virtues are the gift of Heaven. 
What poor rewards can bless your deeds on earth. 
Doubtless await such young, exalted worth, 
^neas and Ascanius shall combine 
To yield applause, far, far surpassing mine." 

lulus then : — " By all the powers above ! 
By those Penates who my country love ! 
By hoary Vesta's sacred fane, I swear. 
My hopes are all in you, ye generous pair ! 
Restore my father to my grateful sight, 
And all my sorrows yield to one delight. 
Nisus ! two silver goblets are thine own. 
Saved from Arisba's stately domes o'erthrown ! 
My sire secured them on that fatal day, 
Nor left such bowls an Argive robber's prey : 



22 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Two massy tripods, also, shall be thine ; 
Tvro talents polish'd from the glittering mine ; 
An ancient cup, which Tyrian Dido gave, 
While yet our vessels press'd the Funic wave : 
But when the hostile chiefs at length bow down, 
When great iEneas wears Hesperia's crown, 
The casque, the buckler, and the fiery steed 
Which Turnus guides with more than mortal speed, 
Are thine ; no envious lot shall then be cast, 
I pledge my word, irrevocably past : 
Nay more, twelve slaves, and twice six captive dames 
To soothe thy softer hours with amorous flames, 
And all the realms which now the Latins sway 
The labours of to-night shall well repay. 
But thou, my generous youth, whose tender years 
Are near my own, whose worth my heart reveres, 
Henceforth afifection, sweetly thus begun, 
Shall join our bosoms and our souls in one ; 
Without thy aid, no glory shall be mine ; 
Without thy dear advice, no great design ; 
Alike through life esteem'd, thou godlike boy, 
In war my bulwark, and in peace my joy." 



To him Euryalus : — " No day shall shame 
The rising glories which from this I claim. 
Fortune may favour, or the skies may frown, 
But valour, spite of fate, obtains renown. 
Yet, ere from hence our eager steps depart, 
One boon I beg, the nearest^ to my heart : 
My mother, sprung from Priam's royal line, 
Like thine ennobled, hardly less divine, 
Nor Troy nor king Acestes' realms restrain 
Her feeble age from dangers of the main j 
Alone she came, all selfish fears above, 
A bright example of maternal love. 
Unkno\%-n the secret enterprise I brave. 
Lest grief should bend my parent to the grave ; 
From this alone no fond adieus I seek. 
No fainting mother's lips have press'd my cheek j 
By gloomy night and thy right hand I vow 
Her parting tears would shake my purpose now : 
Do thou, my prince, her failing age sustain. 
In thee her much-loved child may live again j 
Her dying hours with pious conduct bless, 
Assist her wants, relieve her fond distress : 
So dear a hope must all my soul inflame, 
To rise in glory, or to fall in fame." 
Struck with a filial care so deeply felt. 
In tears at once the Trojan warriors melt : 
Faster than all, lulus' eyes o'erflow ! 
Such love was his, and such had been his woe. 
*' All thou hast ask'd, receive," the prince replied ', 
" Nor this alone, but many a gift beside. 
To cheer thy mother's years shall be my aim, 
Creusa's i style but wanting to the dame. 
Fortune an adverse wayward course may run, 
But bless'd thy mother in so dear a son. 
Now, by my life ! — mj sire's most sacred oath — 
To thee I pledge my full, my firmest troth, 
All the rewards which once to thee were vow'd, 
If thou shouldst fall, on her shall be bestow'd." 
Thus spoke the weeping prince, then forth to view 
A gleaming falchion from the sheath he drew ; 
Lycaon's utmost skill had graced the steel. 
For friends to envy and for foes to feel : 
A tawny hide, the' Moorish lion's spoil, 
Slain 'midst the forest, in the hunter's toil, 
Mnestheus to guard the elder youth bestows, ; 
And old Alethes' casque defends his brows. 
Arm'd, thence they go, while all th' assembled train, I 
To aid their cause, implore the gods in vain. 
More than a boy, in wisdom and in grace, 
lulus holds amidst the chiefs his place : 
His prayer he sends ; but what can prayers avail, 
Lost in the murmurs of the sighing gale ! 

The trench is pass'd, and, favour'd by the night, 
Through sleeping foes they wheel their wary flight. 



1 The mother of lulus, lost on the night when Troy was 
taken. I 



When shall the sleep of many a foe be o'er ? 
Alas ! some slumber who shall wake no more ! 
Chariots and bridles, mix'd with arms, are seen ; 
And flowing flasks, and scatter'd troops between : 
Bacchus and Mars to rule the camp combine ; 
A mingled chaos this of war and wine. 
" Now," cries the first, " for deeds of blood prepare, 
With me the conquest and the labour share : 
Here lies our path ; lest any hand arise. 
Watch thou, while many a dreaming chieftain dies j 
I '11 carve our passage through the heedless foe. 
And clear thy road with many a deadly blow." 
His whispering accents then the youth repress'd, 
And pierced proud Rhamnes thro' his panting breast : 
Stretch'd at his ease, th' incautious king reposed ; 
Debauch, and not fatigue, his eyes had'closed : 
To Turnus dear, a prophet and a prince. 
His omens more than augur's skill evince ; 
But he, who thus foretold the fate of all, 
Could not avert his own untimely fall. 
Next Remus' armour-bearer, hapless, fell. 
And three unhappy slaves the carnage swell j 
The charioteer along his courser's sides 
Expires, the steel his sever'd neck divides ; 
And, last, his lord is number'd with the dead : 
Bounding convulsive, flies the gasping head : 
From the svvoU'n veins the blackening torrents pour ; 
Stain'd is the couch and earth with clotting gore. 
Young Lamyrus and Lamus next expire. 
And gay Serranus, fill'd with youthful fire ; 
Half the long night in childish games was pass'd ; 
LuU'd by the potent grape, he slept at last : 
Ah ! happier far had he the morn survey'd, 
And till Aurora's dawn his skill display'd. 

In slaughter'd folds, the keepers lost in sleep, 
His hungry fangs a lion thus may steep ; 
'Mid the sad flock, at dead of night he prowls, 
With murder glutted, and in carnage rolls : 
Insatiate still, through teeming herds he roams; 
In seas of gore the lordly tyrant foams. 

Nor less the other's deadly vengeance came, 
But falls on feeble crowds without a name ; 
His wound unconscious Fadus scarce can feel, 
Yet wakeful Rhsesus sees the threatening steel ; 
His coward breast behind a jar he hides. 
And vainly in the weak defence confides ; 
Full in his heart, the falchion search'd his veins, 
The reeking weapon bears alternate stains ; 
Through wine and blood, commingling as they flow, 
One feeble spirit seeks the shades below. 
Now where Messapus dwelt they bent their way. 
Whose fires emit a faint and trembling ray ; 
There, unconfined. behold each grazing steed, 
Unwatch'd, unheeded, on the herbage feed : 
Brave Nisus here arrests his comrade's arm, 
Too flush 'd with carnage, and with conquest warm : 
" Hence let us haste, the dangerous path is pass'd ; 
Full foes enough to-night have breathed their last : 
Soon will the day those eastern clouds adorn ; 
Now let us speed, nor tempt the rising morn." 

What silver arms, with various art emboss'd. 
What bowls and mantles in confusion toss'd. 
They leave regardless ! yet one glittering prize 
Attracts the younger hero's wandering eyes j 
The gilded harness Rhamnes' coursers felt. 
The gems which stud the monarch's golden belt : 
This from the pallid corse was quickly torn. 
Once by a line of former chieftains worn. 
Th' exulting boy the studded girdle wears, 
Messapus' helm his head in triumph bears ; 
Then from the tents their cautious steps they bend. 
To seek the vale where safer paths extend. 

Just at this hour, a band of Latian hoi-se 
To Turnus' camp pursue their destined course : 
While the slow foot their tardy march delay. 
The knights, impatient, spur along the way : 
Three hundred mail clad men, by Volscens led. 
To Turnus with their master's promise sped : 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



23 



Now they approach the trench, and view the walls, 

When, on the left, a light reflection falls ; 

The plunder'd helmet, through the waning night, 

Sheds forth a silver radiance, glancing bright. 

Volscens with question loud the pair alarms : — 

" Stand, stragglers ! stand ! why early thus in arms? 

From whence ? to whom ?" — He meets with no reply. 

Trusting the covert of the night, they fly : 

The thicket's depth with hurried pace they tread. 

While round the wood the hostile squadron spread. 

With brakes entangled, scarce a path between. 
Dreary and dark appears the sylvan scene : 
Euryalus his heavy spoils impede, 
The boughs and winding turns his steps mislead; 
But Nisus scours along the forest's maze 
To where Latinus' steeds in safety graze, 
Then baclcward o'er the plain his eyes extend. 
On every side they seek his absent friend. 
*' God I my boy," he cries, " of me bereft, 
In what impending perils art thou left ! " 
Listening he runs — above the waving trees. 
Tumultuous voices swell the passing breeze; 
The war-cry rises, thundering hoofs around 
Wake the dark echoes of the trembling ground. 
Again he turns, of footsteps hears the noise ; 
The sound elates, the sight his hope destroys : 
The hapless boy a ruflSan train surround, 
While lengthening shades his weary way confound : 
Him withloud shouts the furious knights pursue. 
Struggling in vain, a captive to the crew. 
What can his friend 'gainst thronging numbers dare ? 
Ah ! must he rush, his comrade's fate to share ? 
What force, what aid, what stratagem essay, 
Back to redeem the Latian spoiler's prey ? 
His life a votive ransom nobly give, 
Or die with him for whom he wish'd to live ? 
Poising with strength his lifted lance on high, 
On Luna's orb he cast his frenzied eye : — 
" Gtoddess serene, transcending every star ! 
Queen of the sky, whose beams are seen afar ! 
By night heaven owns thy sway, by day the grove. 
When, as chaste Dian, here thou deign'st to rove ; 
If e'er myself, or sire, have sought to grace 
Thine altars with the produce of the chase, 
Speed, speed my dart to pierce yon vaunting crowd, 
To free my friend, and scatter far the proud." 
Thus having said, the hissing dart he flung; 
Through parted shades the hurtling weapon sung ; 
The thirsty point in Sulmo's entrails lay, 
Transfix'd his heart, and stretchM him on the clay : 
He sobs, he dies, — the troop in wild amaze, 
Unconscious whence the death, with horror gaze. 
While pale the}- stare, through Tagus' temples riven, 
A second shaft with equal force is driven : 
Fierce Volscens rolls around his lowering eyes ; 
Veil'd by the night, secure the Trojan lies. 
Burning with wrath, he view'd his soldiers fall, 
" Thou youth accurst, thy life shall pay for all ! " 
Quick from the sheath his flaming glaive he drew. 
And, raging, on the boy defenceless flew. 
Nisus no more the blackening shade conceals. 
Forth, forth he starts, and all his love reveals ; 
Aghast, confused, his fears to madness rise. 
And pour these accents, shrieking as he flies : 
" Me, me, — your vengeance hurl on me alone ; 
Here sheathe the steel, my blood is all your own. 
Ye starry spheres ! thou conscious Heaven ! attest ! 
He could not — durst not — lo ! the guile confest ! 
All, all was mine, — his early fate suspend; 
He only loved too well his hapless friend : 
Spare, spare, ye chiefs ! from him your rage remove ; 
His fault was' friendship, all his crime was love." 
He pray'd in vain ; the dark assassin's sword 
Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom gored; 
Lowly to earth inclines his plume-clad crest, 
And sanguine torrents mantle o'er his breast : 
As some young rose, v^ hose blossom scents the air, 
Languid in death, expires beneath the share ; 
Or crimson poppy, sinking with the shower, 
Declining gently, falls a fading flower ; 



Thus, sweetly drooping, bends his lovely head. 
And lingering beauty hovers round the dead. 

But fier>' Nisus stems the battle's tide, 
Revenge his leader, and despair his guide ; 
Volscens he seeks amidst the gathering host, 
Volscens must soon appease his comrade's ghost ; 
Steel, flashing, pours on steel, foe crowds on foe; 
Rage nerves his arm, fate gleams in every blow ; 
In vain beneath unnumber'd wounds he bleeds, 
Nor wounds, nor death, distracted Nisus heeds; 
In viewless circles wheel'd, his falchion flies. 
Nor quits the hero's grasp till Volscens dies ; 
Deep in his throat its end the weapon found, 
The tyrant's soul fled, groaning through the wound. 
Thus Nisus all his fond affeclion proved — 
Dying, revenged the fate of him he loved ; 
Then on his bosom sought his wonted place, 
And death was heavenly in his friend's embrace ! 

Celestial pair ! if aught my verse can claim. 
Wafted on Time's broad pinion, yours is fame ! 
Ages on ages shall your fate admire. 
No future day shall see your names expire, 
While stands the Capitol, immortal dome ! 
And vanquish'd millions hail their empress, Rome ! 



TRANSLATION FROM THE MEDEA OF 
EURIPIDES. 

['EpwTES iTzsp /A£V dyav, K. t; A.] 

When fierce conflicting passions urge 

The breast where love is wont to glow, 
What mind can stem the stormy surge 

Which rolls the tide of human woe? 
The hope of praise, the dread of shame, 

Can rouse the tortured breast no more ; 
The wild desire, the guilty flame. 

Absorbs each wish it felt before. 

But if affection gently thrills 

The soul by purer dreams possest, 
The pleasing balm of mortal ills 

In love can soothe the aching breast : 
If thus thou comest in disguise. 

Fair Venus ! from thy native heaven, 
What heart unfeeling would despise 

The sweetest boon the gods have given ? 

But never from thy golden bow 

May I beneath the shaft expire ! 
Whose creeping venom, sure and slow, 

Awakes an all-consuming fire : 
Ye racking doubts ! ye jealous fears ! 

With others wage internal war; 
Repentance, source of future tears, 

From me be ever distant far ! 

May no distracting thoughts destroy 

The holy calm of sacred love ! 
May all the hours be wing'd with joy. 

Which hover faithful hearts above ! 
Fair Venus ! on thy myrtle shrine 

May I with some fond lover sigh, 
Whose heart may mingle pure with mine — 

With me to live, with me to die ! 

My native soil ! beloved before. 

Now dearer as my peaceful home, 
Ne'er may I quit thy rocky shore, 

A hapless banish'd wretch to roam ! 
This very day, this very hour, 

May I resign this fleeting breath ! 
Nor quit my silent humble bower ; 

A doom to me far worse than death. 

Have I not heard the exile's sigh. 

And seen the exile's silent tear. 
Through distant climes condemn'd to fly, 

A pensive weary wanderer here ? 



24 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Ah ! hapless dame ! i no sire bewails, 

No friend thy wretched fate deplores, 
No kindred voice with rapture hails 

Thy steps within a stranger's doors. 
Perish the fiend whose iron heart, 

To fair affection's truth unknown, 
Bids her he fondly loved depart, 

Unpitied, helpless, and alone ; 
Who ne'er unlocks with silver key 2 

The milder treasures of his soul, — 
May such a friend be far from me, 

And ocean's storms between us roll ! 



THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A COLLEGE 
EXAMINATION. 

High in the midst, surrounded by his peers, 
Magnus 3 his ample front sublime uprears : 
Placed on his chair of state, he seems a god, 
While Sophs and Freshmen tremble at his nod. 
As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom, 
His voice in thunder shakes the sounding domej 
Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools, 
Unskill'd to plod in mathematic rules. 

Happy the youth in Euclid's axioms tried, 
Though little versed in any art beside ; 
Who, scarcely skill'd an English line to pen. 
Scans Attic metres with a critic's ken. 
What, though he knows not how his fathers bled, 
When civil discord piled the fields with dead, 
When Edward bade his conquering bands advance, 
Or Henry trampled on the crest of "France, 
Though marvelling at the name of Magna Charta, 
Yet well he recollects the laws of Sparta; 
Can tell what edicts sage Lycurgus made, 
While Blackstone's on the shelf neglected laid; 
Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless fame, 
Of Avon's bard remembering scarce the name. 

Such is the youth whose scientific pate 
Class-honours, medals, fellowships, await ; 
Or even, perhaps, the declamation prize, 
If to such glorious height he lifts his eyes. 
But lo ! no common orator can hope 
The envied silver cup within his scope. 
Not that our heads much eloquence require, 
Th' AtheniaTi's 4 glowing style, or Tully's fire. 
A manner clear or warm is useless, since 
We do not try by speaking to convince. 
Be other orators of pleasing proud ; 
We speak to please ourselves, not move the crowd ! 
Our gravity prefers the muttering tone, 
A proper mixture of the squeak and groan : 
No borrow'd grace of action must be seen ; 
The slightest motion would displease the Dean ; 5 
Whilst every staring graduate would prate 
Against what he could never imitate. 

The man who hopes t' obtain the promised cup 
Must in one posture stand, and ne'er look up ; 



1 Medea, who accompanied Jason to Corinth, was de- 
serted by him for the daughter of Creon, kin^ of that 
city. The chorus from which this is taken here ad- 
dresses Medea; though a considerable liberty is taken 
with the original, by expanding the idea, as also in some 
other parts of the translation. 

2 The original is " KaQagav Avol^avri KXrjQa 
(})p£V(x>V ;" literally "disclosing the bright key cf the 
mind." 

3 No reflection is here intended against the person men- 
tioned under the name of Magnus. He is merely repre- 
sented as performing an unavoidable function of his office. 
Indeed, such an attempt could only recoil upon myself; as 
that gentleman is now as much distinguished by his elo- 
quence, and the dignified propriety with which he fills his 
situation, as he was in his younger days for wit and coa- 
viviality. 

4 Demosthenes. 

5 In most colleges, the Fellow who superintends the 
chapel service is called Dean. — E. 



Nor stop, but rattle over every word — 
No matter what, so it can not be heard. 
Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest : 
Who speaks the fastest" s sure to speak the best ; 
Who utters most within the shortest space 
May safely hope to win the wordy race. 

The sons of science these, who, thus repaid, 
Linger in ease in Granta's sluggish shade ; 
Where on Cam's sedgy banks supine they lie, 
Unknown, unhonoured, live, unwept for die : 
Dull as the pictures which adorn their halls, 
They think all learning fix'd within their walls : 
In manners rude, in foolish forms precise. 
All modern arts affecting to despise ; 
Yet prizing Bentley's, Brunck's, or Porson's s note, 
More than the verse on which the critic wrote : 
Vain as their honours, heavy as their ale, 
Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale ; 
To friendship dead, though not untaught to feel 
When Self and Church demand a bigot zeal. 
With eager haste they court the lord of power, 
Whether 't is Pitt or Petty rules the hour ; t 
To him, with suppliant smiles, they bend the head. 
While distant mitres to their eyes are spread. 
But should a storm o'erwhelm him with disgrace, 
They 'd fly to seek the next who fiU'd his place. 
Such are the men who learning's treasures guard ! 
Such is their practice, such is their reward ! 
This much, at least, we may presume to say — 
The premium can't exceed the price they pay. 

ieo6. 



TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER. 

Sweet girl ! though only once we met, 

That meeting I shall ne'er forget ; 

And though we ne'er may meet again, 

Remembrance will thy form retain. 

I would not say, *' I love," but still 

My senses struggle with my will : 

In vain, to drive thee from my breast, 

My thoughts are more and more represt ; 

In vain Tcheck the rising sighs. 

Another to the last replies : 

Perhaps this is not love, but yet 

Our meeting I can ne'er forget. 

What though we never silence broke. 

Our eyes a sweeter language spoke ; 

The tongue in flattering falsehood deals, 

And tells a tale it never feels : 

Deceit the guilty lips impart, 

And hush the mrndates of the heart ; 

But soul's interpreters, the eyes, 

Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise. 

As thus our glances oft conversed, 

And all our bosoms felt rehearsed, 

No spirit, from within, reproved us. 

Say rather, " 't was the spirit moved us." 

Though what they utter'd I repress. 

Yet I conceive thou 'It partly guess ; 

For as on thee my memory ponders, 

Perchance to me thine also wanders. 

This for myself, at least, I '11 say, 

Thy form appears through night, through day ; 

Awake, with it my fancy teems ; 

In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams; 

The vision charms the hours away, 

And bids me curse Aurora's ray 

For breaking slumbers of delight 

Which make me wish for endless night. 

Since, oh ! whate'er my future fate, 

Shall joy or woe my steps await. 



tf 



6 The present Greek professor at Trinity College, Cam- 
bridge; a man whose powers of mind and writings may, 
perhaps, justify their preference. 

1 Since this was written, Lord Henry Petty has lost 
his place, and subsequently (I had almost said conse- 
quently) the honour of representing the University. A 
fact so glaring requires no comment. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



25 



Tempted by love, by storms beset, 
Thine image I can ne'er forget. 

Alas ! again no more we meet, 
No more our former loolis repeat ; 
Then let me breathe this parting prayer, 
The dictate of my bosom's care : 
" May Heaven so guard my lovely Quaker, 
That anguish never can o'ertake her ', 
That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her, 
But bliss be aye her heart's partaker ! 
Oh ! may the happy mortal, fated 
To be, by dearest ties, related. 
For her each hour new joys discover, 
And lose the husband in the lover ! 
May that fair bosom never know 
What 't is to feel the restless woe 
Which stings the soul, with vain regret, 
Of him who never can forget ! " i 



THE CORNELIAN. 

No specious splendour of this stone 
Endears it to my memory ever j 

With lustre only once it shone. 
And blushes modest as the giver. 

Some, who can sneer at friendship's ties, 

Have, for my weakness, oft reproved me ; 
Yet still the simple gift I prize, — 

For I am sure the giver loved me. 
He ofFer'd it with downcast look, 

As fearful that I might refuse it j 
I told him, when the gift I took, 

My only fear should be to lose it. 

This pledge attentively I view'd, 

And sparkling as I held it near, 
Methought one drop the stone bedew'd, 

And ever since I 've loved a tear. 
Still, to adorn his humble youth. 

Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield; 
But he who seeks the flowers of truth, 

Must quit the garden for the field. 

'T is not the plant uprear'd in sloth. 

Which beauty shows, and sheds perfume ; 
The flowers which yield the most of both. 

In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom. 
Had Fortune aided Nature's care. 

For once forgetting to be blind. 
His would have been an ample share. 

If well proportion'd to his mind. 
But had the goddess clearly seen. 

His form had fix'd her fickle breast ; 
Her countless hoards would his have been, 

And none remain'd to give the rest. 



AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE, 
DELIVERED PREVIOOS TO THE PERFORM- 
ANCE OF " THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE," 
AT A PRIVATE THEATRE. 

Since the refinement of this polish'd age 
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage ; 
Since taste has now expunged licentious wit. 
Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ; 
Since now to please with purer scenes we seek, 
Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek; 
Oh ! let the modest Muse some pity claim, 
And meet indulgence, though she find not fame. 
Still, not for her alone we wish respect, 
Others appear more conscious of defect : 
To-night no veteran Roscii you behold. 
In all the arts of scenic action old ; 



1 These verses were written at Harrowgate, in August, 
1806. — E. 



No Cooke, no Kemble, can salute you here, 

No Siddons draw the sympathetic tear ; 

To-night you throng to witness the debut 

Of embryo actors, to the Drama new : 

Here, then, our almost unfiedsred wings we try ; 

Clip not our pinions ere the birds can fiy : 

Failing in this our first attempt to soar. 

Drooping, alas ! we fall to rise no more. 

Not one poor trembler only fear betrays, 

Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your praise ; 

But all our dramatis personse wait 

In fond suspense this crisis of their fate. 

No venal views our progress can retard, 

Your generous plaudits are our sole reward. 

For these, each Hero all his power displays, 

Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze. 

Surely the last will some protection find ; 

None' to the softer sex can prove unkind : 

While Youth and Beuuty form the female shield. 

The sternest censor to the fair must yield. 

Yet, should our feeble efforts nought" avail. 

Should, after all, our best endeavours fail. 

Still let some mercy in your bosoms live, 

And, if you can 't applaud, at least forgive. 



ON THE DEATH OF MR. FOX, 

THE FOLLOWING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU 

APPEARED IN A MORNING PAPER. 

" Our nation's foes lament on Fox's death. 
But bless the hour when Pitt resign'd his breath ; 
These feelings wide, let sense and truth undue, 
We give the palm where Justice points its due." 

TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES 
SENT THE FOLLOWING REPLY. 

Oh factious viper ! whose envenom'd tooth 

Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth ; 

What though our " nation's foes" lament the fate, 

With generous feeling, of the good and great, 

Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name 

Of him whose meed exists in endless fame? 

When Pitt expired in plenitude of power, 

Though ill success obscured his dying hour. 

Pity her dewy \\ings before him spread. 

For noble spirits " war not with the dead : " 

His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave. 

As all his errors slumber'd in the grave ; 

He sunk, an Atlas bending 'neath the weight 

Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state : 

When, lo ! a Hercules in Frx appear'd, 

Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rear'd : 

He, too, is fall'n, who Britain's loss supplied. 

With him our fast reviving hopes have died ; 

Not one great people only raise his urn, 

All Europe's far-extended regions mourn. 

" These feelings wide, let sense and truth undue, 

To give the palm where Justice points its due ; " 

Yet let not canker'd Calumny assail, 

Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil. 

Fox ! o'er whfise corse a mourning world must weep, 

Whose dear remains in honoured marble sleep ; 

For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan, 

While friends and foes alike his talents own ; 

Fox shall in Britain's future annals shine, 

Nor e'en to Pitt the patriot's pilm resign ; 

Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask, 

For Pitt, and Pitt alone, has dared to ask. 



THE TEAR. 
" O lachrymarum fons, tenero saoros 
Ducentium ortus ex animo; quater 
Felix ! in imo qui eiatenfem 
Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit." — Gray. 

When Friendship or Love our sympathies move, 
When Truth in a glance should appear, 



-- ^ '-^'^ 



26 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



The lips may beguile with a dimple or smile, 

But the test of affection 's a Tear. 
Too oft is a smile but the hypocrite's wile, 

To mask detestation or fear ; 
Give me the soft si^h, whilst the soul-telling eye 

Is dimm'd for a time with a Tear. 
Mild Charity's glow, to us mortals below, 

Shows the soul from barbarity clear ; 
Compassion will melt where this virtue is felt. 

And its due is diffused in a Tear. 
The man doom'd to sail with the blast of the gale, 

Throuffh billows Atlantic to steer, 
As he bends o'er the wave which may soon be his grave, 

The green sparkles bright with a Tear. 

The soldier braves death for a fanciful wreath 

In Glory's romantic career ; 
But he raises the foe when in battle laid low, 

And bathes every wound with a Tear. 
If with high-bounding pride he return to his bride. 

Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear, 
All his toils are repaid when, embracing the maid, 

From her eyelid he kisses the Tear. 

Sweet scene of my youth ! ^ seat of Friendship and 
Truth, 

Where love chased each fast-fleeting year, 
Loth to leave thee, I moum'd, for a last look I turn'd, 

But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear. 

Though my vons I can pour to my Mary no more. 

My Mary to Love once so dear ;' 
In the sliade of her bower I remember the hour 

She rewarded those vows with a Tear. 

By another possest, may she live ever blest ! 

Her name still my heart must revere : 
With a sigh I resign what I once thought was mine, 

And forgive her deceit with a Tear. 

Ye friends of my heart, ere from you I depart. 

This hope to my breast is m^istnear : 
If again we shall meet in this rural retreat. 

May we meet, as we part, with a Tear. 

When my soul wings her flight to the regions of night, 

And my corse shall recline on its bier, 
As ye pass by the tonjb where my ashes consume. 

Oh ! moisten their dust with a Tear. 
May no marble bestow the splendour of woe 

Which the children of vanity rear ; 
No fiction of fame shall blazon my name, 

All I ask — all I wish — is a Tear. 

October 26 th, 1806. 



REPLY TO SOME VERSES OF J. M. B. PIGOT, 
ESQ., ON THE CRUELTY OF HIS MISTRESS. 

Why, Pigot, complain of this damsel's disdain ? 

Why thus in despair do you fret ? 
For months you may try, yet, believe me, a sigh 

Will never obtain a coquette. 

Would you teach her to love? for a time seem to rove; 

At first she may frown in a pet ; 
But leave her awhile, she shortly will smile, 

And then you may kiss your coquette. 
For such are the airs of these fanciful fairs. 

They think all our homage a debt ; 
Yet a partial neglect soon takes an effect, 

And humbles the proudest coquette. 

Dissemble your pain, and lengthen your chain. 

And seem her hauteur to regret ; 
If again you shall sigh, she no more will deny. 

That yours is the rosy coquette. 
If s'ill, from false pride, your panp she deride. 

This whimsical virgin forsret ; 
Some other admire, who will melt with your fire, 

And laugh at the little coquette. 

1 Harrow. 



For me, I adore some twenty or more. 

And love them most dearly ; but yet, 
Though my heart they enthral, I 'd abandon them aU, 

Did they act like your blooming coquette. 
No longer repine, adopt this design. 

And break through her slight-woven net; 
Away with despair, no longer forbear 

To fly from the captious coquetie. 
Then quit her, my friend ! your bosom defend, 

Ere quite witli her snares you 're beset : 
Lest your deep-wounded heart, when incensed by the 
smart. 

Should lead you to curse the coquette. 

October 27 th, 1SC6. 



TO THE SIGHING STREPHON. 

Your pardon, my friend, if my rhymes did offend j 

Your pardon, a thousand times o'er: 
From friendship I strove your pangs to remove, 

But I swear I will do so no mor^; 
Since your beautiful maid your flame has repaid. 

No more I your folly rezret ; 
She's now most divine, and I bow at the shrine 

Of this quickly reformed coquette. 

Yet still, I must own, I should never have known 

From'your verses, what else she deserved ; 
Your pain seem'd so great, I pitied your fate 

As your fair was so devilish reserved. 
Since thebalm-breaihing kiss of this magical miss 

Can such wonderful transports produce ; 
Since the " world you forget, when your lips once have 
met," 

My counsel will get but abuse. 

You say, when '= I rove, I know nothing of love j " 

'T is true, I am given to range ; 
If I rightly remember, I 've loved a good number, 

Yet there 's pleasure, at least, in a change. 

I will not advance, by the rules of romance, 

To humour a whimsical fair ; 
Though a smile may delight, yet a frown won't affright, 

Or drive me to dreadful despair. 
While my blood is thus warm I ne'er shall reform, 

To mix in the Platonists' school ; 
Of this I am sure, was my passion so pure, 

Thy mistress would think me a fool. 
And if I should shun everj' woman for one, 

Whose image must fill my whole breast — 
Whom I must prefer, and sigh but for her — 

What an insult 't would be to the rest ! 
Now, Strephon, good bye ; I cannot deny 

Your passion appears' most absurd ; 
Such love as you plead is pure love indeed, 

For it only consists in the word. 



TO ELIZA. a 

Elizi, what fools are the Mussulman sect, 

Who to woman deny the soul's future existence; 
Could they see thee, Eliza, they 'd own their defect, 

And ihi's doctrine would meet with a general resist- 
ance. 
Had their prophet possess'd half an atom of sense, 

He ne'er would have women from paradise driven ; 
Instead of his houris, a flimsy pretence. 

With women alone he had peopled his heaven. 
Yet still, to increase your calamities more, 

Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit, 
He allots one poor husband to share amongst four ! — 

With souls you 'd dispense; but this last, who could 
bear it ? 



2 Miss Elizabeth Pigot, of Southwell, to whom several 
of Lord Byron's earliest letters were addressed. — E. 



sa^ 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



27 



His religion to please neither party is made ; l 

On husbands 't is hard, to the wives most uncivil ; 

Still I can 't contradict, what so oft has been said, ! 

" Though women are angels, yet wedlock -s the 
devil." 



LACHIN Y GAIR.i 

Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses ! 

In you let the minions of luxury rove ; 
Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake reposes. 

Though still they are sacred to freedom and love : 
Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains, 

Round their white summits though elements war; 
Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-Ilowing foun- 
tains, 

I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr. 

Ah ! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd ; 

My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid ; 2 
On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd, 

As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade. 
I sought not my home till the day's dying glory 

Gave place to the raj's of the bright polar star ; 
For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story. 

Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr. 

" Shades of the dead ! have I not heard your voices 

Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale ?" 
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, 

And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland vale. 
Round Loch na Garr while the stormy mist gathers, 

Winter presides in his cold icy car : 
Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers ; 

They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr. 

" Ill-starr'd,3 though brave, did no visions foreboding 

Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause ? " 
Ah ! were you destined to die at Culloden,4 

Victory crown'd not your fall with applause : 
Still were you happy in death's earthy slumber. 

You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar ; 5 
The pibroch resounds, to the piper's loud number. 

Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr. 

Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you, 

Years must elapse ere I tread you again : 
Nature of verdure and flow'rs has bereft you. 

Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain. 
England ! thy beauties are tame and domestic 

To one who has roved on the mountains afar : 
Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic ! 

The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr ! 



1 Lachin y Gait, or, as it is pronounced in the Erse, 
Loch na Garr, towers proudly pre-eminent in the North- 
ern Highlands, near Invercauid. One of our modern tour- 
ists mentions it as the highest mountain, perhaps, in 
Great Britain. Be this as it may, it is certainly one of 
the most sublime and picturesque amongst our "Caledo- 
nian Alps." Its appearance is of a dusky hue, but the 
summit is the seat of eternal snows. Near Lachin y Gair 
I spent some of the early part of my life, the recollection 
of which has given birth to these stanzas. 

2 This word js erroneously pronounced plad: the proper 
pronunciation (according to the Scotch) is shown by the 
orthography. 

3 I allude here to my maternal ancestors, " the Gor- 
dons," many of whom foujrht for the unfortunate Prince 
Charles, better known by the name of the Pretender. 
This branch was nearly allied by blood, as well as attach- 
ment, to the Stuarts. George, the second Earl of Hunt- 
ley, married the Princess Annabella Stuart, daughter of 
James the First of Scotland. By her he left four sons: 
the third. Sir William Gordon, I have the honour to claim 
as one of my progenitors. 

4 Whether any perished in the battle of Culloden, I am 
not certain; but, as many fell in the insurrection, I have 
used the name of the principal action, "para pro toto." 

5 A tract of the Highlands bo called. There is also a 
Castle of Braemar. 



TO ROMANCE. 

Parent of golden dreams, Romance ! 

Auspicious queen of childish joys, 
Who lead'st along, in airy dance. 

Thy votive train of girls and boys; 
At length, in spells no longer bound, 

I break the fetters of my youth ; 
No more I tread thy mystic round. 

But leave thy realms for those of Truth. 

And yet 't is hard to quit the dreams 

Which haunt the unsuspicious soul, 
Where every nymph a goddess seems, 

Whnse eyes through rays immortal roll ; 
While Fancy holds her boundless reign, 

And all assume a varied hue ; 
When virgins seem no longer vain. 

And even woman's smiles are true. 

And must we own thee but a name. 

And from thy hall of clouds descend ? 
Nor find a sylph in every dame^ 

A Pylades 6 jn every friend ? 
But leave at once thy realms of air 

To mingling bands of fairy elves ; 
Confess that woman 's false as fair. 

And friends have feeling for — themselves ? 

With shame I own I 've felt thy sway 

Repentant, now thy reign is o'er : 
No more thy precepts I obey. 

No more on fancied pinions soar. 
Fond fool ! to love a sparkling eye, 

And think that eye to truth was dear ; 
To trust a jjassing wanton's sigh. 

And melt beneath a wanton's tear ! 

Romance ! disgusted with deceit. 

Far from thy motley court I fly, 
Where Affectation holds her seat, 

And sickly Sensibility ; 
Whose silly tears can never flow 

For any pangs excepting thine; 
Who turns aside from real woe. 

To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine. 

Now join with sable Sympathy, 

With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds, 
Who heaves with thee her simple sigh, 

Whose breast for every bosom bleeds ; 
And call thy sylvan female choir. 

To mourn a swain for ever gone. 
Who once could glow with equal fire. 

But bends not now before thy throne. 

Ye genial nymphs, whose ready tears 

On all occasions swiftly flow j 
Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears, 

With fancied flames and phrensy glow ; 
Say, will you mourn my absent name, 

Apostate from your gentle train ? 
An infant bard at least may claim 

From you a sympathetic strain. 

Adieu, fond race ! a long adieu ! 

The hour of fate is hovering nigh ; 
E'en now the gulf appears in view. 

Where unlamented you must lie : 
Oblivion's blackening lake is seen, 

Convulsed by gales you cannot weather; 
Where you, and eke your gentle queen, 

Alas I must perish altogether. 



6 It is hardly necessary to add, that Pylades wa« the 
companion of Orestes, and a partner in one of those friend- 
ships which, with those of Achilles and Patrodus. Nisus 
and Euryalus, Damon and Pythias, have been handed 
down to posterity as remarkable instances of attachments, 
which in all probability never existed beyond the imagina- 
tion of the poet, or the page of au historian, or modern 
novelist. 



I 



28 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



ANSWER TO SOME ELEGANT VERSES SENT 
BY A FRIEND TO THE AUTHOR, COM- 
PLAINING THAT ONE OF HIS DESCRIP- 
TIONS WAS RATHER TOO WARMLY 
DRAWN. 

"But if any old lady, knight, priest, or physician, 
Should condemn me for printing a second edition; 
If good Madam Squintum my work should abuse, 
May I venture to give her a smack of my muse ? " 
New Bath Guide. 
Candour compels me, Beclier ! to commend 
The verse which blends the censor with the friend. 
Your strong yet just reproof extorts applause 
From me, the heedless and imprudent cause. 
For this wild error which pervades my strain, 
I sue for pardon, — must I sue in vain ? 
The wise sometimes from Wisdom's ways depart: 
Can youth then hush the dictates of the heart ? 
Precepts of prudence curb, but can't control, 
The fierce emotions of the flowing soul. 
When Love's delirium haunts the glowing mind, 
Limping Decorum lingers far behind : 
Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace, 
Outstript and vanquish'd in the mental chase. 
The young, the old, have worn the chains of love : 
Let those they ne'er confined my lay reprove : 
Let those whose souls contemn the pleasing power 
Their censures on the hapless victim shower. 
Oh ! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song, 
The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng, 
Whose labour'd lines in chilling numbers^ flow, 
To paint a pang the author ne'er can know ! 
The artless Helicon I boast is youth ; — 
My lyre, the heart; my muse, the simple truth. 
Far be 't from me the " virgin's mind" to " taint : " 
Seduction's dread is here no slight restraint. 
The maid whose virgin breast is void of guile. 
Whose wishes dimple in a modest smile, 
Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton leer. 
Firm in her virtue's strength, yet not severe — 
She whom a conscious grace shall thus refine 
Will ne'er be " tainted"' by a strain of mine. 
But for the nymph whose premature desires 
Torment her bosom with unholy fires, 
No net to snare her willing heart is spread ; 
She would have fallen, though she ne'er had read. 
For me, I fain would please the chosen few, 
Whose souls, to feeling and to nature true, 
Will spare the childish verse, and not destroy 
The light efi'usions of a heedless boy. 
I seek not glory from the senseless crowd ; 
Of fancied laurels, I shall ne'er be proud : 
Their warmest plaudits I would scarcely prize, 
Their sneers or censures I alike despise. 

November 26, 1806. 



ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY.i 
" It is the voice of years that are gone ! they roll before 
me with all their deeds." — Ossian. 

Newstead ! fast-falling, once-resplendent dome ! 

Religion's shrine ! repentant Henry's^ pride ! 
Of warriors, monks, and dames the cloister'd tomb, 

Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide. 

Hail to thy pile ! more honour'd in thy fall 
Than modern mansions in their pillar'd state; 

Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall, 
Scovvling defiance on thfi blasts of fate. 

No mail-clad serfs,3 obedient to their lord, 
In grim array the crimson cross 4 demand ; 



1 As one poem on this subject is already printed, the au- 
thor had, originally, no intention of inserting the following. 
It is now added at the particular request of some friends. 

2 Henry II. founded Newstead soon after the murder of 
Thomas a Becket. 

3 This word is used by %Valter Scott, in his poem, "The 
Wild Huntsman;" synonymous with vassal. 

4 The red cross was the badge of the crusaders. 



Or gay assemble round the festive board 
Their chiefs retainers, an immortal band : 

Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye 
Retrace their progress through the lapse of time, 

Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd to die, 
A votive pilgrim in Judea's clime. 

But not from thee, dark pile ! departs the chief; 

His feudal realm in other regions lay : 
In thee the wounded conscience courts relief. 

Retiring from the garish blaze of day. 

Yes ! in thy gloomy cells and shades profound 
The moiik abjured a world he ne'er could view; 

Or blood-stain'd guilt repenting solace found, 
Or innocence from stern oppression flew. 

A monnrch bade thee from that wild arise, 

Where Sherwood's outlaws once were wont to 
prowl ; 

And Superstition's crimes, of various dyes. 
Sought shelter in the priest's protecting cowl. 

Where now the grass exhales a murky dew, 

The humid pall of life-extinguish'd clay, 
In sainted fame the sacred fathers grew, 

Nor raised their pious voices hut to pray. 
Where now the bats their wavering wings extend 

Soon as the gloaming 5 spreads her waning shade, 
The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend, 

Or matin orisons to Mary"^ paid. 

Years roll on years ; to ages, ages yield ; 

Abbots to abbots, in a line, succeed : 
Religion's charter their protecting shield, 

Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed. 

One holy Henry rear'd the gothic walls. 

And bade the pious inmates rest in peace ; 
Another Henry i the kind gift recalls. 

And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease. 
Vain is each threat or supplicating prayer; 

He drives them exiles from their blest abode. 
To roam a drearj^ world in deep despair — 

No friend, no home, no refuge, but their God. 
Hark how the hall, resounding to the strain, 

Shakes with the martial music's novel din ! 
The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign, 

High crested banners wave thy walls within. 
Of changing sentinels the distant hum. 

The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd arms. 
The braying trumpet and the hoarser drum. 

Unite in concert with increased alarms. 
An abbey once, a regal fortress 8 now, 

Encircled by insulting rebel powers, 
War's dread machines 6'erhang thy threatening brow, 

And dart destruction in sulphureous showers. 
Ah vain defence ! the hostile traitor's siege, 

Though oft repulsed, by guile o'ercomes the brave ; 
His thronging foes oppress the faithful liege. 

Rebellion's reeking standards o'er him wave. 

Not unavenged the raging baron yields ; 

The blood of traitors smears the purple plain; 
Unconquer'd still, his falchion there he wields. 

And days of glory yet for him remain. 
Still in that hour the warrior wished to strew 

Self-gather'd laurels on a self-souglit grave; 
But Ch:irles' protecting genius hither flew, 

The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to save. 



6 As "gloaming," the Scottish word for twilight, is far 
more poetical, and has been recommended by many emi- 
nent literary men, particularly by Dr. Moore in his Let- 
ters to Burns, I have ventured to use it on account of its 
harmony. 

6 The priory was dedicated to the Virgin. 

7 At the dissolution of the monasteries, Henry VIII. 
bestowed Newstead Abbey on Sir John Byron. 

8 Newstead sustained a considerable siege In the war 
between Charles I. and his parliament. 



iMi 



t,£i^SBa& 



HOURS OF IDLENESS, 



29 



Trembling^, she snatch'd him i from th' unequal strife, 

In other fields the torrent to repel : 
For nobler combats, here, reserved his life, 

To lead the band where godlilie Falkland 2 fell. 
From thee, poor pile ! to lawless plunder given, 

While dying groans their painful requiem sound, 
Far different incense now ascends to heaven, 

Such victims wallow on the gory ground. 
There many a pale and ruthless robber's corse. 

Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod ; 
O'er mingling man, and horse commix'd with horse, 

Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod. 

Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o'erspread, 
Ransack'd, resign perforce their mortal mould : 

From ruffian fangs escape not e'en the dead, 
Raked from repose in search for buried gold. 

Hush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre. 

The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in death ; 
No more he strikes the quivering chords with fire. 

Or sings the glories of the martial wreath. 
At length the sated murderers, gorged with prey, 

Retire ; the clamour of the fight is o'er; 
Silence again resumes her awful sway. 

And sable Horror guards the massy door. 
Here Desolation holds her dreary court : 

What satellites declare her dismal reign ! 
Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen'd birds resort, 

To flit their vigils in the hoary fane. 
Soon a new morn's restoring beams dispel 

The clouds of anarchy from Britain's skies ; 
The fierce usurper seeks his native hell, 

And Nature triumphs as the tyrant dies. 
With storms she welcomes his expiring groans ; 

Whirlwinds, responsive, greet his labouring breath ; 
Earth shudders as her caves receive his bones, 

Loathnig 3 the oif ering of so dark a death. 
The legal ruler 4 now resumes the helm. 

He guides through gentle seas the prow of state ; 
Hope cheers, with wonted smiles, the peaceful realm. 

And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied hate. 

The gloomy tenants, Nevvstead ! of thy cells, 

Howling, resign their violated nest ; 
Again the master on his tenure dwells, 

Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptured zest. 
Vassals, within thy hospitable pale. 

Loudly carousing, bless their lord's return ; 
Culture again adorns the gladdening vale. 

And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn. 
A thousand songs on tuneful echo float, 

Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees ; 
And hark ! the horns proclaim a mellow note. 

The hunters' cry hangs lengthening on the breeze. 
Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake : 

What fears, what anxious hopes, attend the chase ! 
The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake ; 

Exulting shouts announce the finish'd race. 
Ah ! happy days ! too happy to endure ! 

Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew : 



1 Lord Byron and his brother Sir William held high 
commands in the royal army. The former was general- 
in-chief in Ireland, lieutenant of the Tower, and governor 
to James, Duke of York, afterwards the unhappy James 
II. ; the latter had a principal share in many actions. 

2 Lucius Carey, Lord Viscount Falkland, the most ac- 
complished man of his age, was killed at the battle of 
Newbury, charging iu the ranks of Lord Byron'a regiment 
of cavalry. 

3 This is an historical fact. A violent tempest occurred 
immediately subsequent to the death or interment of 
Cromwell, which occasioned many disputes between his 
partisans and the cavaliers : both interpreted the circum- 
stance into divine interposition ; but whether as approba- 
tion or condemnation, we leave to the casuists of that age 
to decide. I have made such use of the occurrence as 
suited the subject of my poem. 

4 Charles IL 



No splendid vices glitter'd to allure ; 
Their joys were many, as their cares were few. 

From these descending, sons to sires succeed ; 

Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart j 
Another chief impels the foaming steed, 

Another crowd pursue the panting hart. 
Newstead ! what saddening change of scene is thine ! 

Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay ; 
The last and youngest of a noble line 

Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway. 
Deserted now, he scans thy grey-worn towers ; 

Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep ; 
Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers ; 

These, these he views, and views them but to weep. 

Yet are his tears no emblem of regret ; 

Cherish'd affection only bids them flow. 
Pride, hope, and love forbid him to forget. 

But warm his bosom with impassion'd glow. 
Yet he prefers thee to the gilded domes 

Or gewgaw grottos of the vainly great; 
Yet lingers 'mid thy damp and mossy tombs. 

Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will of fate. 
Haply thy sun, emerging, yet may shine. 

Thee to irradiate with meridian ray ; 
Hours splendid as the past may still be thine. 

And bless thy future as thy former day. 



CHILDISH RECOLLECTIONS. 

" I cannot but remember such things were, 
And were most dear to me." 

When slow Disease, with all her host of pains, 
Chills the warm tide which flows along the veins ; 
When Health, affrighted, spreads her rosy wing, 
And flies with every changmg gale of spring; 
Not to the aching frame alone confined. 
Unyielding pangs assail the drooping mind : 
What grisly forms, the spectre- train of woe. 
Bid shuddering Nature shrink beneath the blow, 
With Resignation wage relentless strife, 
While Hope jetires appall'd, and clings to life. 
Yet less the pang when, through the tedious hour, 
Remembrance sheds around her genial power. 
Calls back the vanish'd days to rapture given, 
When love was bliss, and Beauty form'd our heaven ; 
Or, dear to youth, portrays each childish scene. 
Those fairy bowers, where all in turn have been. 
As when through clouds that pour the summer storm 
The orb of day unveils his distant form, 
Gilds with faint beams the crystal dews of rain. 
And dimly twinkles o'er the watery plain ; 
Thus, while the future dark and cheerless gleams, 
The sun of memory, glowing through my dreams, 
Though sunk the radiance of his former blaze, 
To scenes far distant points his paler rays ; 
Still rules my senses with unbounded sway. 
The past confounding with the present day. 

Oft does my heart indulge the rising thought, 
Which still recurs, unlook'd for and unsought ; 
My soul to Fancy's fond suggestion yields. 
And roams romantic o'er her airy fields. 
Scenes of my youth, developed, crowd to view, 
To which I long have bade a last adieu ! 
Seats of delight, inspiring youthful themes ; 
Friends lost to me for aye, except in dreams ; 
Some who in marble prematurely sleep. 
Whose forms I now remember but to weep ; 
Some who yet urge the same scholastic course 
Of early science, future fame the source ; 
Who, still contending in the studious race, 
In quick rotation fill the senior place. 
These with a thousand visions now unite, 
To dazzle, though they please, my aching sight. 
Ida ! blest spot, where Science holds her reign. 
How joyous once I join'd thy youthful train ! 
Bright in idea gleams thy loftj' spire, 
Again I mingle with thy playful quire ; 



30 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Our tricks of mischief, every childish game, 
Unchanged by time or distance, seem the same ; 
Through winding paths along the glade, I trace 
The social smile of every welcome face ; 
My wonted haunts, my scenes of joy and woe, 
Each early boyish friend, or youthful foe, 
Our feuds dissolved, but not my friendship past : — 
I bless the former, and forgive the last. 
Hours of my youth ! when, nurtured in my breast, 
To love a stranger, friendship made me blest ; — 
Friendship, the dear peculiar bond of youth, 
When every artless bosom throbs with truth ; 
Untaught by worldly wisdom how to feign. 
And check each impulse with prudential rein; 
When all we feel, our honest souls disclose — 
In love to friends, in open hate to foes : 
No varnish 'd tales the lips of youth repeat. 
No dear-bought knowledge purchased by deceit. 
Hypocrisy, the gift of lengthen'd years, 
Matured by age, the garb of prudence wears. 
When now the boy is ripen'd into man. 
His careful sire chalks forth some wary plan ; 
Instructs his son from candour's path to shrink, 
Smoothly to speak, and cautiously to think; 
Still to assent, and never to deny — 
A patron's praise can well reward the lie : 
And who, when Fortune's warning voice is heard, 
Would lose his opening prospects for a word ? 
Although against that word his heart rebel, 
And truth indignant all his bosom swell. 

Away with themes like this ! not mine the task 
From flattering fiends to tear the hateful mask ; 
Let keener bards delight in satire's sting ; 
My fancy soars not on Detraction's wing : 
Once, and but once, she aim'd a deadly blow. 
To hurl defiance on a secret foe ; 
But when that foe, from feeling or from shame. 
The cause unknown, yet still to me the same, 
Warn'd by some friendly hint, perchance, retired. 
With this submission all her rage expired. 
From dreaded pangs that feeble foe to save, 
She hush'd her young resentment, and forgave; 
Or, if my muse a pedant's portrait drew, 
Pompoms' virtues are but known to few : 
I never feard the young usurper's nod. 
And he who wields must sometimes feel the rod. 
If since on Granta's failings, known to all 
Who share the converse of a college hall, 
She sometimes trifled in a lighter strain, 
'T is past, and thus she will not sin again ; 
Soon must her early song for ever cease, 
And all may rail when I shall rest in peace. 

Here first remember'd be the joyous band. 
Who hail'd me chief, obedient to command ; 
Who join'd with me in every boyish sport — 
Their first adviser, and their'last resort ; 
Nor shrunk beneath the upstart pedant's frown. 
Or all the sable glories of his gown ; 
Who, thus transplanted from his father's school — 
Unfit to govern, ignorant of rule — 
Succeeded him, whom all unite-to praise, 
The dear preceptor of my early days ; 
Probus^^ the pride of science and the boast, 
To Ida now, alas ! for ever lost. 
With him, for years, we search'd the classic page, 
And fear'd the master, though we loved the sage : 
Retired at last, his small yet peaceful seat 
From learning's labour is" the blest retreat. 



1 Dr. Drury. This most able and excellent man retired 
from his situation in March, 1605, after having resided 
thirty-five years at Harrow; the last twenty as head- 
master; an office he held with equal honour to himself 
and advantage to the very extensive school over which he 
presided. Panegyric would here be superfluous : it would 
be useless to enumerate qualifications which were never 
doubted. A considerable contest took place between three 
rival candidates for his vacant chair : of this I can ouly 
Bay, 

Si mea cum vestris valuissent vota Pelasgi ! 
Non foret ambiguus tanti certaminis haeres. 



Pomposus fills his magisterial chair ; 
Pompa^us governs, — but, my muse, forbear: 
Contempt, in silence, be the pedant's lot; 
His name and precepts be alike forgot ; 
No more his mention shall my verse degrade, — 
To him my tribute is already paid. 

High, through those elms, with hoary branches 
crown'd, 
Fair Idah bower adorns the landscape round ; 
There Science, from her favour'd seat, surveys 
The vale where rural Nature claims her praise ; 
To her awhile resigns her youthful train, 
Who move in joy, and dance along the plain ; 
In scatter'd groups each favour'd haunt pursue. 
Repeat old pastimes, and discover new; 
Flush'd with his rays, beneath the noontide sun. 
In rival bands, between the wickets run. 
Drive o'er the sward the ball with active force, 
Or chase with nimble feet its rapid course. 
But these with slower steps direct their way, 
Where Brenfs cool waves in limpid currents stray ; 
While yonder f^w search out some green retreat. 
And arbours shade them from the summer heat : 
Others, again, a pert and lively crew, 
Some rough and thoughtless stranger placed in view, 
With frolic quaint their antic jests expose. 
And tease the grumbling rustic as he goes : 
Nor rest with this, but many a passing fray 
Tradition treasures for a future day : 
" 'T was here the gather'd swains for vengeance 

fought, 
And here we earn'd the conquest dearly bought ; 
Here have we fled before superior might, 
And here renew'd the wild tumultuous fight." 
While thus our souls with early passions swell, 
In lingering tones resounds the distant bell ; 
Th' allotted hour of daily sport is o'er. 
And Learning beckons from her temple's door. 
No splendid tablets grace her simple hall, 
But ruder records fill the dusky wall ; 
There, deeply carved, behold ! each tyro's name 
Secures its owner's academic fame ; 
Here mingling view the names of sire and son — 
The one long graved, the other just begun : 
These shall survive alike when son and sire 
Beneath one common stroke of fate expire : 
Perhaps their last memorial these alone, 
Denied in death a monumental stone. 
Whilst to the gale in mournful cadence wave 
The sighing weeds that hide their nameless grave. 
And here my name, and many an early friend's. 
Along the wall in lengthen'd line extends. 
Though still our deeds amuse the youthful race, 
Who tread our steps, and fill onr former place, 
Who young obey'd their lords in silent awe, 
Whose nod commanded, and whose voice was law; 
And now, in turn, possess the reins of power. 
To rule the little tyrants of an hour ; — 
Though sometimes, with the tales of ancient day, 
They pass the dreary winter's eve away — 
" And thus our former rulers stemm'd the tide. 
And thus they dealt the combat side by side ; 
Just in this place the mouldering walls they scaled. 
Nor bolts nor bars against their strength av'aild ; 
Here Probxis came, the rising fray to quell, 
And here he falter'd forth his last farewell ; 
And here one night abroad they dared to roam, 
Wliile bold Pompotvs bravely staid at home ; "-^ 
While thus they speak, the hour must soon arrive. 
When names of these, like ours, alone survive : 
Yet a few years, one general wreck will whelm 
The faint remembrance of our fairy realm. 

Dear honest race ! though now we meet no more, 
One last long look on what we were before — 
Our first kind greetings, and our last adieu — 
Drew tears from eyes unused to weep with you. 
Through splendid circles, fashion's gaudy world, 
Where folly's glaring standard waves unfurl'd, 
I plunged to drown in noise my fond regret, 
And all I sought or hoped was to forget. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



31 



Vain wish ! if chance some well-remember'd face, 
Some old companion of my early race, 
Advanced to claim his friend with honest joy, 
My eyes, my heart, proclaimed me still a boy ; 
The glittering scene, the fluttering groups around, 
Were quite forgotten when my friend was found ; 
The smiles of beauty — (for, alas I I 've known 
What 't is to bend before Love's mighty throne) — 
The smiles of beauty, though those smiles were dear, 
Could hardly charm me, when that friend was near : 
My thoughts bew^ilder'd in the fond surprise, 
The woods of Ida danced before my eyes ; 
I saw the sprightly wand-rers pour along, 
I saw and join'd again the joyous throng; 
Panting, again I traced her lofty grove. 
And friendship's feelings triumph'd over love. 

Yet, why should I alone with such delight 
Retrace the circuit of my former flight ? 
Is there no cause beyond the common claim 
Endear'd to all in childhood's very name ? 
Ah ! sure some stronger impulse vibrates here, 
Which whispers friendship will be doubly dear 
To one who thus for kindred hearts must roam, 
And seek abroad the love denied at home. 
Those hearts, dear Ida, have I found in thee — 
A home, a world, a paradise to me. 
Stern Death forbade my orphan youth to share 
The tender guidance of a father's care. 
Can rank, of e'en a guardian's name, supply 
The love which glistens in a father's eye ? 
For this can wealth or title's sound atone, 
Made, by a parent's early loss, my own ? 
What brother springs a brother's love to seek ? 
What sister's gentle kiss has prest my cheek? 
For me how dull the vacant moments rise. 
To no fond bosom link'd by kindred ties ! 
Oft in the progress of some tleeiing dream 
Fraternal smiles collected round me stem ; 
While still the visions to my heart are prest, 
The voice of love will murmur in my rest : 
I hear — I wake — and in the sound rejoice ; 
I hear again — but, ah ! no brother's voice. 
A hermit, 'midst of crowds, I fain mijst stray 
Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the way ; 
While these a thousand kindred wreaths entwine, 
I cannot call one single blossom mine : 
What then remains ? in solitude to groan, 
To mix in friendship, or to sigh alone. 
Thus must I cling to some endearing hand. 
And none more dear than Ida's social band. 

Alonzo ! 1 best and dearest of my friends, 
Thy name ennobles him who thus commends : 
From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise ; 
The praise is his who now that tribute pays. 
Oh ! in the promise of thy early youth. 
If hope anticipate the words of truth, 
Some loftier bnrd shall sing thy glorious name. 
To build his own upon thy deathless fame. 
Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list 
Of those with whom I lived supremely blest, 
Oft have we drain'd the font of ancient lore ; 
Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the more. 
Yet, when confinement's lingering hour was done, 
Our sports, our studies, and our souls were one : 
Together we impell'd the flying ball ; 
Together waited in our tutor's hall ; 
Together join'd in cricket's manly toil. 
Or shared the produce of the river's spoil ; 
Or, plunging from the green declining shore, 
Our pliant limbs the buoyant billows bore j 
In every element, unchanged, the same. 
All, all that brothers should be, but the name. 



1 The Hon. John Wingfield, of the Coldstream Guards, 
brother to Richard, fourth Viscount Powersconrt. He 
died of a fever, in his twentieth year, at Coimbra, May 
14th, 1811. ~" Of all human beings," says Lord Byron, 
"I was, perhaps, at one time, the most attached to poor 
Wingfteld. I had known him the better half of his life, 
and the happiest part of mine."~E. 



Nor yet are you forgot, my jocund boy ! 
Z)auw<,2 the harbinger of childish joy j 
For ever foremost in the ranks of fun. 
The laughing herald of the harmless pun r 
Yet with a breast of such materials made — 
Anxious to please, of pleasing half afraid ; 
Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel 
In danger's path, though not untaught to feel. 
Still I remember, in the factious strife. 
The rustic's musket aim'd against my life : 
High poised in air the massy weapon hung, 
A cry of horror burst from every tongue ; 
Whilst I, in combat with another foe, 
Fought on, unconscious of th' impending blow ; 
Your arm, brave boy, arrested his career — 
Forward you sprung, insensible to fear ; 
Disarm'd and baffled by your conquering hand. 
The grovelling savage roll'd upon the sand : 
An act like this, can simple thanks repay ? 
Or all the labours of a grateful lay ? 
Oh no ! whene'er my breast forgets the deed^ 
That instant, Bavics, it deserves to bleed. 

Lycus ! 3 on me thy claims are justly great : 
Thy milder virtues could my muse relate. 
To 'thee alone, unrivall'd, would belong 
The feeble efforts of my lengthen'd song. 
Well canst thou boast, to lead in senates fit, 
A Spartan firmness with Athenian wit : 
Though yet in embryo the^e perfections shine, 
Lycus ! thy father's fame will soon be thine. 
Where learning nurtures the superior mind, 
What may we hope from genius thus refined ! 
When time at length matures thy growing years, 
How wilt thou tower above thy fellow peers ! 
Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free, 
With honour's soul, united beam in thee. 

Shall fair Euryalus 4 pass by unsung ? 
From ancient lineage, not unworthy sprung : 
What though one sad dissension bade us part, 
That name is yet embalm'd within my heart; 
Yet at the mention does that heart rebound, 
And palpitate, responsive to the sound. 
Envy dissolved our ties, and not our Avill : 
We once were friends, — I '11 think we are so still. 
A form unmatch'd in nature's partial mould, 
A heart untainted, we in thee behold : 
Yet not the senate's thunder thou shalt wield, 
Nor seek for glory in the tented field | 
To minds of ruder texture these be given — 
Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven. 
Haply, in polish'd courts might be thy seat. 
But tiiat thy tongue could never forge deceit : 
The courtier's supple bow and sneering smile, 
The flow of compliment, the slippery wile. 
Would make that breast with indignation burn. 
And all the glittering snares to tempt thee spurn. 
Domestic happiness will stamp thy fate ; 
Sacred to love, unclouded e'er by hate ; 
The world admire thee, and thy friends adore; — 
Ambition's slave alone would toil for more. 

Now last, but nearest, of the social band. 
See honest, open, generous Cleon 5 stand j 
With scarce one sjjeck to cloud the pleasing scene. 
No vice degrades that purest soul serene. 



2 The Rev. John Cecil Tattersall, B. A., of Christ 
Church Oxford; who died Dec. 8, 1812, at Hall's Flace, 
Kent, aged twenty-four. — E. 

3 John Fitzsjibbon, second Earl of Clare, born June 2, 
1792. His father, whom he succeeded January 28, 1602, 
was for nearly twelve years Lord Chancellor of Ireland. 
His Lordship is now (1836) Governor of Bombay. — E. 

4 George- John, fifth Earl of Delawarr, born Oct. 20, 
1791; succeeded his father, John-Richard, July 28, 1795. 
This ancient family have been barons by the male line 
from 1342; their ancestor, Sir Thomas West, having been 
summoned to parliament as Lord West, the 16th Edw. 
II. —E. 

5 Edward Noel Long, Esq. — to whom a subsequent 
poem is addressed. — E. 



I 



32 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



On the same day our studious race begun, 
On the same day our studious race was run ; 
Thus side by side we pass'd our first career, 
Thus side by side we strove for many a year ; 
At last concluded our scholastic life, 
We neither conquer'd in the classic strife : 
As speakers i each supports an equal name, 
And crowds allow to both a partial fame : 
To soothe a youthful rival's early pride, 
Though Cleon's candour would the palm divide, 
Yet candour's self compels me now to own 
Justice awards it to my friend alone. 

Oh I friends regretted, scenes for ever dear, 
Remembrance hails you with her warmest tear ! 
Drooping, she bends o'er pensive Fancy's urn, 
To trace the hours which never can return ; 
Yet with the retrospection loves to dwell. 
And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell ! 
Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind. 
As infant laurels round my head were twined, 
When Probus' praise repaid my lyric song, 
Or placed me higher in the studious throng ; 
Or when my first harangue received applause, 
His sage instruction the primeval cause, 
What gratitude to him my soul possest. 
While hope of dawning honours fill'd my breast ! 
For all my humble fame, to him alone 
The praise is due, who made that fame my own. 
Oh ! could I soar above these feeble lays. 
These young effusions of my early days. 
To him my muse her noblest strain would give : 
The song might perish, but the theme might live. 
Yet why for him the needless verse essay ? 
His hou"our'd name requires no vain display : 
By every son of grateful Ida blest. 
It finds an echo in each youthful breast ; 
A fame beyond the glories of the proud. 
Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd. 

Ida ! not yet exhausted is the theme. 
Nor closed the progress of my youthful dream. 
How many a friend deserves the grateful strain ! 
What scenes of childhood still unsung remain ! 
Yet let me hush this echo of the past, 
This parting song, the dearest and the last ; 
And brood in secret o'er those hours of joy, 
To ine a silent and a sweet employ. 
While future hope and ffear alike unknown, 
I think with pleasure on the past alone ; 
Yes, to the past alone my heart confine. 
And chase the phantom 'of what once was mine. 

Ida ! still o'er thy hills in joy preside, 
And proudly steer through time's eventful tide ; 
Still may thy blooming sons thy name revere. 
Smile in thy bower, but quit thee with a tear 5 — 
That tear, perhaps, the fondest which will flow, 
O'er their last scene of happiness below. 
Tell me, ye hoary few, who glide along. 
The feeble veterans of some former throng. 
Whose friends, like autumn leaves by tempests 

whirl'd, 
Are swept for ever from this busy world ; 
Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth. 
While Care as yet withheld her venom'd tooth j 
Say if remembrance days like these endears 
Beyond the rapture of succeeding years ? 
Say, can ambition's fever'd dream bestow 
So sweet a balm to soothe your hours of woe ? 
Can treasures, hoarded for some thankless son. 
Can royal smiles, or wreaths by slaughter won, 
Can stars or ermine, man's maturer toys, 
(For glittering baubles are not left to boys) 
Recall one scene so much beloved to view, 
As those where Youth her garland twined for you ? 
Ah, no ! amidst the gloomy calm of age 
You turn with faltering hand life's varied page j 
Peruse the record of your days on earth, 
Unsullied only where it marks your birth ; 



Still lingering pause above each chequer'd leaf. 

And blot with tears the sable lines of grief; 

Where Passion o'er the theme her mantle threw, 

Or weeping Virtue sigh'd a faint adieu ; 

But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn, 

Traced by the rosy finger of the morn j 

When Friendship bovv'd before the shnne of truth, 

And Love, without his pinion,^ smiled on youth. 



NSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM, 
ENTITLED "THE COMMON LOT."^ 

Montgomery ! true, the common lot 

Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave ; 
Yet some shall never be forgot — 

Some shall exist beyond the grave. 
" Unknown the region of his birth," 

The hero* rolls" the tide of war ,• 
Yet not unknown his martial worth. 

Which glares a meteor from afar. 
His joy or grief, his weal or woe. 

Perchance may 'scape the page of fame ; 
Yet nations now unborn will know 

The record of his deathless name. 
The patriot's and the poet's frame 

Must share the common tomb of all : 
Their glory will not sleep the same ; 

That will arise, though empires fall. 
The lustre of a beauty's eye 

Assumes the ghastly stare of death ; 
The fair, the brave, the good must die. 

And sink the yawning grave beneath. 
Once more the speaking eye revives. 

Still beaming through the lover's strain; 
For Petrarch's Laura still survives : 

She died, but ne'er will die again. 
The rolling seasons pass away. 

And Time, untirin?, waves his w-ing ; 
Whilst honour's laurels ne'er decay. 

But bloom in fresh, unfading spring. 
All, all must sleep in grim repose, 

Collected in the silent tomb ; 
The old and young, with friends and foes, 

Festering alike in shrouds, consume. 

The mouldering marble lasts its day, 

Yet falls at length an useless fane j 
To ruin's ruthless fangs a prey. 

The wrecks of pillar'd pride remain. 
What, though the sculpture be destroy'd, 

From dark oblivion meant to guard j 
A bright renown shall be enjoy'd 

By those \shose virtues claim reward. 
Then do not say the common lot 

Of all lies deep in Lethe's wavej 
Some few who ne'er will be forgot i 

Shall burst the bondage of the grave. 

1806. 



TO A LADY 
WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR WITH THE 
VELVET BAND WHICH BOUND HER 
TRESSES. 

This Band, v/hich bound thy yellow hair, 
Is mine, sweet girl ! thy pledge of love ; 

It claims my warmest, dearest care, 
Like relics left of saints above. 



1 This alludes to the public speeches delivered at the 
school where the author was educated. 



2 " L'Amitie est I'Amour sans ailes," is a French pro- 
verb. 

3 Written by James Montgomery, author of "The Wan- 
derer in Switzerland," &c. 

4 No particular hero is here alluded to. The exploits 



., 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



33 



Oh ! I will wear it next my heart ; 

'T will bind my soul in bonds to thee : 
From me again 't will ne'er depart, 

But mingle in the grave with me. 
The dew I gather from thy lip 

Is not so dear to me as this j 
That I but for a moment sip, 

And banquet on a transient bliss : 
This will recall each youthful scene, 

E'en when our lives are on the wane ; 
The leaves of Love will still be green, 

When Memory bids them bud again. 

Oh ! little lock of golden hue. 

In gently waving ringlet curl'd, 
By the dear head on which you grew, 

I would not lose you for a world. 

Not though a thousand more adorn 

The polish'd brow where once you shone, 

Like rays which gild a cloudless morn. 
Beneath Columbia's fervid zone. 

1806. [First published, 1833.] 



REMEMBRANCE. 
'T is done ! — I saw it in my dreams : 
No more with Hope the future beams ; 

My days of happiness are few : 
Chill'd by misfortune's wintry blast, 
My dawn of life is overcast, 

Love, Hope, and Joy, alike adieu ! — 
Would I could add Remembrance too ! 

1806. [First published, 1830.] 



LINES 
ADDRESSED TO THE REV. J. T. BECHER, 

ON HIS ADVISING THE AUTHOR TO MIX 

MORE WITH SOCIETY. 
Dear Becher, you tell me to mix with mankind > — 

I cannot deny such a precept is wise ; 
But retirement accords with the tone of my mind: 

I will not descend to a world I despise. 
Did the senate or camp my exertions require. 

Ambition might prompt me, at once, to go forth ; 
When infancy's years of probation expire, 

Perchance I may strive to distinguish my hirth. 
The fire in the cavern of Etna conceal'd. 

Still mantles unseen in its secret recess j — 
At length, in a volume terrific reveal'd, 

No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress. 
Oh ! thus, the desire in my bosom for fame 

Bids me live but to hope f-ir posterity's praise. 
Could I soar with the phoenix on pinions of flame, 

With him I would wish to expire in the blaze. 
For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death, 

What censure, what danger, what woe would I 
brave ! 



I To me what is wealth ? — it may pass in an hour, 
If tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should frown : 
To me what is title ? — the phantom of power j 
To me what is fashion ? — I seek but renown. 
Deceit is a stranger as yet to my soul ; 

I still am unpractised to varnish the truth : 
Then why should I live in a hateful control ? 
Why waste upon folly the days of my youth ? 

1806. 



THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA. 
AN IMITATION OF MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN.^ 

Dear are the days of youth ! Age dwells on their 
remembrance through the mist of time. In the twilight 
he recalls the sunny hours of morn. He lifts his spear 
with trembling hand. " Not thus feebly did I raise the 
steel bef)re my fathers!" Past is the race of heroes. 
But their fame rises on the harp j their souls ride on 
the wings of the wind ; they hear the sound through 
the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in their hall of 
clouds ! Such is Calmar. The grey stone marks his 
narrow house. He looks down from eddying tem- 
pests: he rolls his form in the whirlwind, and hovers 
on the blast of the mountain. 

In Morven dwelt the chief; a beam of war to Fin- 
gal. His steps in the field were marked in blood. 
Lochlin's sons had fled before his angry spear: but 
mild was the eye of Calmar ; soft was the flow of his 
yellow locks : they streamed like the meteor of the 
night. No maid was the sigh of his soul : his thoughts 
were given to friendship, — to dark-haired Orla, de- 
stroyer of heroes ! Equal were their swords in battle ; 
but tierce was the pride of Orla: — gentle alone to 
Calmar. Together they dwelt in the cave of Oithona. 

From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the blue waves. 
Erin's sons fell beneath his might. Fingal roused his 
chiefs to combat. Their ships cover the ocean. Their 
hosts throng on the green hills. They come to the aid 
of Erin. 

Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies: 
but the blazing oaks gleam through the valley. The 
sons of Lochlin slept : their dreams were of blood. 
They lift the spear in thought, and Fingal flies. Not 
so the host of Morven. To watch was the post of 
Orla. Calmar stood by his side. Their spears were 
in their hands. Fingal called his chiefs : they stood 
around. The king was in the midst. Grey were his 
locks, but strong was the arm of the king. Age with- 
ered not his powers. " Sons of Morven," said the 
' hero, " to-morrow we meet the foe. But where is 
j Cuthullin, the shield of Erin ? He rests in the halls 
of Tura; he knows not of our coming. Who will 
speed through Lochlin to the hero, and call the chief 
to arms ? The path is by the swords of foes ; but 
many are my heroes. They are thunderbolts of war. 
Speik, ye chiefs ! Who will arise ? " 

" Son of Trenmor ! mine be the deed," said dark- 
haired Orla, " and mine alone. What is death to me ? 
I love the sleep of the mighty, but little is the danger. 
The sons of I.ochlin dream. I will seek car-lx)rne 
Cuthullin. If I fall, raise the song of bards; and lay 



Their lives did not end when they yielded their breath ; me by the stream of Luba." — " And shalt thou fall 



Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave. 

Yet why should I mingle in Fnshion's full herd ? 

Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules ? 
Why bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd ? 

Why search for delight in the friendship of fools? 
I have tasted the sweets and the bitfers of love ; 

In friendship I early was t.aught to believe; 
My passion the matrons of prudence reprove ; 

I have found that a friend may profess, yet deceive. 



alone?" said fair-haired Calmar. "Wilt thou leave 
thy friend afar? Chief of Oithona ! not feeble is my 
;irm in fisht. Could I see thee die, and not lift the 
spear ? No, Orla ! ours has been the chase of the roe- 
buck, and the feast of shells ; o\irs be the path of dan- 
ger : ours has been the cave of Oithona ; ours be the 
narrow dwelling on the banks of Lubar." " Calmar," 
said the chief of Oithona, " why should thy yellow 
locks be darkened in the dust of Erin ? Let me fall 
alone. My father dwells in his hall of air: he will 
rejoice in his boy ; but the blue-eyed Mora spreads the 
feast for her son in Morven. She listens to the steps 



of Bayard, Nemours, Edward the Black Prince, and, in 

more modern times, the fame of Marlborough, Frederick , — — ■ 

the Great, Count Saxe, Charles of Sweden, &c., are fami- j 1 It may be necessary to observe, that the story, though 
liar to every historical reader, but the exact places of their consideralily varied in the catastrophe, is taken from 
birth are known to a very small proporti'jn of their ad- ["Nisus and Euryalus," of which episode a translation is 
mirers. ' already given in the present volume. 



34 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



of the hunter on the heath, and thinks it is the tread of 
Calmar. Let him not say, ' Calmar has fallen by the 
steel of Lochlin : he died with gloomy Orla, the chief 
of the dark brow.' Why should tears dim the azure 
eye of Mora ? Why should her voice curse Orla, the 
destroyer of Calmar? Live, Calmar! Live to raise 
my stone of moss ; live to revenge me in the blood of 
Lochlin. Join (he song of bards above my grave. 
Sweet will be the song of death to Orla. from the voice 
of Calmar. My ghost shall smile on the notes of 
praise." " Orla," said the son of Mora, " could I raise 
the song of death to my friend ? Could I give his 
fame to the winds ? No, my heart would speak in 
sighs : faint and broken are the sounds of sorrow. 
Orla ! our souls shall hear the song together. One 
cloud shall be ours on high : the bards will mingle the 
names of Orla and Calmar." 

They quit the circle of the chiefs. Their steps are 
to the host of Lochlin. The dying blaze of oak dim 
twinkles through the night. The northern star points 
the path to Tura. Swaran, the king, rests on his lonely 
hill. Here the troops are mixed : they frown in sleep ; 
their shields beneath their heads. Their swords gleam 
at distance in heaps. The fires are faint ; their embers 
fail in smoke. All is hushed ; but the gale sighs on 
the rocks above. Lightly wheel the heroes through 
the slumbering band. Half the journey is past, when 
Mathon, resting on his shield, meets the eye of Orla. 
It rolls in flame, and glistens through the shade. His 
spear is raised on high. " Why dost thou bend thy 
brow, chief of Oithona ?" said fair-haired Calmar : 
" we are in the midst of foes. Is this a time for de- 
lay ? " " It is a time for vengeance," said Orla of the 
gloomy brow. " Mathon of Lochlin sleeps : seest thou 
his spear ? Its point is dim with the gore of my father. 
The blood of Mathon shall reek on mine; but shall I 
slay him sleeping, son of Mora ? No ! he shall feel his 
wound : my fame shall not soar on the blood of slum- 
ber. Rise, Mathon, rise ! The son of Connal calls ; 
thy life is his ; rise to combat." Mathon starts from 
sleep ; but did he rise alone ? No : the gathering 
chiefs bound on the plain. " Fly 1 Calmar, fly ! " said 
dark-haired Orla. "Malhon is mine. I shall die in 
joy: but Lochlin crowds around. Fly through the 
shade of night." Orla turns. The helm of Mathon 
is cleft ; his shield falls from his arm : he shudders in 
his blood. He rolls by the side of the blazing oak. 
Strumon sees him fall : his wrath rises : his weapon 
glitters on the head of Orla : but a spear pierced his 
eye. His brain gushes through the wound, and foams 
on the spear of Calmar. As roll the waves of the 
Ocean on two mighty barks of the north, so pour the 
men of Lochlin on the chiefs. As, breaking the surge 
in foam, proudly steer the barks of the north, so rise 
the chiefs of Morven on the scattered crests of Loch- 
lin. The din of arms came to the ear of Fingal. He 
strikes his shielc^; his sons throng around ; the people 
pour along the heath. Ryno bounds in joy. Ossian 
stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes the spear. The 
' eagle wing of Fillan floats on the wind. Dreadful is 
j the clang of death ! many are the widows of Lochlin ! 
j Morven prevails in its strength. 

I Morn glimmers on the hills : no living foe is seen ; 
i but the "sleepers are many^ grim they lie on Erin. 
I The breeze of ocean lifts their locks ; yet they do not 
j awake. The hawks scream above their prey. 
I Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief? 
I Bright as the gold of the stranjer, they "mingle with 
the dark hair of his friend. 'T is Calmar: he lies on 
j the bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood. 
Fierce is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes 
I not ; but his eye is still a flame. It glares in death 
j unclosed. His hand is grasped in Calmar's; but Cal- 
I mar lives ! he lives, though low. " Rise." said the 
j king, " rise, son of Mora : 't is mine to heal the wounds 
: of heroes. Calmar may yet bound on the hills of 
j Morven.' 

I " Never more shall Calmar chnse the deer of Morven 
I with Orla," said the hero. " What were the chase to 
I me alone ? Who would share the spoils of battle with 
j Calmar ? Orla is at rest ! Rough was thy soul, Orla ! j 



j-et soft to me as the dew of morn. It glared on others 
in lightning : to me a silver beam of night. Bear my 
sword to blue-eyed Mora ; let it hang in my empty 
hall. It is not pure from blood : but it could not save 
Orla. Lay me with my friend. Raise the song when 
I am dark ! " 

They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four grey 
stones mark the dwelling of Orla and Calmar. When 
Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the blue waves. 
The winds gave our barks to Morven : — the bards 
raised the song. 

" What form rises on the roar of clouds ? Whose 
dark ghost gleams on the red streams of tempests ? 
His voice rolls on the thunder. 'T is Orla, the brown 
chief of Oithona. He was unmatched in war. Peace 
to thy soul, Orla ! thy fime will not perish. Nor 
thine, Calmar ! Lovely wast thou, son of blue-eyed 
Mora ; but not harmless was thy sword. It hangs' in 
thy cave. The ghosts of Lochlin shriek around its 
steel. Hear thy praise, Calmar! It dwells on the 
voice of the mighty. Thy name shakes on the echoes 
of Morven. Then raise thy fair locks, son of Mora. 
Spread them on the arch of the rainbow 3 and smile 
through the tears of the storm." 1 



L'AMITIE EST L'AMOUR SANS AXLES. 

Why should my anxious breast repine, 

Because my youth is fled ? 
Days of delight may still be mine ; 

Affection is not dead. 
In tracing back the years of youth, 
One firm record, one lasting truth 

Celestial consolation brings ; 
Bear it, ye breezes, to the seat, 
Where first my heart responsive beat, — 

" Friendship is Love without his wings ! " 

Through few, but deeply chequer'd years, 

What moments have been mine ! 
Now half obscured by clouds of tears. 

Now bright in rays divine ; 
Howe'er my future doom be cast, 
My soul, enraptured with the past, 

To one idea fondly clings; 
Friendship ! that thought is all thine own, 
Worth worlds of bliss, that thought alone — 

" Friendship is Love without his wings ! " 

Where yonder yew-trees lightly wave 

Their branches on the gale, 
Unheeded heaves a simple grave, 

Which tells the common tale ; 
Round this unconscious schoolboys stray, 
Till the dull knell of childish play 

From yonder studious mansion rings ; 
But here whene'er my footsteps move, 
My silent tears too plainly prove 

'' Friendship is Love without his wings ! " 

Oh, Love ! before thy glowing shrine 

My early vows were p lid ; 
My hopes, my dreams, my heart was thine. 

But these are now decay'd ; 
For thine are pinions like the wind, 
No trace of thee remains behind, 

Except, alas ! thy jealous stings. 
Away, away ! delusive power. 
Thou shalt not haunt my coming hour ; 

Unless, indeed, without thy wings. 



1 I fear I.aing's late edition has completely overthrown 
every hope that Marpherson's Ossian might prove the 
translation of a series of poem? complete in themselves; 
hut, while the imposture is discovered, the merit of the 
work remains undisputed, though not without faults — 
particularly, in some parts, turgid and bombastic diction. 
— The present humble imitation will be pardoned by the 
admirers of the original as an attempt, however inferior, 
which evinces an attachment to their favourite author. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



35 



Seat of my youth ! i thy distant spire 

Recalls each scene of joy ; 
My bosom glows with former fire,— 

In mind again a boy. 
Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill, 
Thy every path delights me still, 

Each flower a double fragrance flings j 
Again, as once, in converse gay. 
Each dear associate seems to say, 

" Friendship is Love without his wings ! " 

My Lycus ! 2 wherefore dost thou weep ? 

Thy falling tears restrain ; 
Affection for a time may sleep, 

But, oh, 't will wake again. 
Think, think, my friend, when next we meet, 
Our long-wish'd interview, how sweet ! 

From this my hope of rapture springs ; 
While youthful hearts thus fondly swell. 
Absence, my friend, can only tell, 

" Friendship is Love without his wings ! " 

In one, and one alone deceived, 

Did I my error mourn ? 
No — from oppressive bonds relieved, 

I left the wretch to scorn. 
I turn'd to those my childhood knew. 
With feelings warm, with bosoms true. 

Twined with my heart's according strings j 
And till those vital chords shall break. 
For none but these my breast shall wake 

Friendship, the power deprived of wings ! 

Ye few ! my soul, my life is yours, 

My memory and my hope ; 
Your worth a lasting love ensures, 

Unfetter'd in its scope ; 
From smooth deceit and terror sprung. 
With aspect fair and honey'd tongue. 

Let Adulation v/ait on kings j 
With joy elate, by snares beset, 
We, we, my friends, can ne'er forget 

" Friendship is Love without his wings ! " 

Fictions and dreams inspire the bard 

Who rolls the epic song ; 
Friendship and Truth be my reward — 

To me no bays belong ; 
If laurell'd Fame but dwells with lies, 
Me the enchantress ever flies, 

Whose heart and not whose fancy sings ', 
Simple and young, I dare not feign ; 
Mine be the rude yet heartfelt strain, 

" Friendship is Love without his wings ! " 

December, 1806. 



THE PRAYER OF NATURE.3 

Father of Light ! great God of Heaven ! 

Hear'st thou the accents of despair ? 
Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven ? 

Can vice atone for crimes by prayer ? 
Father of Light, on thee I call ! 

Thou see'st my soul is dark within ; 
Thou who canst mark the sparrow's fall, 

Avert from me the death of sin. 

No shrine I seek, to sects unknown ; 

Oh, point to me the path of truth ! 
Thy dread omnipotence I own ; 

Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth. 

Let bigots rear a gloomy fane. 

Let superstition hail the pile, 
Let priests, to spread their sable reign, 

With tales of mystic rites beguile. 



1 Harrow. 2 The Earl of Clare. — E. 

3 Itisdifflcult to conjecture for what reason, — but these 
stanzas were not iocluded in the publication of lt07; 
though few will hesitate to place them higher than any 
thing given in that volume. — E. 



Shall man confine his Maker's sway 
To Gothic domes of mouldering stone ? 

Thy temple is the face of day ; 
Earth, ocean, heaven thy boundless throne. 

Shall man condemn his race to hell, 
Unless they bend in pompous form ? 

Tell us that all, for one who fell, 
Must perish m the mingling storm ? 

Shall each pretend to reach the skies, 

Yet doom his brother to expire. 
Whose soul a different hope supplies, 

Or doctrines less severe inspire ? 

Shall these by creeds they can't expound, 

Prepare a fancied bliss or woe ? 
Shall reptiles, grovelling on the ground. 

Their great Creator's purpose know ? 
Shall those who live for self alone, 

Whose years float on in daily crime — 
Shall they by Faith for guilt atone, 

And live beyond the bounds of Time ? 
Father ! no prophet's laws I seek, — 

Thy laws in Nature's works appear j — 
I own myself corrupt and weak, 

Yet will I pray, for thou wilt hear ! 
Thou, who canst guide the wandering star 

Through trackless realms of asther's space ', 
Who calm'st the elemental war. 

Whose hand from pole to pole I trace : — 
Thou, who in wisdom placed me here. 

Who, when thou wilt, can take me hence, 
Ah ! whilst I tread this earthly sphere. 

Extend to me thy wide defence. 
To Thee, my God, to Thee I call ! 

Whatever'weal or woe betide, 
By thy command I rise or fall. 

In thy protection I confide. 
If, when this dust to dust 's restored, 

My soul shall float on airy wing. 
How shall thy glorious name adored 

Inspire her feeble voice to sing ! 
But, if this fleeting spirit share 

With clay the grave's eternal bed, 
WTiile life yet throbs I raise my prayer. 

Though doom'd no more to quit the dead. 
To Thee I breathe my humble strain, 

Grateful for all thy mercies past, 
And hope, my God, to Thee again 

This erring life may fly at last. 

December 29, 1806. 



TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, ESQ.* 

'Nil ego contulerim jocundo sanus amico. " — ifor. 

Dear Long, in this sequester'd scene. 

While all around in slumber lie. 
The joyous days which ours have been 

Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye j 
Thus if amidst the gathering storm. 
While clouds the darken'd noon deform. 
Yon heaven assumes a varied glow, 
I hail the sky's celestial bow, 
Which spreads the sign of future peace, 
And bids the war of tempests cease. 



4 This young gentleman, who was with Lord Byron 
both at Harrow and Cambridge, afterwards entered the 
Guards, and served with distinction in the expedition to 
Copenhagen. He was drowned early in 1809, when on his 
way to join the army in the Peninsula; the transport in 
which he sailed being run foul of in the night by another 
of the convoy. " Long's father," says Lord Byron, "wrote 
to me to write his son's epitaph. I promised — but I had 
not the heart to complete it. He was such a good, ami- 
able being as rarely remains long in this world; with talent 
and accomplishments, too, to make him the more re* 
gretted." —Byron Diary, 1831. 



36 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Ah ! though the present brings but pain, 
I think those days may come again ; 
Or if, in melancholy mood, 
Some lurking envious fear intrude, 
To check my bosom's fondest thought, 

And interrupt the golden dream, 
I crush the fiend with malice fraught, 

And still indulge my wonted theme. 
Although we ne'er again can trace. 

In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore ; 
Nor through the groves of Ida chase 

Our raptured visions as before. 
Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion, 
And Manhood claims his stern dominion — 
Age will not every hope destroy. 
But yield some hours of sober joy. 

Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing 
Will shed around some dews of spring : 
But if his scythe must sweep the flowers 
Which blooni among the fairy bowers, 
While smiling Youth delights to dwell, 
And hearts with early rapture swell ; 
If frowning Age, with cold control, 
Confines the current of the soul, 
Congeals the tear of Pity's eye. 
Or checks the sympathetic sigh, 
Or hears unmoved misfortune's groan, 
And bids me feel for self alone ; 
Oh ! may my bosom never learn 

To soothe 'its wonted heedless flow j 
Still, still despise the censor stern, 

But ne'er forget another's woe. 
Yes, as you knew me in the days 
O'er which Remembrance yet delays, 
Still may I rove, untntor'd, wild, 
And even in age at heart a child. 

Though now on airy visions borne, 

To you my soul is still the same. 
Oft has it been my fate to mourn. 

And all my former joys are tame. 
But, hence ! ye hours of sable hue ! 

Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'er : 
By every bliss my childhood knew, 

I '11 think upon your shade no more. 
Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past, 

And caves their sullen roar enclose, 
We heed no more the vi^intry blast. 

When lull'd by zephyr to repose. 

Full often has my infant Muse 

Attuned to love her languid IjTe ; 
But now, without a theme to choose, 

The strains in stolen sighs expire. 
My youthful nymphs, alas ! are flown ; 

E is a. wife, and C a mother, 

And Carolina sighs alone, 

And Mary 's given to another ; 
And Cora's eye, which roU'd on me. 

Can now no more my love recall : 
In truth, dear Long, 't was time to flee ; 

For Cora's eye will shine on all. 
And though the sun, with genial rays, 
His beams alike to all displays. 
And every lady's eye 's a su7i, 
These last should be confined to one. 
The soul's meridian don't become her. 
Whose sun displays a general summer I 
Thus faint is every former flame. 
And passion's self is now a name. 
As, when the ebbing flames are low, 

The aid which once improved their light, 
And bade them burn with fiercer glow. 

Now quenches all their sparks in night ; 
Thus has it been with passion's fires. 

As many a boy and girl remembers, 
While all'the force of "love expires, 

Extinguish'd with the dying embers. 

But now, dear Long, 't is midnight's noon, 
And clouds obscure the watery moon. 



Whose beauties I shall not rehearse, 
Described in every stripling's verse j 
For why should I the path go o'er, 
Which every bard has trod before ? 
Yet ere yon silver lamp of night 

Has thrice perform'd her stated round, 
Has thrive retraced her path of light. 

And chased away the gloom profound, 
I trust that we, my gentle friend, 
Shall see her rolling orbit wend 
Above the dear-loved peaceful seat, 
Which once contain'd our youth's retreat ; t 
And then with those our childhood knew, 
We '11 mingle in the festive crew ; 
While many a tale of former day 
Shall wing the laughing hours away j 
And all the flow of souls shall pour 
The sacred intellectual shower, 
Nor cease till Luna's waning horn 
Scarce glimmers through the mist of morn. 



TO A LADY.2 

Oh ! had my fate been join'd with thine, 

As once this pledge appear'd a token, 
These follies had not then been mine, 

For then my peace had not been broken.3 
To thee these early faults I owe. 

To thee, the wise and old reproving : 
They know my sins, but do not know 

'T was thine to break the bonds of loving. 
For once, my soul, like thine, was pure. 

And all its rising fires could smother j 
But now thy voavs no more endure, 

Bestow'd by thee upon another. 
Perhaps his peace I could destroy. 

And spoil the blisses that awai't him ; 
Yet let my rival smile in joy. 

For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. 
Ah ! since thy angel form is gone. 

My heart no more can rest~with any ; 
But what it sought in thee alone. 

Attempts, alas ! to find in many. 
Then fare thee well, deceitful maid ! 

'T were vain and fruitless to regret thee j 
Nor Hope, nor Memory yield their aid, 

But Pride may teach me to forget thee. 
Yet all this giddy waste of years. 

This tiresome round of palling pleasures; 
These varied loves, these matron's fears. 

These thoughtless strains to passion's measures — 
If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd : — 

This cheek, now pale from early riot. 
With passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd, 

But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet. 

Yes, once the rural scene was sweet. 

For Nature seem'd to smile before thee; ^ 



1 The two friends were both passionately attached to 
Harrow; and sometimes made excursions thither to- 
gether, to revive their schoolboy recollections. — E. 

2 Mrs. Musters. — E. 

3 " Our union would have healed feuds in which blood 
had been shed by our fathers — it would have joiued lands 
broad and rich — it would have joined at least one heart, 
and two persons not ill-matched in years (she is two years 
my elder), and — and — and — what has been the result?" 
— Byron Diary, 1621. 

4 "Our meetings," says Lord Byron in 1822, "were 
stolen ones, and a gate leading from Mr. Chaworth's 
grounds to those of my mother was the place of our inter- 
views. But the ardour was all on my tside. I was seri- 
ous; she was volatile : she liked me as a younger brother, 
and treated and laughed at me as a boy; she, however, 
gave me her picture, and thct was something to make 
verses upon. Had I married her, perhaps the whole 
tenour of my life would have been different." — E. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



37 



And once my breast abhorr'd deceit,— 
For then it beat but to adore thee. 

But now I seek for other joys: 

To think would drive my soul to madness; 
In thoughtless throngs and empty noise, 

I conquer half my bosom's sadness. 

Yet, even in these a thought will steal 
In spite of every vain endeavour, — 

And fiends might pity what I feel, — 
To know that thou art lost for ever. 



I WOULD I WERE A CARELESS CHILD. 

I would I were a careless child, 

Still dwelling in my Highland cave, 
Or roaming through the dusky wild. 

Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave ; 
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon i pride 

Accords not with the freeborn soul, 
Which loves the mountain's craggy side. 

And seeks the rocks where billows roll. 
Fortune ! take back these cultured lands, 

Take back this name of splendid sound ! 
I hate the touch of servile hands, 

I hate the slaves that cringe around. 
Place me among the rocks I love. 

Which sound to Gee m's wildest roar ; 
I ask but this — again to rove 

Through scenes my youth hath known before. 
Few are my years, and yet I feel 

The world was ne'er design'd for me : 
Ah ! why do dark'ning shades conceal 

The hour when man must cease to be ? 
Once I beheld a splendid dream, 

A visionary scene of bliss : 
Truth ! — wherefore did thy hated beam 

Awake me to a world like this ? 
I loved — but those I loved are gone ; 

And friends — my early friends are fled t 
How cheerless feels the heart alone. 

When all its former hopes are dead ! 
Though gay companions o'er the bowl 

Dispel awhile the sense of ill ; 
Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul, 

The heart — the heart — is lonely still. 

How dull ! to hear the voice of those 

Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power, 
Have made, though neither friends nor foes, 

Associates of the festive hour. 
Give me again a faithful few, 

In years and feelmgs still the same, 
And I will fly the midnight crew, 

Where boist'rous joy is but a name. 
And woman, lovely woman ! thou. 

My hope, my comforter, my all ! 
How cold must be my bosom now, 

When e'en thy smiles begin to pall ! 
Without a sigh would I resign 

This busy scene of splendid woe, 
To make that calm contentment mine. 

Which virtue knows, or seems to know. 
Fain would I fly the haunts of men — 

I seek to shun, not hate mankind ; 
My breast requires the sullen glen. 

Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind. 
Oh ! that to me the wings were given 

Which bear the turtle to her nest ! 
Then would I cleave the vault of heaven, 

To flee away and be at rest.* 



1 Sassenach, or Saxon, a Gaelic word, signifying either 
Lowland or English. 

2 "And I said, Oh! that I had wings like a dove; for 
then would I fly away and be at rest." — Psalm Iv. 6. 
This verse also constitutes a part of the most beautiful 
anthem in our language. 



WHEN I ROVED A YOUNG HIGHLANDER. 

When I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark heath. 

And climb'd thy steep summit, oh Morven of snow ! 3 
To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath. 

Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below,* 
Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear. 

And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew, 
No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear ; 

Need I say, my sweet Mary,5 't was centred in you? 

Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name, — 

What passion can dwell in the heart of a child ? 
But still I perceive an emotion the same 

As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild : 
One image alone on my bosom impress'd, 

I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new ; 
And few were my wants, for my wishes were bless'd ; 

And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with 
you. 

I arose with the dawn ; with my dog as my guide, 

From mountain to mountain I bounded along ; 
I breasted the billows of Dee's 6 rushing tide. 

And heard at a distance the Highlander's song ; 
At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose. 

No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view ; 
And warm to the skies my devotions arose, 

For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you. 

I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone ; 

The mountains are vanish 'd, my youth is no more; 
As the last of my race, I must wither alone. 

And delight but in days I have witness'd before : 
Ah ! splendour has raised, but embitter'd my lot ; 

More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew : 
Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are not 
forgot ; 

Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you. 



3 Morven, a lofty mountain in Aberdeenshire. " Gor- 
mal of snow," is an expression frequently to be found in 
Ossian. 

4 This will not appear extraordinary to those who have 
been accustomed to the mountains. It is by no means 
uncommon, on attaining the top of Ben-e-vis, Ben-y-bourd, 
&c., to perceive, between the summit and the valley, 
clouds pouring down rain, and occasionally accompanied by 
lightning, while the spectator literally looks down upon 
the storm, perfectly secure from its effects. 

fi In Lord Byron's Diary, for 1813, he says, "I have 
been thinking lately a good deal of Mary Duff. How very 
odd that I should have been so utterly, devotedly fond of 
that girl, at an age when I could neither feel pa«Hion, nor 
know the meaning of the word ! And the effect ! My 
mother used always to rally me about this childish amour; 
and, at last, many years after, when I was sixteen, she 
told me one day; 'Oh, Byron, I have had a letter from 
Edinburgh, from Miss Abercrombie, and your old sweet- 
heart, Mary Duff, is married to a Mr. Cockburn. ' [Robert 
Cockburn, Esq., of Edinburgh.] And what v/as my an- 
swer? I really cannot explain or account for my feelings 
at that moment; but they nearly threw me into convul- 
sions—to the horror of my mother and astonishment of 
every body. And it is a phenomenon in my existence 
(for I was not eight years old), which has puzzied and will 
puzzle me to the latest hour of it." — Again, in January, 
1815, a few days after his marriage, in a letter to his friend 
Captain Hay, the poet thus speaks of his childish attach- 
ment : — " Pray tell me more — or as much as you like, of 
your cousin Mary. I believe I told you our story some 
years ago. I was twenty-seven a few days ago, and I 
have never seen her since we weie children, and young 
children too; but I never forget her, nor ever can. You 
will oblige me by presenting her with my best respects, 
and all good wishes. It may seem ridiculous — but it is at 
any rate, I hope, not offensive to her nor hers— in me to 
pretend to recollect anything about her, at so early a 
period of both our lives, almost, if not quite, in our nurse- 
ries;- but it was a pleasant dream, which she must par- 
don me for remembering. Is she pretty still ? 1 have the 
most perfect idea of her person, as a child ; but Time, I 
suppose, has played the devil with us both." — E. 

6 The Dee is a beautiful river, which rises near Mar 
Lodge, and falls into the sea at New Aberdeen. 



38 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky, 

I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen ; i 
When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye, 

I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude scene ; 
When, haply, some light- waving locks I behold, 

That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue, 
I think on the long flowing ringlets of gold, ' 

The locks that were sacred to beauty, and you. 
Yet the day may arrive when the mountains once more 

Shall rise to my sight in their mantles of snow : 
But while these soar above me, unchanged as before, 

Will Mary be there to receive me ? — ah, no ! 
Adieu, then, ye hills, where my childhood was bred ! 

Thou sweet flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu ! 
No home in the forest shall shelter my head, — 

Ah ! Mary, what home could be mine but with you ? 



TO GEORGE, E ARL DE LAWARR.s 

Oh ! yes, I will own we were dear to each other ; 

The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are 
true J 
The love which you felt was the love of a brother. 

Nor less the afiection I cherish'd for you. 
But Friendship can vary her gentle dominion ; 

The attachment of years in a moment expires : 
Like Love, too, she moves on a swift-waving pinion, 

But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable fires. 

Full oft have we wander'd through Ida together, 

And blest were the scenes of our youth, I allow : 
In the spring of our life, how serene is the weather ! 

But winter's rude tempests are gathering now. 
No more with affection shall memory blending, 

The wonted delights of our childhood retrace : 
When pride steels the bosom, the heart is unbending. 

And what would be justice appears a disgrace. 

However, dear George, for I still must esteem you — 
The few whom I love I can never upbraid — 

The chance which has lost may in future redeem you. 
Repentance will cancel the vow you have made. 

I will not complain, and though chill'd is affection, 
With me no corroding resentment shall live : 

My bosom is calm'd by the simple reflection, 
That both may be wrong, and that both should for- 
give. 

You knew that my soul, that my heart, my existence. 
If danger demanded, were wholly your own ; 

You knew me unalter'd by years or by distance, 
Devoted to love and to friendship alone. 

You knew, — but away with the vain retrospection ! 

The bond of affection no longer endures : 
Too late you may droop o'er the fond recollection, 

And sign for the friend who was formerly yours. 
For the present, we part, — I will hope not for ever ; 

For time and regret will restore you at last : 
To forget our dissension we both should endeavour, 

I ask no atonement, but days like the past. 



TO THE EARL OF CLARE. 

" Tu semper amoris 
Sis memor.etcaricomitisneabscedat imago."— VaL. 

Friend of my youth ! when young we roved, 
Like striplings, mutually beloved, 

With friendship's purest glow, 
The bliss which wing'd those rosy hours 
Was such as pleasure seldom showers 

On mortals here below. 
The recollection seems alone 
Dearer than all the joys I 've known. 



1 Colbleen ia a mountain near the verge of the High- 
lands, not far from the ruins of Dee Castle. 

2 See ante, p. SI. 



When distant far from you : 
Though pain, 't is still a pleasing pain, 
To trace those days and hours again, 

And sigh again, adieu ! 

My pensive memory lingers o'er 
Those scenes to be enjoy'd no more, 

Those scenes regretted ever ; 
The measure of our youth is full. 
Life's evening dream is dark and dull, 

And we may meet — ah ! never ! 

As when one parent spring supplies 

Two streams which from one fountain rise. 

Together join'd in vainj 
How soon, diverging from their source, 
Each, murmuring, seeks another course, 

Till mingled in the main ! 

Our vital streams of weal or woe, 
Though near, alas ! distinctly flow. 

Nor mingle as before : 
Now swift or slow, now black or clear, 
Till death's unfathom'd gulf appear. 

And both shall quit the shore. 

Our souls, my friend ! which once supplied 
One wish, nor breathed a thought beside. 

Now flow in different channels : 
Disdaining humbler rural sports, 
'T is yours to mix in polish'd courts. 

And shine in fashion's annals ; 

'T is mine to waste on love my time, 
Or vent my reveries in rhyme. 

Without the aid of reason ; 
For sense and reason (critics know it) 
Have quitted every amorous poet. 

Nor left a thought to seize on. 
Poor Little ! sweet, melodious bard ! 
Of late esteem"d it monstrous hard 

That he, who sang before all, — 
He who the lore of love expanded, — 
By dire reviewers should be branded 

As void of wit and moral.3 
And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine, 
Harmonious favourite of the Nine ! 

Repine not at thy lot. 
Thy soothing lays may still be read, 
When persecution's arm is dead. 

And critics are forgot. 

Still I must yield those worthies merit. 
Who chasten with unsparing spirit, 

Bad rhymes and those who write them j 
And though mysel f may be the next 
By critic sarcasm to be vext, 

I really will not fight them.4 - 

Perhaps they would do quite as well 
To break the rudely sounding shell 

Of such a young beginner : 
He who offends at pert nineteen, 
Ere thirty may become, I ween, 

A very harden'd sinner. 

Now, Clare, I must return to you j 
And, sure, apologies are due : 

Accept, then, my concession. 
In truth, dear Clare, in fancy's flight 
I soar along from left to right ; 

My muse admires digression. 

I think I said 't would be your fate 
To add one star to royal state ; — 



3 These stanzas were written soon after the appearance 
of a severe critique in a northern review, on a new publi- 
cation of the British Anacreon. — See Edinburgh Review, 
July. Ifc07, article on " Epistles, Odes, and other Poems, 
by Thomas Little, Esq."~E. 

4 A bard (horresco referens) defied his reviewer to mor- 
tal combat. If this example becomes prevalent, our 
periodical censors must be dipped in the river Styx: for 
what else can secure them from the numerous host of 
their enraged assailants? 



ifllM^ 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



39 



May regal smiles attend you ! 
And should a noble monarch reign, 
You will not seek his smiles in vain, 

If worth can recommend you. 
Yet since in danger courts abound, 
Where specious rivals glitter round. 

From snares may saints preserve you j 
And grant your love or friendship ne'er 
From any claim a kindred care, 

But those who best deserve you ! 
Not for a moment may you stray 
From truth's secure, unerring way ! 

May no delights decoy 1 
O'er roses may your footsteps move, 
Your smiles be ever smiles of love, 

Your tears be tears of joy ! 
Oh ! if you wish that happiness 
Your coming days and years may bless, 

And virtues crown your brow ; 
Be still as you were wont to be, 
Spotless as you 've been known to me, — 

Be still as you are now.i 
And though some trifling share of praise 
To cheer my last declining days, 

To me were doubly dear ; 
Whilst blessing your beloved name, 
I 'd waive at once a poeVs fame, 

To prove a prophet here. 



LINES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN 
THE CHURCHYARD OF HARROW a 
Spot of my youth ! whose hoary branches sigh. 
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky ; 



1 "Of all I have ever known, Clare has always been the 
least altered in every thing from the excellent qualities 
and kind affections which attached me to him so strongly 
at Btfhool. I should hardly have thought it possible for 
society (or the world, as it is called,) to leave a being with 
80 little of (he leaven of bad passions. I do not speak 
from personal experience only, but from all I have ever 
heard of him from others, during absence and distance." — 
Byron Diary, 1821. — E. 

3 On losing his natural daughter, Allegra, in April, 1822, 



Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod, 
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod ; ' 
With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore, 
Like me, the happy scenes they knew before : 
Oh ! as I trace again thy winding hill. 
Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still. 
Thou drooping Elm ! beneath whose boughs I lay, 
And frequent mused the twilight hours away ; 
Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline, 
But, ah ! without the thoughts which then were 

mine: 
How do thy branches, moaning to the blast, 
Invite the bosom to recall the past, 
And seem to whisper, as they gently swell, 
" Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell ! " 

When fate shall chill, at length, this fever'd breast, 
And calm its cares and passions into rest, 
Oft have I thought, 't would soothe my dying hour, — 
If aught may soothe when life resigns her power, — 
To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell. 
Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell ; 
With this fond dream, methinks 't were sweet to die — 
And here it linger'd, here my heart might lie; 
Here might I sleep where all my hopes arose. 
Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose j 
For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade, 
Press'd by the turf where once my childhood play'd ; 
Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot 1 loved, 
Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps moved; 
Blest by the tongues that charm'd niy youthful ear, 
Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here ; 
Deplored by those in early days allied, 
And unremember'd by the world beside. 

September 2, 1807. 



Lord Byron sent her remains to be buried at Harrow, 
"where," he says, in a letter to Mr. Murray, "I once 
hoped to have laid my own." "There is," he adds, "a 
spot in the churchyard, near the foot-path, on the brow 
of the hill looking towards Windsor, and a tomb under a 
large tree (bearing the name of Peachie, or Peachey), 
where I used to sit for hours and hours when a boy. This 
was my favourite spot; but as I wish to erect a tablet to 
her memory, the body had better be deposited in the 
church ;" — and it was so accordingly. — E. 



The «' Lines written beneath an Elm at Harrow," were the last in the little volume printed at Newark, in 1807. 
The reader is referred to Mr. Moore's Notices, for various interesting particulars respecting the impression produced 
on Lord Byron's mind by the celebrated Critique of his juvenile performances, put forth in the Edinburgh Review, 
— a journal which, at that time, possessed nearly undivided influence and authority. The poet's diaries and letters 
afford evidence that, in his latter days, he considered this piece as the work of Mr. (now Lord) Brougham; but on 
what grounds he had come to that conclusion he nowhere mentions. It forms, however, from whatever pen it may 
have proceeded, so important a link in Lord Byron's hterary history, that we insert it at length. — E. 



ARTICLE FROM THE EDINBURGH REVIEW, FOR JANUARY, 1808. 

Hours of Idleness ; a Series of Poems, original and translated. By George Gordon^ Lord Byron,,, a Minor. 

8vo. pp. 200. Newark, 1807. 



The poesy of this young lord belongs to the class : 
which neither gods nor men are said to permit. In- '■ 
deed, we do not recollect to have seen a quantity of ' 
verse with so few deviations in either direction from ' 
that exact standard. His etfusions are spread over a | 
dead fiat, and can no more get above or below the 
level, than if they were so much stagnant water. As ! 
an extenuation of this offence, the noble author is pecu- ! 
liarly forward in pleading minority. We have it in | 
the titlepage, and on the very back of the volume ; it i 
follows his name like a favourite part of his style. 
Much stress is laid upon it in the preface ; and the ; 
poems are connected with this general statement of his i 
case, by particular dates, substantiating the age at which ' 
each was written. Now, the law upon the point of 
minority we hold to be perfectly clear. It is a plea 



available only to the defendant ; no plaintiff can offer 
it as a supplementary ground of action. Thus, if any 
suit could be brought against Lord Byron, for the pur- 
pose of compellirTg him to put into court a certain 
quantity of poetry, and if judgment were given agninst 
him, it is highly probable that an exception would be 
taken, were he to deliver /or poetry the contents of 
this volume. To this he might plead minority ; but, 
as he now makes voluntary tender of the article, he 
hath no right to sue, on that ground, for the price in 
good current praise, should the goods be unmarketable. 
This is our view of the law on the point ; and we dare 
to say, so will it be ruled. Perhaps, however, in 
reality, all that he tells us about his youth is rather 
with a view to increase our wonder tlian to soften our 
censures. He possibly means to say, " See how a 



40 



CRITIQUE FROM THE EDINBURGH REVIEW. 



minor can write ! This poem was actually composed 
by a ydung man of eighteen, and this by one of only 
sixteen 1 " But, alas ! we all remember the poetry of 
Cowley at ten, and Pope at twelve ; and so far from 
hearing with any degree of surprise, that very poor 
verses were written by a youth from his leaving school 
to his leaving college, inclusive, we really believe this 
to be the most common of all occurrences ; that it hap- 
pens in the life of nine men in ten who are educated in 
England j and that the tenth man writes better verse 
than Lord Byron. 

His other plea of privilege our author rather brings 
forward in order to waive it. He certainly, however, 
does allude frequently to his family and ancestors — 
sometimes in poetry, sometimes in notes ; and, while 
giving up his claim on the score of rank, he takes care 
to remember us of Dr. Johnson's saying, that when a 
nobleman appears as an author, his merit should be 
handsomely acknowledged. Jn truth, it is this con- 
sideration only that induces us to give Lord Byron's 
poems a place'in our review, beside our desire to coun- 
sel him, that he do forthwith abandon poetry, and turn 
his talents, which are considerable, and his opportuni- 
ties, which are great, to better ace )unt. 

With this view, we must beg leave seriously to as- 
sure him, that the mere rhyming of the final syllable, 
even when accompanied by the presence of a certain 
number of feet, — nay, although (which does not al- 
ways happen) those feet should scan regularly, and 
have been all counted accurately upon the fingers, — is 
not the whole an of poetry. We would entreat him 
to believe, that a certain portion of liveliness, some- 
what of fancy, is necessary to constitute a poem, and 
that a poem in the present day, to be read, must contain 
at least one thought, either in a little degree different 
from the ideas of former writers, or diflferently ex- 
pressed. We put it to his candour, whether there is 
anything so deserving the name of poetry in verses 
like the following, written in ISOG ; and whether, if a 
youth of eighteen could say anything so uninteresting 
to his ancestors, a youth of nineteen should publish 
it: — 

" Shades of heroes, farewell ! your descendant, depart- 
ing 
From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu ! 
Abroad or at home, your remembrance imparting 
New courage, he '11 think upon glory and you. 

"Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 
'T is nature, not fear, that excites his regret : 
Far distant he goes, with the same emulation j 
The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. 
" That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish ; 
He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown ; 
Like you will he live, or like you will he perish ; 
When deciy'd, may he mingle his dust with your 
own." 

Now, we positively do assert, that there is nothing 
better than these stanzas in the whole compass of the 
noble minor's volume. 

Lord Byron should also have a care of attempting 
what the greatest poets have done before him, for com- 
parisons (as he must have had occasion to see at his 
writing-master's) are odious. Gray's Ode on Eton 
College should really have kept out the ten hobbling 
stanzas " On a distant View of the Village and School 
of Harrow." 

" Where fancy yet joys to retrace the resemblance 
Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied, 
How welcome to me your ne'er-fading remembrance. 
Which rests in the bosom, though hope is denied." 

In like manner, the exquisite lines of Mr, Rogers, 
" 071 o Ttar^'' might have warned the noble author off 
those premises, and spared us a whole dozen such 
stanzas as the following : — 

" Mild Charity's glow, to us mortals below, 
Shows the soul from barbarity clear ; 
Compassion will melt where this virtue is felt, 
And its dew is diifused in a Tear. 



" The man doom'd to sail with the blast of the gale, 
Through billows Atlantic to steer, 
As he bends oer the wave, which may soon be his 
grave. 
The green sparkles bright with a Tear." 
And so of instances in which former poets have 
failed. Thus, we do not think Lord Byron was made 
for translating, during his nonage, " Adrian's Address 
to his Soul," when Pope succeeded so indifferently in 
the attempt. If our readers, however, are of another 
opinion, they may look at it. 

"Ah ! gentle, fleeting, wavering sprite, 
Friend and associate of this clay ! 
To what unknown region borne 
Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight? 
No more with wonted humour gay, 
But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn," 
However, be this as it may we fear his translations 
and imitations are great favourites wilh Lord Byron. 
We have them of all kinds, from Anacreon to Ossian ; 
and, viewing them as school exerci-ses, they may pass. 
Only, why print them after they have had their day 
and served their turn ? And why call the thing in p. 
79.1 a translation, where two words (^eAw \tytiv) of 
the original are expanded into four lines, and the other 
thing in p. SI.?', where [LttjovvKTiai'^ no9^ tLpatj is 
rendered by means of six hobbling verses ? As to his 
Ossianic poesy, we are not very good judges, bein?, in 
truth^ so moderately skilled in that species of com- 
position, that we should, in all probability, be criticis- 
ing some bit of the genuine Macpherson itself, were 
we to express our opinion of Lord Byron's rhapsodies. 
If, then, the following beginning of a " Song of B%rds" 
is by his lordship, we venture to object to it, as far as 
we can comprehend it. " What form rises on the roar 
of clouds, whose dark ghost gleams on the red stream 
of tempests? His voice rolls on the thunder j 'tis 
Orla, the brown chief of Oithona. He was," &c. 
After detaining this "brown chief" some time, the 
bards conclude by giving him their advice to " raise 
his fair locks ; " then to " spread them on the arch of 
the rainbow j" and "to smile through the tears of the 
storm." Of this kind of thing there are no less than 
nine pages ; and we can so far venture an opinion in 
their favour, that they look very like Macpherson ; and 
we are positive they are pretty nearly as stupid and 
tiresome. 

It is a sort of privilege of poets to be egotists ; but 
they should " use it as not abusing it ; " and particular- 
ly one who piques himself (thouifh indeed at the ripe 
age of nineteen; on being " an infant bard," — (" The 
ariless Helicon I boast is youth ") — should either not 
know, or should seem not to know, so much about his 
own ancestry. Besides a poem above cited, on the 
family seat of the Byrons, we have another of eleven 
pages, on the self-same subject, introduced with an 
apology, " he certainly had no intention of inserting 
it," but really " the particular request of some friends," 
&c. &c. It concludes with five stanzas on himself, 
" the last and youngest of a noble line." There is a 
good deal also about his maternal ancestors, in a poem 
on Lachin y Gair, a mountain where he spent part of 
his youth, and might have learnt that pibroch is not a 
bagpipe, any more than duet means a fiddle. 

As the author has dedicated so large a part of his 
volume to immortalise his employments at school and 
college, we cannot possibly dismiss it without present- 
ing the reader with a specimen of these ingenious effu- 
sions. In an ode with a Greek motto, called Granta, 
we have the following magnificent stanzas : — 
" There, in apartments small and damp, 
The candidate for college prizes 
Sits poring by the midnight lamp, 
Goes late to bed, yet early rises. 
" Who reads false quantities in Sele, 
Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle, 
Deprived of many a wholesome meal, 
In barbarous Latin doom'd to wrangle : 



1 See p. H. 



3 See p. 11. 



^u^MHi 



^g^^^_,^|^_^^ggMg6^gg«|. • 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



41 



" Renouncing every pleasing page, 
From authors of historic use, 
Preferring to the letter'd sage 
The square of the hypotenuse. 
" Still harmless are these occupations, 

That hurt none but the hapless student, 
Compared with other recreations, 
Which bring together the imprudent." 
We are sorry to hear so bad an account of the col- 
lege psalmody as is contained iu the following Attic 
stanzas : — 

*' Our choir would scarcely be excused 

Even as a band of raw beginners j 

All mercy now must be refused 

To such a set of croaking sinners. 

" If David, when his toils were ended, 

Had heard these blockheads sing before him. 
To us his psalms had ne'er descended : 
In furious mood he would have tore 'em ! " 



But, whatever judgment may be passed on the poems 
of this noble minor, it seems we must take them as we 
find them, and be content j for they are the last we 
shall ever have from him. He is. at best, he says, but 
an intruder into the groves of Parnassus : he never 
lived in a garret, like thorough-bred poets ; and 
" though he once roved a careless mountaineer in the 
Highlands of Scotland," he has not of late enjoyed 
this advantage. Moreover, he expects no profit from 
his publication; and, whether it succeeds or not, "it 
is highly improbable, from his situation and pursuits 
hereafter," that he should again condescend to become 
an author. Therefore, let us take what we get, and be 
thankful. What right have we poor devils to be nice ? 
We are well off to have got so much from a man of 
this lord's station, who does not live in a garret, but 
"has the sway" of Newstead Abbey. Again we say, 
let us be thankful j and, with honest Sancho, bid God 
bless the giver, nor look the gift horse m the mouth. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS 

A SATIRE.i 



" I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew ! 

Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers." — Shakspcare. 
" Such shameless bards we have ; and yet 't is true. 

There are as mad, abandon'd critics too." — Pope. 



PREFACE. 2 

All my friends, learned and unlearned, have urged 
me not to publish this Satire with my name. If I 
were to be " turned from the career of my humour by 
quibbles quick, and paper bullets of the brain," I 
should have complied with their counsel. But I am 
not to be terrified by abuse, or bullied by reviewers, 
with or without arms. I can safely say that I have 
attacked none personally, who did not commence on 
the offensive. An author's works are public property : 
he who purchases may judge, and publish his ojjinion 
if he pleases ; and the authors I have endeavoured to 
commemorate may do by me as I have done by them. 
I dare say they will succeed better in condemning my 
scribblings, than in mending their own. But my object 
is not to prove that I can write well, but, if possible, 
to make others write better. 

As the poem has met with far more success than I 
expected, I have endeavoured in this edition to make 



1 The first edition of this satire, which then began with 
what is now the ninety-seventh line ( Time was, ere 
vet," &c.), appeflred in March, IMD. A second, to which 
the author prefixed his name, followed in October of that 
year; and a third and fourth were called for durins his 
first pilgrimage, in 1810 and 1811. On his return to Eng- 
land, a fifth edition was prepared for the press by himself, 
with considerable care, but suppressed, and, except one 
copy, destroyed, when on the eve of publication. The 
text is now printed from the copy that escaped; on casu- 
ally meeting with which, in 1816, he re-perused the 
whole, and wrote on the margin some annotations, a few 
of which we shall preserve,-- -distinguishing them, by the 
insertion of their date, from those affixed to the prior 
editions. 

The first of these MS. notes of 1816, appears on the fly- 
leaf, and runs thus: — "The binding of this volume is 
considerably too valuable for the contents; and nothing 
but the consideration of its being the property of another, 
prevents me from consigning this miserable record of 
misplaced anger and indiscriminate acrimony to the 
flames." — E. 

2 This preface was written for the second edition, and 
printed with it. The noble author had left this country 
previous to the publication of that ecTifion, and is not yet 
returned. — Note to the fourth edition, 1811. — [" He is, 
and gone again."— D. 1616.] 



some additions and alterations, to render it more wor- 
thy of public perusal. 

In the first edition of this satire, published anony- 
mously, fourteen lines on the subject of Bowles's Pope 
were written by, and inserted at the request of, an 
ingenious friend of mine, 3 who has now in the press 
a volume of poetry. In the present edition they are 
erased, and some of my own substituted in their stead ; 
my only reason for this being that which I conceive 
would operate with any other person in the same man- 
ner, — a determin-ition not to publish with my name 
any production, which was not entirely and exclusively 
my own composition. 

With 4 regard to the real talents of many of the 
poetical persons whose performances are mentioned or 
alluded to in the following pages, it is presumed by the 
author that there can be little difference of opinion in 
the public at large ; though, like other sectaries, each 
has his separate tabernacle of proselytes, by whom his 
abilities are over-rated, his faults overlooked, and his 
metrical canons received without scruple and without 
consideration. But the unquestionable possession of 
considerable genius by several of the writers here cen- 
sured renders their mental prostitution more to be re- 
gretted. Imbecility may be pitied, or, at worst, laugh- 
ed at and forgotten ; perverted powers demand the 
most decided reprehension. No one can wish more 
than the author that some known and able writer had 
undertaken their exposure ; but Mr. Gifford has de- 
voted himself to Massinger, and, in the absence of the 
regular physician, a country practitioner may, in cases 
of absolute necessity, be allowed to prescribe his nos- 
trum to prevent the extensior^ of so deplorable an epi- 
demic, provided there be no quackery in his treatment 
of the malady. A caustic is here offered ; as it is to be 
feared nothing short of actual cautery can recover the 
numerous patients afflicted with the present prevalent 
and distressing rabies for rhyming. — As to the Edin- 
burgh Reviewers, it would indeed require an Hercules 
to crush the Hydra; but if the author succeeds in 
merely " bruising one of the heads of the serpent," 
though his own hand should suffer in the encounter, he 
will be amply satisfied. 



3 Mr. HobhouBe. See post p. 49. --E. 

4 Here the preface to the first edition commenced. —E. 



42 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH ThJLlf4me foS, bit Se nfv"?wn review : 

Not seek great Jetirey's, yet, like him, will be 



REVIEWERS. 



still must I hear ? i — shall hoarse Fitzgerald bawl 
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall, 2 
And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch reviews 
Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my muse ? 
Prepare for rhyme — I '11 publish, right or wrong : 
Fools are my theme, let satire be my song. 

Oh ! nature's noblest gift — my grey goose-quill ! 
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, 
Torn from 'thy parent bird to form a pen, 
That mighty instrument of little men ! 
The pen ! foredoomed to aid the mental throes 
Of brains that labour, big with verse or prose. 
Though nymphs forsake, and critics may deride 
The lover's solace, and the author's pride. 
What wits ! what poets dost thou daily raise ! 
How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise ! 
Condemn'd at length to be forgotten quite, 
With all the pages which 't was thine to write. 
But thou, at least, mine own especial pen ! 
Once laid aside, but now assumed again, 
Our task complete, like Hamet's 3 shall be free j 
Though spurn'd by others, yet beloved by me : 
Then let us soar to-day ; no' common theme, 
No eastern vision, no distemper'd dream 
Inspires — our path, though full of thorns, is plain ; 
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain. 

When Vice triumphant holds her sov'reign sway, 
Obey'd by all who nought beside obey ; 
When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime, 
Bedecks her cap with bells of every clime ; 
When knaves and fools combined o'er all prevail, 
And weigh their justice in a golden scale; 
E'en then the boldest start from public sneers, 
Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears, 
More darkly sin, by satire kept in awe. 
And shrink from ridicule, though not from law. 

Such is the force of wit ! but not belong 
To me the arrows of satiric song ; 
The royal vices of our age demand 
A keener weapon, and a mightier hand. 
Still there are follies, e'en for me to chase. 
And yield at least amusement in the race : 
Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame ; 
The cry is up, and scribblers are my game. 
Speed, Pegasus ! — ye strains of great and small. 
Ode, epic, elegy, have at you all I 
I too can scrawl, and once upon a time 
I poured along the town a flood of rhyme, 
A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise or blame ; 
I printed — older children do the same. 
'T is pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print ; 
A book 's a book, although there 's nothing in 't. 
Not that a title's sounding charm can save 
Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave : 
This Lambe must own, since his patrician name 
Fail'd to preserve the spurious farce from shame. 
No matter, George continues still to write,4 
Though now the name is veiled from public sight. 



1 Imit. —« Semper ego auditor tantum? nunquamne 

teponam, 
Vexatus tctiee rauci Theseide Codri?" — 
Juv. Sat. I. 

2 Mr. Fitzgerald, facetiously termed by Cobbett the 
"Small Beer Poet," inflicts his annual tribute of verse 
on the Literary Fund: not content with writing, he spouts 
in person, after the company have imbibed a reasonable 
quantity of bad port, to enable them to sustain the opera- 
tion. 

3 Cid Hamet Benengeli promises repose to his pen, in 
the last chapter of Don Quixote. Oh ! that our volumin- 
ous gentry would follow the example of Cid Hamet Be- 
nengeli '. 

4 In the Edinburgh Review. 



Self constituted judge of poesy. 

A man must serve his time to every trade 
Save censure — critics all are ready made. 
Take hackney'd jokes from Miller, got by rote. 
With just enou2;h of learning to misquote ; 
A mind well skill'd to find or forge a faultj 
A turn for punning, call it Attic salt ; 
To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet, 
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet: 
Fear not to lie, 't will seem a sharper hit ; 
Shrink not from blasphemy, 't will pass for wit ; 
Care not for feeling — pass your proper jest, 
And stand a critic, hated yet caress'd. 

And shall we own such judgment ? no — as soon 
Seek roses in December — ice in June ; 
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff j 
Believe a woman or an epitaph. 
Or any other thing that 's false, before 
You trust in critics, who themselves are sore; 
Or yield one single thought to be misled 
By "Jeffrey's heart, or Lambe's EcEotian head.s 
To these young t}rants,6 by themselves misplaced, 
Combined usurpers on the throne of taste ; 
To these, when authors bend in humble awe, 
And hail their voice as truth, their word as law — 
While these are censors, 't would be sin to spare ; 
While such are critics, why should I forbear ? 
But yet, so near all modern worthies run, 
'T is doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun ; 
Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike, 
Our bards and censoi-s are so much alike. 

Then should you ask me, "J why I venture o'er 
The path ^\hich Pope and Giffofd trod before j 
If not yet sicken'd, you can still proceed : 
Go on ; my rhyme will tell you as you read. 
" But hold ! " exclaims a friend, — '* here 's some n 

gleet : 
This — that — and t' other line seem incorrect." 
What then ? the self-same blunder Pope has got, 
And careless Dryden — " Ay, but Pye has not : " — 
Indeed ! — 't is granted, faith ! — but what care I ? 
Better to err with Pope, than shine with Pye. 

Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days 
Ignoble themes obtained mistaken praise, 
When sense and wit with poesy allied. 
No fabled graces, flourish 'd side by side ; 
From the same fount their inspiration drew. 
And, rear'd by taste, hloom'd fairer as they grew. 
Then, in this happy isle, a Pope's pure strain 
Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought in vain j 
A pnlish'd nation's praise aspired to claim. 
And raised the people's as the poet's fame. 
Like him great Dryden pour'd the tide of song. 
In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly strong. 
Then Congreve's scenes could cheer, or O'tway's melt • 
For nature then an English audience felt. 
But why these names, or greater still, retrace. 
When all to feebler bards resign their place? 
Yet to such times our lingering looks are cast, 
When taste and reason with those times are past. 
Now look around, and turn each trifling page. 
Survey the precious works that please the age. 
This truth at least let satire's self allow, 
No dearth of bards can be complain'd of now. 



5 Messrs. Jeffrey and Lombe are the alpha and omega, 
the first and last of the Edinburgh Review; the others 
are mentioned hereafter. 

6 Jmit. — •' Stulta est Clementia, cum tot ubique 

• occurras periturae parcere chartae." — 

Juv. Sat. I. 

7 Imit.— " Cur tamen hoc libeat potiusdecurrere campo 

Per quem magnus equos Auruncae flexit 

alumnus: 
81 varat, et placidi rationem admittitis, 

edam." — Juv. Sat, I. 



■- '^'^■■■^^ 



limi:- -«f- 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



43 



The loaded press beneath her labour groans, 
And printers' devils shake their weary bones ; 
While Southey's epics cram the creaking shelves, 
And Little's lyrics shine in hot-press'd twelves. 
Thus saith the Preacher : " Nought beneath the sun 
Is new ; '' yet still from change to change we run : 
What varied wonders tempt us as they pass ! 
The cow-pox, tractors, galvanism, and gas, 
In turns appear, to make the vulgar stare, 
Till the swoln bubble bursts — and all is air ! 
Nor less new schools of Poetry arise. 
Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize : 
O'er taste awhile these pseudo-bards prevail : 
Each country book-club bows the knee to Baal, 
And, hurling lawful genius from the throne, 
Erects a shrine and idol of its own ; 
Some leaden calf— but whom it matters not, 
From soaring Southey down to grovelling Stott.1 

Behold ! in various throngs the scribbling crew, 
For notice eager, pass in long review : 
Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace, 
And rhyme and blank maintain an equal race; 
Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode j 
And tales of terror jostle on the road ; 
Immeasurable measures move along ; 
For simpering folly loves a varied song, 
To strange mysterious dulness still the friend. 
Admires the strain she cannot comprehend. 
Thus Lays of Minstrels ^ — may they be the la's! ! — 
On half strung harps whine mournful to the blast. 
While mountain spirits prate to river sprites, 
That dames may listen to the sound at nights ; 
And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's brood. 
Decoy young border-nobles through the wood, 
And skip at every step. Lord knows how high. 
And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why; 
While high-born ladies in their magic cell. 
Forbidding knights to read who cannot spell, 



1 Stott, better known in the "Morning Post" by the 
name of Hafiz. This personage is at present the most 
profound explorer of the bathos. I remember, when the 
reigning family left Portugal, a special Ode of Master 
Stott's, beginning thus: — {Stott loquitur quoad Hiber' 
Ttia.) — 

" Princely offspring of Braganza, 
Erin greets thee with a stanza," &c. 

Also a Sonnet to Rats, well worthy of the subject, and a 
most thundering Ode, commencing as follows: — 
•'Oh! for a Lay! loud as the surge 
That lashes Lapland's sounding shore." 

Lord have mercy on us ! the " Lay of the Last Minstrel " 
was nothing to this. 

2 See the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," passim. Never 
was any plan so incongruous and absurd as the ground- 
work of this production. The entrance of Thunder and 
Lightning, prologuising to Bayes' tragedy, unfortunately 
takes away the merit of originality^from the dialogue be- 
tween Messieurs the Spirits of Flood and Fell in the first 
canto. Then we have the amiable William of Deloraine, 
"a stark moss-trooper," videliret, a happy compound of 
poacher, sheep-stealer, and highwayman. The propriety 
of his magical lady's injunction not to read can only be 
equall d by his candid acknowledgment of his independence 
of the trammels of spelling, although, to use his own ele- 
gant phrase, " 't was his neck-verse at Harribee," i. e. 
the gallows. —The biography of Gilpin Horner, and the 
marvellous pedestrian page, who travelled twice as fast as 
his master's horse, without the aid of seven-leagued boots, 
are chefs-d'oeuvre in the improvement of taste. For 
incident we have the invisible, but by no means sparing 
box on the ear bestowed on the page, and the entrance of 
a knight and charger into the castle, under the very 
natural disguise of a wain of hay. Marmion, the hero of 
the latter romance, is exactly what William of Deloraine 
would have been, had he been able to read and write. 
The poem was manufactured for Messrs. Constable, Mur- 
ray, and Miller, worshipful booksellers, in consideration 
of the receipt of a sum of money; and truly, considering 
the inspiration, it is a very creditable pro<luction. If Mr. 
Scott will write for hire, let him do his best for his pay- 
masters, but not disgrace his genius, which is undoubtedly 
great, by a repetition of black-letter ballad imitations. 



Despatch a courier to a wizard's grave. 
And fight with honest men to shield a knave. 

Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan, 
The golden-crested haughty Marmion, 
Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight, 
Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight, 
The gibbet or the field prepared to grace ; 
A mighty mixture of the great and base. 
And think'st thou, Scott ! by vain conceit perchance, 
On public taste to foist thy stale romance. 
Though Murray with his Miller may combine 
To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line ? 
No ! when the sons of song descend to trade, 
Their bays are sere, their former laurels fade. 
Let such forego the poet's sacred name. 
Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame : 
Still for stern Mammon may they toil in vain ! 
And sadly gaze on gold they cannot gain ! 
Such be their meed, such still the just reward 
Of prostituted muse and hireling bard ! 
For this we spurn Apollo's venal son. 
And bid a long " good night to Marmion." 3 

These are the themes that claim our plaudits now ; 
These are the bards to whom the muse must bow ; 
While Milton, Dryden, Pope, alike forgot. 
Resign their hallow'd bays to Walter Scott. 

The time has been, when yet the muse was young, 
When Homer swept the lyre, and Maro sung. 
An epic scarce ten centuries could claim. 
While awe-struck nations hail'd the magic name : 
The work of each immortal bard appears 
The single wonder of a thousand years.* 
Empires have moulder'd from the face of earth, 
Tongues have expired with those who gave them birth, 
Without the glory such a strain can give. 
As even in ruin bids the language live. 
Not so with us, though minor bards content, 
On one great work a life of labour spent : 
With eagle pinion soaring to the skies. 
Behold the ballad-monger Southey rise ! 
To him let Camoens, Milton, Tasso yield, 
Whose annual strains, like armies, take the field. 
First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance. 
The scourge of England and the boast of France ! 
Though burnt by wicked Bedford for a witch. 
Behold the statue placed in glory's niche ; 
Her fetters burst, and just released from prison, 
A virgin phoenix from her ashes risen. 
Next see tremendous Thalaba come on, 5 
Arabia's monstrous, wild, and wondrous son ; 
Domdaniel's dread destroyer, who o'erthrew 
More mad magicians than the world e'er knew. 
Immortal hero ! all thy foes o'er come. 
For ever reign — the rival of Tom Thumb ! 
Since startled metre fled before thy face. 
Well wert thou doom'd the last of all thy race ! 
Well might triumphant genii bear thee hence. 
Illustrious conqueror of common sense ! 
Now, last and greatest, Madoc spreads his sails, 
Cacique in Mexico, and prince in Wales ; 



3 "Good night to Marmion " — the pathetic and also 
prophetic exclamation of Henry Blount, Esquire, on the 
death of honest Marmion. 

4 As the Odyssey is so closely connected with the story 
of the Iliad, they may almost be classed as one grand his- 
torical poem. In alluding to Milton and Tasso, we con- 
sider the " Paradise Lost," and " Gierusalemme Liberata," 
ns their standard efforts; since neither the "Jerusalem 
Conquered " of the Italian, nor the " Paradise Regained " 
of the English bard, obtained a proportionate celebrity to 
their former poems. Query : Which of Mr. Southey's 
will survive? 

5 "Thalaba," Mr. Southey's second poem, is written in 
open defiance of precedent and poetry. Mr. S. wished to 
produce something novel, and succeeded to a miracle. 
"Joan of Arc" was marvellous enough, but "Thalaba" 
was one of those poems "which," in the words of Por- 
son, " will he read when Homer and Virgil are forgotten, 
but — not till then." 



44 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do, 
More old than Mandeville's, and not so true. 
Oh, Southey ! Southey ! i cease thy varied song ! 
A bard may chant too often and too long : 
As thou art strong in verse, in mercy, spare ! 
A fourth, alas ! were more than vre could bear. 
But if, in spite of all the world can say, 
Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary way : 
If still in Berkeley ballads most uncivil, 
Thou wilt devote old women to the devil, 2 
The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue : 
" God help thee," Southey, 3 and thy readers too. 

Next comes the dull disciple of thy school, 
That mild apostate from poetic rule. 
The simple Wordsworth, framer of a lay 
As soft as evening in his favourite May, 
Who warns his friend " to shake off toil and trouble, 
And quit his books, for fear of growing double j " ■* 
Who, both by precept and example, shows 
That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose ; 
Convincing all, by demonstration plain. 
Poetic souls delight in prose insane ; 
And Christmas stories tortured into rhyme 
Contain the essence of the true sublime. 
Thus when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, 
The idiot mother of " an idiot boy ; " 
A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his way, 
And, like his bard, confounded night with day j ' 
So close on each pathetic part he dwells, 
And each adventure so sublimely tells, 
That all who view the " idiot in his glory" 
Conceive the bard the hero of the story. 

Shall gentle Coleridge pass unnoticed here, 
To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear ? 
Though themes of innocence amuse him best, 
Yet still obscurity 's a welcome guest. 
If Inspiration should her aid refuse 
To him who takes a pixy for a muse,6 
Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass 
The bard who soars to elegise an ass. 
So well the subject suits his noble mind, 
He brays, the laureat of the long-ear'd kind. 

Oh ! wonder-working Lewis I monk, or bard, 
Who fain wouldst make Parnassus a churchyard ! 



1 We beg Mr. Southey's pardon: "Madoc disdains the 
degrading title of epic." See his preface. Why is epic 
degraded? and by whom? Certainly the late romaunts of 
Masters Cottle, Laureat. Pye, Ogilvy, Hole, and gentle 
Mistress Cowley, have not exalted the epic muse; but, as 
Mr. Southey's poem "disdains the appellalion," allow us 
to ask — has he substituted any thing better in its stead? 
or must he be content to rival Sir Richard Blackmore in 
the quantity as well as quality of his verse 7 

2 See "The Old Woman of Berkeley," a ballad, by Mr. 
Southey, wherein an aged gentlewoman is carried away 
by Beelzebub, on a "high-trotting horse." 

3 The last line, " God help thee," is an evident plagia- 
rism from the Anti-jacobin to Mr. Southey, on his Dac- 
tylics. — [Lord Byron here alludes to Mr. Gifford's parody 
on Mr. Southey's Dactylics, which ends thus: — 
"Ne'er talk of ears again ! look at thy spelling-book; 

Dilworth and Dyche are both mad at thy quantities — 
Dactylics call'st thou 'em? — 'God help thee, silly 
one.' "] 

4 Lyrical Ballads, p. 4. — " The Tables Turned," Stanza 1. 

"Up, up, my friend, and clear your looks; 
Why all this toil and troutile? 
Up, up, my friend, and quit your books. 
Or surely you '11 grow double." 
6 Mr. W. in his preface labours hard to prove, that 
prose and verse are much the same; and certainly his 
precepts and practice are strictly conformable : — 
" And thus to Betty's questions he 
Made answer, like a traveller bold. 
The cock did crow, to-whoo, to-whoo, 

And the sun did shine so coId,"&c. &c.,p. 129. 
6 Coleridge's Poems, p. 11., Songs of the Pixies, i. e. 
Devonshire fairies; p. 4S. we have, "Lines to a young 
Lady; " and, p. 62., "Lines to a young Ass." 



Lo ! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow, 
Thy muse a sprite, Apollo's sexton thou ! 
Whether on ancient tombs thou tak'st thy stand, 
By gibb'ring spectres hul'd, thy kindred band j 
Or tracest chaste descriptions on thy page, 
To please the females of our modest age ; 
All hail, M- P. ! " from whose infernal brain 
Thin sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train ; 
At whose command '• grim women "throng in crowds, 
And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds. 
With *' small grey men," " wild yagers," and what not, 
'To crown with honour thee and 'Walter Scott ; 
Again all hail ! if tales like thine may please, 
St. Luke alone can vanquish the disease ; 
Even Satan's self with thee might dread to dwell, 
And in thy skull discern a deeper hell. 

Who in soft guise, surrounded by a choir 
Of virgins melting, not to Vesta's fire, 
With sparkling eyes, and cheek by passion flush'd. 
Strikes his wild lyre, whilst listening dames are hush'd ? 
'T is Little ! young Catullus of his day, 
As sweet, but as immoral, in his lay ! 
Grieved to condemn, the muse must still be just, 
Nor spare melodious advocates of lust. 
Pure is the flame which o'er her altar burns ; 
From grosser incense with disgust she turns : 
Yet kind to youth, this expiation o'er. 
She bids thee " mend thy line, and sin no more." 

For thee, translator of the tinsel song, 
To whom such glittering ornaments belong, 
Hibernian Strangford ! with thine eyes of blue,8 
And boasted locks of red or auburn "hue. 
Whose plaintive strain each love-sick miss admires, 
And o'er harmonious fustian half expires. 
Learn, if thou canst, to yield thine author's sense, 
Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence. 
Think'st thou to gain thy verse a higher place, 
By dressing Camoens s in a suit of lace ? 
Mend, Strangford 1 mend thy morals and thy taste; 
Be warm, but pure ; be amorous, but be chaste : 
Cease to deceive ; thy pilfer'd harp restore, 
Nor teach the Lusian bard to copy Moore. 

Behold ! — ye tarts ! one moment spare the text — 
Hayley's last work and worst — until his next : 
Whether he spin poor couplets into plays. 
Or damn the dead with purgatorial praise. 
His style in youth or age is still the same, 

I For ever feeble and for ever tame. 

i Triumphant first see " Temper's Triumphs " shine ! 

I At least I 'm sure they triumph'd over mine. 
Of •' Music's Triumphs," all who read may swear 
That luckless music never triumph'd there.io 

Moravians, rise ! bestow some meet reward 
On dull devotion — Lo I the Sabbath bard, 
Sepulchral Gnhame,ii pours his notes sublime 
In mangled prose, nor e'en aspires to rhyme ; 



7 " For every one knows little Matt's an M. P." — See a 
poem to Mr. Lewis, in 'The Statesman,' supposed to be 
written by Mr. Jekyll. 

8 The reader, who may wish for an explanation of this, 
may refer to " Strangford's Camoens," p. 127. note to p. 
56., or to the last page of the Edinburgh Review, of 
Strangford's Camoens. 

P It is also to be remarked, that the things given to the 
public as poems of Camoens are no more to be found in 
the original Portuguese, than in the Song of Solomon. 

10 Hayley's two most notorious verse productions arc 
"Triumphs of Temper," and "The Triumph of Music." 
He has also written much comedy in rhyme, epistles, &c. 
&c. As he is rather an elegant writer of notes and bio- 
graphy, let us recommend Pope's advice lo WycherleV to 
Mr. H.'s consideration, viz. "to convert his poetry into 
prose," which may be easily done by taking away the 
final syllable of each couplet. — [The only performance 
for which Hayley is now remembered is his Life of Cow- 
per. His personal history has been sketched by Mr. 
Southey in the Quarterly Review, vol. xxxi. p. 263.] 

11 Mr. Grahame has poured forth two volumes of cant, 
under the name of " Sabbath Walks," and " Biblical Pic- 
tures." — [This very amiable man, and pleasing poet, pub- 



iti^iBfiMaaaiMi 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



45 



Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke, 

And boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch; 

And, undisturb'd by conscientious qualms, 

Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the Psalms. 

Hail, Sympathy ! thy soft idea brings 

A thousand visions of a thousand things, 

And shows, still whimpering through three score of 

years, 
The maudlin prince of mournful sonneteers. 
And art thou not their prince, harmonious Bowles! 
Thou first, great oracle of tender souls ? 
Whether thou sing'st with equal ease, and grief. 
The fall of empires, or a yellow leaf; 
Whether- thy muse most lamentably tells 
What merry sounds proceed from Oxford bells, i 
Or, still in bells delighting, finds a friend 
In every chime that jingled from Ostend ; 
Ah ! how much juster were thy muse's hap. 
If to thy bells thou wouldst but add a cap ! 
Delightful Bowles ! still blessing and still blest, 
All love thy strain, but children like it best. 
'T is thine, with gentle Little's moral song. 
To soothe the mania of the amorous throng ! 
With thee our nursery damsels shed their tears, 
Ere miss as yet completes her infant years : 
But in her teens thy whining powers are vain ; 
She quits poor Bowles for Little's purer strain. 
Now to soft themes thou scornest to confine 
The lofty numbers of a harp like thine ; 
"Awake a louder and a loftier strain," 2 
Such as none heard before, or will again ! 
Where all Discoveries jumbled from the flood, 
Since first the le;>ky ark reposed in mud, 
By more or less, are sung in every book. 
From Captain Noah down to Captain Cook. 
Nor this alone ; but, pausing on the road, 
The batd sighs forth a gentle episode ; 3 
And gravely tells — attend, each beauteous miss! — 
When first Madeira trembled to a kiss. 
Bowles ! in thy memory let this precept dwell. 
Stick to thy sonnets, man ! — at least they sell. 
But if some new-born whim, or larger bribe. 
Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thee for a scribe ; 
If chance some bard, though once by dunces fear'd, 
Now, prone in dust, can only be revered ; 
If Pope, whose fame and genius, from the first. 
Have foil'd the best of critics, needs the worst. 
Do thou essay : each fault, each failing scan; 
The first of poets was, alas ! but man. 
Rake from each ancient dunghill ev'ry pearl. 
Consult Lord Fanny, and confide in Curll ; 4 
Let all the scandals of a former age 
Perch on thy pen, and flutter o'er thy page ; 



Aflfect a candour which thou canst not feel. 
Clothe envy in the garb of honest zeal ; 
Write, as if St. John's soul could still inspire, 
And do from hate what Mallet ^ did for hire. 
Oh! hadst thou lived in that congenial time, 
To rave with Dennis, and with Ralph to rhyme j 6 
Throng'd with the rest around his living head. 
Not raised thy hoof against the lion dead ; ^ 
A meet reward had crown'd thy glorious gains. 
And link'd thee to the Dunciad for thy pains. 

Another epic ! Who inflicts again 
More books of blank upon the sons of men ? 
Bceolian Cottle, rich Bristowa's boast. 
Imports old stories from the Cambrian coast. 
And sends his goods to market — all alive ! 
Lines forty thousand, cantos twenty-five ! 
Fresh fish from Helicon ! 8 who '11 buy ? who '11 buy ? 
The precious bargain 's cheap — in faith, not I. 
Your turtle-feeder's verse must needs be flat. 
Though Bristol bloat him with the verdant fat ; 
If Commerce fills the purse, she clogs the brain, 
And Amos Cotile strikes the lyre in vain. 
In him an author's luckless lot behold, 
Condemn'd to make the books which once he sold. 
Oh, Amos Cottle ! — Phoebus ! what a name 
To fill the speaking-trump of future fame ! — 
Oh, Amos Cottle ! for a moment think 
What meagre profits spring from pen and ink ! 
When thus devoted to poetic dreams. 
Who will peruse thy prostituted reams ? 
Oh pen perverted ! paper misapplied ! 
Had Cottle 9 still adorn'd the counter's side. 
Bent ue'r the desk, or, born to useful toils. 
Been taught to make the paper v\'hich he soils, 
Plough'd, delved, or plied the oar with lusty limb, 
He had not sung of Wales, nor i of him. 

As Sisyphus against the infernal steep 
Rolls the huge rock whose motions ne'er may sleep, 
So up thy hill, ambrosial Richmond, heaves 
Dull jNIauriceio all his granite weight of leaves: 
I Smooth, solid monuments of mental paiu ! 
j The petrifactions of a plodding brain. 
That, ere they reach the top, fall lumbering back again. 

With broken lyre and cheek serenely pale, 
Lo I sad Alcseus wanders down the vale ; 



lished subsequently "The Birds of Scotland," and other 
pieces; but his reputation rests on his "Sabbath." He 
began life as an advocate at the Edinburgh bar; but he 
had little success there, and being of a melancholy and 
very devout temperament, entered info holy orders, and 
retired to a curacy near Durham, where he died in Ibll.] 

1 See Bowles's "Sennets to Oxford," and "Stanzas on 
hearing the Bells of Ostend." 

2 "Awake a louder," &c., is the first line in Bowles's 
"Spirit of Discovery;" a very spirited and pretty dwarf- 
epic. Among other exquisite lines we have the follow- 
ing : — 

.« X kiss 

Stole on the list'ning silence, never yet 

Here heard; they trembled even as if the power," .fee. 
That is, the woods of Madeira trembled to a kiss; very 
much astonished, as well they might be, at such a pheno- 
menon. — ["Misquoted and misunderstood by me; but 
not intentionally. It was not the "woods," but the peo- 
ple in them who trembled — why. Heaven only knows — 
unless they were overheard making the prodigious smack." 
— B. 1816.] 

3 The episode above alluded to is the story of Robert a 
Machin" and " Anna d'Arfet," a pair of constant lovers, 
who performed the kiss above mentioned, that startled the 
woods of Madeira. 

4 Curll is one of the heroes of the Dunciad, and was a 
bookseller. Lord Fanny is the poetical name of Lord Her- 
vey, author of "Lines to the Imitator of Horace." 



5 Lord Bolingbroke hired Mallet to traduce Pope after 
his decease, because the poet had retained some copies of 
a work by Lord Bolingbroke — the " Patriot King," — 
which that splendid, but m ilignant, genius had ordered to 
be destroyed. —['•Bolingbroke's thirst of vengeance," 
says Dr. Johnson, " incited him to blast the memory of 
the man over whom he had wept in his last struggles; 
and he employed Mailet, another friend of Pope, to tell the 
tale to the public, with all its aggravations."] 

6 Dennis the critic, and Ralph the rhymester. — 
"Silence, ye wolves ! while Ralph to Cynthia howls, 

Making night hideous : answer him, ye owls I" 

Dunciad. 

7 See Bowles's late edition of Pope's works, for which 
he received three hundred pounds. Thus Mr. B. experi- 
enced how much easier it is to profit by the reputation of 
another, than to elevate his own, 

8 "Fresh fish from Helicon!" — " Helicon" is a moun- 
tain, and not a fish-pond. It should have been "Hippo- 
crcne." — B. 1816. 

9 Mr. Cottle, Amos, Joseph, I don't know which, but 
one or both, once sellers of books they did not write, and 
now writers of bonks they do not sell, have published a 
pair of epics. "Alfred," — (poor Alfred! Pye has been at 
him too!)--" Alfred," and the " Fall of Cambria." 

10 Mr. Maurice hath manufactured the component parts 
of a ponderous quarto, upon the beauties of "Richmond 
Hill," and the like: — it also takes in a charming view of 
Turnham Green, Hammersmith. Brentfoid, Old and New, 
and the parts adjacent. —[The Rev. Thomas Maurice also 
wrote " Westminster Al)bey," and other poems, the " His- 
tory of Ancient and Modern Hindostan," &c.,and his own 
"Memoirs; comprehending Anecdotes of Literary Charac- 
ters, during a period of thirty years;" — a very amusing 
piece of autobiography. He died in IMJ, at his apartments 
in the British Museum; where he had been for some 
years assistant keeper of MS8.J 



46 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



Though fair they rose, and might ha%'e bloom'd at last, 
His hopes have perished by the northern blast j 
Nipp'd in the bud by Caledonian gales, 
His blossoms wither as the blast prevails ! 
O'er his lost works let classic Sheffield weep ; 
May no rude hand disturb their early sleep ! i 

Yet say ! why should the bard at once resign 
His claim to favour from the sacred nine ? 
For ever startled by the mingled howl 
Of northern wolves, that still in darkness prowl j 
A coward brood, which mangle as they prey, 
By hellish instinct, all that cross their way ; 
Aged or young, the living and the dead, 
No mercy find — these harpies must be fed. 
Why do the injured unresisting yield 
The calm possession of their native field ? 
Why tamely thus before their fangs retreat, 
Nor hunt the blood-hounds back to Arthur's Seat ? 2 

Health to immortal Jeffrey ! once, in name, 
England could boast a judge almost the same ; 
In soul so like, so merciful, yet just, 
Some think that Satan has resign^'d his trust. 
And given the spirit to the world again, 
To sentence letters, as he sentenced men. 
With hand less might)-, but with heart as black, 
With voice as willing to decree the rack ; 
Bred in the courts betimes, though all that law 
As yet hath taught him is to find a flaw ; 
Since well instructed in the patriot school 
To rail at party, though a party tool, 
Who knows, if chance his patrons should restore 
Back to the sway they forfeited before, 
His scribbling toils some recompense may meet, 
And raise this Daniel to the judgment-seat ? 
Let Jeffrey's shade indulge the pious hope, 
And greeting thus, present him with a rope : 
" Heir to my virtues ! man of equal mind ! 
Skill'd to condemn as to traduce mankind. 
This cord receive, for thee reserved with care, 
To wield in judgment, and at length to wear." 

Health to great Jeffrey ! Heaven preserve his life, 
To flourish on the fertile shores of Fife, 
And guard it sacred in its future wars, 
Since authors sometimes seek the field of Mars ! 
Can none remember that eventful day, 
That ever glorious, almost fatal fray, 
When Little's leadless pistol met his eye. 
And Bow Street myrmidons stood laughing by ? 3 
Oh, day disastrous ! on her firm-set rock, 
Dunedin's castle felt a secret shock ; 
Dark roU'd the sympathetic waves of Forth, 
Low groan'd the startled whirlwinds of the north J 
Tweed ruffled half his waves to form a tear. 
The other half pursued its calm career ; 4 
Arthur's steep summit nodded to its base, 
The surly Tolbooth scarcely kept her place. 



1 Poor Montgomery, though praised by every English 
Review, has been bitterly reviled by the Edinburgh. 
After all, the bard of Sheffield is a man of considerable 
genius. His "Wanderer of Switzerland" is worth a 
thousand "Lyrical Ballads," and at least fifty "degraded 
epics." 

2 Arthur's Seat; the hill which overhangs Edinburgh. 

3 In 1806, Messrs. Jeflfrey and Moore met at Chalk- 
Farm. The duel was prevented by the interference of 
the magistracy; and, on examination, the balls of the pis- 
tols were found to have evaporated. This incident gave 
occasion to much wagcery in the daily prints. [The pre- 
ceding note was struck out of the fifth edition, and the 
following, after being eubmitted to Mr. Moore, substituted 
in its place. — "I am informed that Mr. Moore published 
at the time a disavowal of the statements in the newspa- 
pers, as far as regarded himself; and, in justice to him, I 
mention this rirrumstance. As I never heard of it before, 
I cannot state the particulars, and was only made acquaint- 
ed with the fact very lately. — November 4, 1811."] 

4 The Tweed here beh.ived with proper decorum; it 
would have been highly reprehensible in the English haJf 
of the river to have shown the smallest symptom of appre- 
hension. 



The Tolbooth felt — for marble sometimes can. 

On such occasions, feel as much as man — 

The Tolbooth felt defrauded of his charms. 

If Jeffrey died, except within her arms : ^ 

Nay last, not least, on that portentous morn. 

The sixteenth story, where himself was bom, 

His patrimonial garret, fell to ground. 

And pale Edina shudder'd at the sound : 

Strew'd were the streets around with milk-white reams, 

Flow'd all the Canongate with inky streams j 

This of his candour seem'd the sable dew, 

That of his valour show'd the bloodless hue ; 

And all with justice deem'd the two combined 

The mingled emblems of his mighty mind. 

But Caledonia's goddess hover'd o'er 

The field, and saved him from the wrath of Moore; 

From either pistol snatch'd the vengeful lead. 

And straight restored it to her favourite's head ; 

That head, with greater than magnetic pow'r. 

Caught it, as Danae caught the golden show'r. 

And, though the thickening dross will scarce refine, 

Augments its ore, and is itself a mine. 

" My son," she cried, " ne'er thirst for gore again. 

Resign the pistol and resume the pen j 

O'er politics and poesy preside. 

Boast of thy country, and Britannia's guide ! 

For long as Albion's heedless sons submit. 

Or Scottish taste decides on English wit, 

So long shall last thine unmolested reign, 

Nor any dare to take thy name in vain. 

Behold, a chosen band shall aid thy plan. 

And own thee chieftain of the critic clan. 

First in the oat-fed phalanx shall be seen 

The travell'd thane, Athenian Aberdeen.6 

Herbert shall wield Thor"s hammer,i and sometimes. 

In gratitude, thou 'It praise his rugged rhymes. 

Smug Sydney « too thy bitter page shall seek, 

And classic Hallam,9 much renown'd for Greek: 



5 This display of sympathy on the part of the Tolbooth 
(the principal prison in Edinburgh), which truly seems to 
have been most affected on this occasion, is much to be 
commended. It was to be apprehended, that the many 
unhappy criminals executed in the front might have ren- 
dered the edifice more callous. She is said to be of the 
softer sex, because her delicacy of feeling on this day was 
truly feminine, though, like most feminine impulses, per- 
haps a little selfish. 

6 His lordship has been much abroad, is a member of 
the Athenian Society, and reviewer of " Cell's Topography 
of Troy." — [George Hamilton Gordon, fourth Earl of 
Aberdeen, K.T., F.R.S., and P.S.A. In 1S22, his lordship 
published an "Inquiry into the principles of Beauty in 
Grecian Architecture." — E.] 

7 Mr. Herbert is a translator of Icelandic and other poe- 
try. One of the principal pieces is a " Song on the Reco- 
very of Thor's Hammer:" the translation is a pleasant 
chant in the vulgar tongue, and endeth thus : 

"Instead of money and rings, I wot, 
The hammer's bruises were her lot. 
Thus Odin's son his hammer got." 
[The Hon. "William Herbert, brother to the Earl of Car- 
narvon. He also published, in 1811, "Helga," a poem in 
seven cantos. — E.] 

8 The Rev. Sydney Smith, the reputed author of Peter 
Plymley's Letters, and sundry criticisms. ~ [Now (lfc32) 
one of the Canons Residentiary of St. Paul's, &c., &c. 
" Dyson's Address to his Constituents on the Reform Bill," 
and many other pieces published anonymously, or pseudo- 
nomously, are generally ascribed to this eminently witty 
person, who has put forth nothing, it is believed, in his 
own name, except a volume of Sermons. — E.] 

9 Mr. Hallam reviewed Payne Knight's "Taste," and 
was exceedingly severe on some Greek verses therein. It 
was not discovered that the lines were Pindar's till the 
press rendered it impossible to cancel the critique, which 
still stands an everlasting monument of Hallam's ingenu- 
ity. — Aote added to second edition. The said Hallam is 
incensed because he is falsely accused, seeing that he never 
dineth at Holland House. If this be true, I am sorry — 
not for having said so, but on his account, as I understand 
his lordship's feasts are preferable to his compcsitions. If 
he did not review Lord Holland's performance, I am glad; 
because it must have been painful to read, and irksome to 



^gUgg. 



Mli 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



47 



Scott may perchance his name and influence lend, 
And paltry Pillans i shall traduce his friend ; 
While gay Thalia's luckless votary, Lambe,2 
Damn'd like the devil, devil-like will damn. 
Known be thy name, unbounded be thy sway ! 
Thy Holland's banquets shall each toil repay ; 
While grateful Britain yields the praise she owes 
To Holland's hirelings and to learning's foes. 
Yet mark one caution ere thy next Review 
Spread its light wings of sattron and of blue, 
Beware lest blundering Brougham 3 destroy the sale, 
Turn beef to bannocks, cauliflowers to kail." 
Thus having said, the kilted goddess kist 
Her son, and vanish'd in a Scottish mist.* 

Then prosper, Jeffrey ! pertest of the train 
Whom Scotland pampers with her fiery grain ! 
Whatever ble-sing wait a genuine Scot, 
In double portion swells thy glorious lot j 
For thee Edina culls her evening sweets. 
And showers their odours on thy candid sheets, 
Whose hue and fragrance to thy work adhere — 
This scents its pages, and that gilds its rear, 5 
Lo ! blushing Itch, coy nymph, enamour'd grown, 
Forsakes the rest, and cleaves to thee alone ; 
And, too unjust to other Pictish men. 
Enjoys thy person, and inspires thy pen ! 

Illustrious Holland ! hard would be his lot, 
His hirelings mention'd, and himself forgot! 
Holland, with Henry Petty s at his back. 
The whipper-in and huntsman of the pack. 
Blest be the banquets spread at Holland House, 
Where Scotchmen feed, and critics may carouse ! 
Long, long beneath that hospitable roof 
Shall Grub-street dine, while duns are kept aloof. 
See honest Hallam lay aside his fork. 
Resume his pen, review his Lordship's work, 



praise it. If Mr. Hallam will tell me who did review it, 
the real name shall find a place in the text; provided, 
nevertheless, the said name be of two orthodox musical 
syllables, and will come into the verse: till then, Hallam 
must stand for want of a better. 

1 Pillans is a tutor at Eton. — [Mr. Pillans became after- 
wards Rector of the High School of Edinburgh, and has 
now been for some years Professor of Humanity at that 
University. There was not, it is believed, the slightesrt 
foundation for the charge in the text. — E.] 

2 The Hon. George Lambe reviewed "Beresford's Mise- 
ries," and is, moreover, author of a farce enacted with 
much applause at the Priory, Stnnmore ; and damned with 
great expedition at the late theatre, Covent Garden. It 
\yas entitled, "Whistle for It." 

3 Mr. Brougham, in No. XXV. of the Edinburgh Re- 
view, throughout the article concerning Don Pedro de 
Cevallos, has displayed more politics than policy; many 
of the worthy burgesses of Edinburgh being so incensed 
at the infamous principles it evinces, as to have with- 
drawn their subscriptions. — [Here followed, in the first 
edition, —"The name of this personage is pronounced 
Broom in the south, but the truly northern and musical 
pronunciation is Brough-am, in two syllables;" but for 
this. Lord B. substituted in the second edition : ~ " It 
seems that Mr. Brougham is not a Pict, as I supposed, but 
a Borderer, and his name is pronounced Broom, from 
Trent to Tay : — so be it."— E.] 

4 1 ought to apologise to the worthy deities for intro- 
ducing a new goddess with short petticoats to their notice : 
but, alas ! what was to be done ? I could not say Cale- 
donia's genius, it being well known there >• no such 
genius to be found from Clackmonan to Caithj.«s8; yet, 
without supernatural agency, how was Jetlrey to be 
saved? The national "kelpies" are too unpoetics-1, nnd 
the "brownies" and "gude neighbours" (spirits of a 
good disposition) refused to extricate him. A goddess, 
therefore, has been called for the purpose; and great ought 
to be the gratitude of JefTrey, seeing it is the only com- 
munication he ever held, or is likely to hold, with any 
thing heavenly. 

6 See the colour of the back binding of the Edinburgh 
Review. 



6 Lord Henry Petty ; 
downe. — E. 



■now (1837) Marquess of Lans- 



And, grateful for the dainties on his plate, 
Declare his landlord can at least translate '. f 
Dunedin ! view thy children with delight. 
They write for food — and feed because they write ; 
And lest, when heated with the unusual grape, 
Some glowing thoughts should to the press escape, 
And tinge with red the female reader's cheek, 
My lady skims the cream of each critique ; 
Breathes o'er the page her purity of soul, 
Reforms each error, and refines the whole, 8 

Now to the Drama turn — Oh ! motley sight ! 
What precious scenes the wondering eyes invite ! 
Puns, and a prince within a barrel pent,9 
And Dibdin's nonsense yield complete content. 
Though now, thank Heaven ! the Rosciomania's o'er, 
And full-grown actors are endured once more ; 
Yet what avail their vain attempts to please, 
While British critics suffer scenes like these ; 
While Reynolds vents his " dammes ! " " poohs ! " and 

" zounds ! " 10 
And common-place and common sense confounds ? 
While Kenney's "World " — ah ! where is Kenney's ^^ 

wit? — 
Tires the sad gallery, lulls the listless pit j 
And Beaumont's pilfer'd Caratach affords 
A tragedy complete in all but words ? 1 2 
Who but must mourn, while these are all the rage, 
The degradation of our vaunted stage ! 
Heavens ! is all sense of shame and talent gone ? 
Have we no living bard of merit ? — none ! 
Awake, George Colman ! Cumberland, is awake ! 
Ring the alarum bell ! let folly quake ! 
Oh, Sheridan ! if aught can move thy pen, 
Let Comedy assume her throne again ; 
Abjure the mummery of the German schools ; 
Leave new Pizarros to translating fools ; 
Give, as thy last memorial to the age, 
One classic drama, and reform the stage. 
Gods ! o'er those boards shall Folly rear her head, 
Where Garrick trod, and Siddons lives to tread ? 
On those shall Farce display Buffoon'ry's mask. 
And Hook conceal his heroes in a cask ? 
Shall sapient managers new scenes produce 
From Cherry, Skelfington, and Mother Goose? 



7 Lord Holland has translated some specimens of Lope 
de Vega, inserted in his life of the author. Both are be- 
praised by his disinterested guests, — [We are not aware 
that Lord Holland has subsequently published any verses, 
except an universally admired version of the 28th canto 
of the Orlando Furioso, which is given by way of appen- 
dix to one of Mr, W. Stewart Rose's volumes. — E.] 

8 Certain it is, her ladyship is suspected of having dis- 
played her matchless wit in the Edinburgh Review. How- 
ever that may be, we know, from good authority, that the 
manuscripts are submitted to her perusal — no doubt, for 
correction. 

9 In the melo-drama of Tekeli, that heroic prince is 
clapt into a barrel on the stage; a new asylum for distress- 
ed heroes. 

10 All these are favourite expressions of Mr. Reynolds, 
and prominent in hiscomedies, living and defunct. — [The 
reader is referred to Mr. Reynolds's Autobiography, pub- 
lished in 1826, for a full account of bis voluminous wri- 
tings for the stage. — E.] 

11 Mr. Kenney has since written many successful 
dramas. — E. 

12 Mr. T. Sheridan, the new manager of Drury Lane 
theatre, stripped the tragedy of Bonduca of the dialogue, 
and exhibited the scenes as the spectacle of Caractacus. 
Was this worthy of his sire? or of himself ? — [Thomas 
Sheridan, who united much of the convivial wit of his 
parent to many amiable qualities, received, after the ter- 
mination of his theatrical management, the appointment 
of colonial paymaster at the Cape of Good Hope, where he 
died in September, 1617, leaving a widow, whose novel of 
"Carwell" has obtained much approbation, and several 
children; among others, the accomplished authoress of 
"Rosalie" and other poems, now the Honourable Mrs. 
Norton. ~E,] 

13 Richard Cumberland, the well-known author of the 
"West l.r>dian," the "Observer," and one of the most 
amusing oi' autobiographies, died in 1811. — E. 



48 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



While Shakspeare, Otway, Massinger, forgot, 
On stalls must moulder, or in closets rot ? 
Lo ! with what pomp the daily prints proclaim 
The rival candidates for Attic fame ! 
In grim array though Lewis' spectres rise. 
Still Skeffington and Goose divide the prize.i 
And sure great SkefFmgton must claim our praise, 
For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays 
Renown'd alike ; whose genius ne'er confines 
Her flight to garnish Greenwood's gay designs ; 2 
Nor sleeps with "Sleeping Beauties," but anon 
In five facetious acts comes thundering on,3 
While poor John Bull, bewilder'd with the scene, 
Stares, wondering what the devil it can mean; 
But as some hands applaud, a venal few ! 
Rather than sleep, why John applauds it too. 

Such are we now. Ah ! wherefore should we turn 
To what our fathers were, unless to mourn ? 
Degenerate Britons ! are ye dead to shame. 
Or, kind to dulness, do you fear to blame ? 
Well may the nobles of our present race 
Watch each distortion of a Naldi's face ; 
Well may they smile on It ily's butlbons. 
And worship Catalani's pantaloons,* 
Since their own drama yields no fairer trace 
Of wit than puns, of humour than grimace. 5 

Then let Ausonia, skill'd in every art 
To soften manners, but corrupt the "heart, 
Pour her exotic follies o'er the town, 
To sanction Vice, and bunt Decorum down : 
Let wedded strumpets languish o'er Deshayes, 
And bless the promise which his form displays ; 
While Gayton bounds before th' enraptured looks 
Of hoary marquises, and stripling dukes : 
Let high-born lechers eye the lively Presle 
Twirl her light limbs, that spurn the needless veil j 
Let Angiolini bare her breast of snow, 
Wave the white arm, and point the pliant toe ; 
CoUini trill her love inspiring song. 
Strain her fair neck, and charm the listening throng ! 
Whet not your scythe, suppressors of our vice ! 
Reforming saints 1 too delicately nice! 
By whose decrees, our sinful souls to save, 
No Sunday tankards foam, no barbers shave ; 
And beer undrawn, and beards unmown, display 
Your holy reverence for the Sabbath-day. 

Or hail at once the patron and the pile 
Of vice and folly, Greville and Argyle '. 6 



1 Dibdln's pantomime of Mother Goose, had a run of 
nearly a hundred nights, and brought more than twenty- 
thousand pounds to the treasury of Covent Garden thea- 
tre. —E. 

2 Mr. Greenwood is, we believe, scene-painter to Drury 
Lane theatre — as such, Mr. Skeffington is much indebted 
to him. 

3 Mr. [now Sir Lumley] Skeffington is the illustrious 
author of the "Sleeping Beauty;" and some comedicH, 
particularly " Maids and Bachelors : " Baccalaurii baculo 
magis quam lauru digni. 

4 Naldi and Catalani require little notice; for the vis- 
age of the one, and the salary of the other, will enable us 
long to recollect these amusing vagabonds. Besides, we 
are still black and blue from the squeeze on the first night 
of the lady's appearance in trousers. 

5 The following twenty lines were struck off one ni2ht 
after Lord Byron's return from the Opera, and sent the 
next morning to the printer, with a request to have them 
placed where they now appear. — E. 

6 To prevent any blunder, such as mistaking a street for 
a man, I beg leave to state, that it is the institution, and 
not the duke of that name, which is here alluded to. A 
gentleman, with whom I am slightly acquainted, lost in 
the Argyle Rooms, several thousand pounds at bnckgam- 
mon. It is but justice to the manager in this instance to 
say, that some degree of disapprobation was manifested : 
but why are the implements of gaming allowed in a place 
devoted to the society of both sexes? A pleasant thing 
for the wives and daughters of those who are blest or 
cursed with such connections, to hear the billiard-tables 
rattling in one room, and the dice in another! That this ] 
is the case I myself can testify, as a late unworthy mem- 



Where yon proud palace, Fashion's hallovv'd fane, 

Spreads wide her portals for the motley train, 

Behold the new Petronius ^ of the day, 

Our arbiter of pleasure and of play I 

There the hired eunuch, the Hesperian choir, 

The melting lute, the soft lascivious lyre. 

The song from Italy, the step from France, 

The midnight orgy, and the mazy dance. 

The smile of beauty, and the flush of wine, 

For fops, fools, gamesters, knaves, and lords combine: 

Each to his humour — Comus all allows ; 

Champaign, dice, music, or your neighbour's spouse. 

Talk not to us, ye starving sons of trade ! 

Of piteous ruin, which ourselves have madej 

In Plenty's sunshine Fortune's minions bask, 

Nor think of poverty, except " en masque," 

When for the night some lately titled ass 

Appears the beggar which his grandsire was, 

The curtain dropp'd, the gay burletta o'er. 

The audience take their turn upon the floor; 

Now round the room the circling dow'gers sweep, 

Now in loose waltz the thin-clad daughters leap ; 

The first in lengthen'd line majestic swim, 

The last display the free unfetter'd limb ! 

Those for Hibernia's lusty sons repair 

With art the charms which nature could not spare ; 

These after husbands wing their eager flight. 

Nor leave much mystery for the nuptial night. 

Oh ! blest retreats of infamy and ease, 
Where, all forgotten but the power to please. 
Each maid may give a loose to genial thought, 
Each swain may te ich new S5'stems, or be taught : 
There the blithe youngster, just return'd fromSpain, 
Cuts the light pack, or calls the rattling main: 
The jovial caster 's set, and seven 's the nick, ' 
Or — done ! — a thousand on the coming trick I 
If, mad with loss, existence 'gins to tire. 
And all your hope or wish is to expire. 
Here 's Powell's pistol ready for your life, 
And, kinder still, two Pagets for your wife J 
Fit cone^ummation of an earthly race 
Begun in folly, ended in disgrace ; 
While none but menials o'er the bed of death. 
Wash thy red wounds, or watch thy wavering breath ; 
Traduced by liars, and forgot by all. 
The maneled victim of a drunken brawl, 
To live like Clodius, and like Falkland fall.8 

Truth ! rouse some genuine bard, and guide his band 
To drive this pestilence from out the land. 
E'en I — least thinking of a thoughtless throng, 
Just skill'd to know the right and choose the wrong, 



ber of an institution which materially affects the morals 
of the higher orders, while the lower may not even move 
to the sound of a tabor and fiddle, without a chance of in- 
dictment for riotous behaviour. — [Conceiving the fore- 
going note, together with the lines in the text, to convey 
a reflection upon his conduct, as manager of the Argyle 
institution, Colnnel Greville demanded an explanation of 
Lord Byron. The matter wan referred to Mr. Leckie(the 
author of a work on Sicilian affairs) on the part of Colonel 
Greville, and to Mr. Moore on the part of Lord Byron ; by 
whom it was amicably settled. — E.] 

7 Petronius "Arbiter elegantiarum " to Nero, "and a 
very pretty fellow in his day," as Mr. Congreve's "Old 
Bachelor" saith of Hannibal. — E. 

8 I knew the late Lord Falkland well. On Sunday 
night I beheld him presiding at his own table, in all the 
honest pride of hospitality ; on Wednesday morning at 
three o'clock, I saw stretched before me all that remained 
of courage, feeling, and a host of passions. He was a gal- 
lant and successful officer: his faults were the faults of a 
sailor — as such, Britons will forgive them. He died like 
a brave man in a better cause; for had he fallen in like 
manner on the deck of the frigate to which he was just 
appointed, his last moments would have been held up by 
his countrymen as an example to succeeding heroes.— 
[Lord Falkland was killed in a duel by Mr. Powell, in 
1800. It was not by words only that Lord Byron gave 
proof of sympathy on the melancholy occasion. Though 
his own difficulties presced on him at the time, he con- 
trived to administer relief to the widow and children of 
his friend. — -E.l 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



49 



Freed at that age when reason's shield is lost, 
To fight my course through passion's countless host, 
Whom every path of pleasure's fiow'ry way 
Has lured in turn, and all have led astray — 
E'en I must raise my voice, e'en I must feel 
Such scenes, such men, destroy the public weal : 
Although some kind, censorious friend will say, 
" What art thou better, meddling fool, than they ? " 
And every brother rake will smile to see 
That miracle, a moralist in me. 
No matter — when some bard in virtue strong, 
Gifi'ord perchance, shall raise the chastening song, 
Then sleep my pen for ever ! and my voice 
Be only heard to hail him, and rejoice ; 
Rejoice, and yield my feeble praise, though I 
May feel the lash that Virtue must apply. 

As for the smaller fry, who swarm in shoals 
From silly Hafiz up to simple Bowles,i 
Why should we call them from their dark abode, 
In broad St. Giles's or in Tottenham-road ? 
Or (since some men of fashion nobly dare 
To scrawl in verse) from Bond-street or the Square ? 
If things of ton their harmless lays indite, 
Most wisely doom'd to shun the public sight, 
What harm ? in spite of every critic elf, 
Sir T. may read his stanzas to himself; 
Miles Andrews 2 still his strength in couplets try, 
And live in prologues, though his dramas die. 
Lords too are bards, such things at times befall, 
And 't is some praise in peers to write at all. 
Yet, did or taste or reason sway the times, 
Ah ! who would take their titles with their rhymes ? 
Roscommon ! Sheffield ! with your spirits fled. 
No future laurels deck a noble head ; 
No muse will cheer, with renovating smile. 
The paralytic puling of Carlisle. 
The puny schoolboy and his early lay 
Men pardon, if his follies pass away ; 
But who forgives the senior's ceaseless verse, 
Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhymes grow worse? 
What heterogeneous honours deck the peer ! 
Lord, rhymester, petit-maitre, pamphleteer 13 
So dull in youth, so drivelling in his age, 
His scenes alone had damn'd our sinking stage ; 
But managers for once cried, " Hold, enough ! " 
Nor drugg'd their audience with the tragic stuff. 
Yet at their judgment let his lordship laugh, 
And case his volumes in congenial calf; 
Yes I doflf that covering, where morocco shines, 
And hang a calf-skin * on these recreant lines. 

With you, ye Druids ! rich in native lead. 
Who daily scribble for your daily bread ; 
With you' I war not : Gifford's heavy hand 
Has crush'd, without remorse, your numerous band. 
On " all the talents" vent your venal spleen ; 
Want is your plea, let pity be your screen. 



1 What would be the sentiments of the Persian Ana- 
creon, Hafiz, could he rise from his splendid sepulchre at 
Sheeraz (where he reposes with Ferdousi and Sadi, the 
oriental. Homer and Catullus), and behold his name as- 
sumed by one Stott of Dromore, the most impudent and 
execrable of literary poachers for the daily prints ? 

2 Miles Peter Andrews, many years M. P. for Bewdley, 
Colonel of the Prince of Wales's Volunteers, proprietor of 
a gunpowder manufactory at Dartford, author of numerous 
prologues, epilogues, and farces, and one of the heroes of 
the Baviad. He died in 1814.— E. 

3 The Earl of Carlisle has lately published an eighteen- 
penny pamphlet on the state of the stage, and offers his 
plan for building a new theatre. It is to be hoped his 
lordship will be permitted to bring forward any thing for 
the stage— except his own tragedies. 

4 " Doff that lion's hide. 

And hang a calf-skin on those recreant limbs." 
Shak. King John, 
Lord Carlisle's works, most resplendently bound, form a 
conspicuous ornament to his book-shelves : — 

" The rest is all but leather and prunella." 



Let monodies on Fox regale your crew, 
And Melville's Mantle s prove a blanket too ! 
One common Lethe waits each hapless bard, 
And, peace be with you ! 't is your best reward : 
Such damning fame as Dunciads only give 
Could bid your lines beyond a morning live; 
But now at once your fleeting hbours close. 
With names of greater note in blest repose. 
Far be't from me unkindly to upbraid 
The lovely Rosa's prose in masquerade, 
Whose strains, the fiithful echoes of her mind. 
Leave wondering comprehension far behind.6 
Though Crusca's bards no more our journals fill. 
Some stragglers skirmish round the columns still ; 
Last of the howling host which once was Bell's, 
Matilda snivels yet, and Hazif yells ; 
And Merry's metaphors appear anew, 
Chain'd to the signature of 0. P. Q.i 

When some brisk youth, the tenant of a stall. 
Employs a pen less pointed than his awl, 
Leaves his snug shop, forsakes his store of shoes, 
St. Crispin quits, and cobbles for the muse, 
Heavens ! how the vulgar stare ! how crowds applaud ! 
How ladies read, and literati laud ! 8 
If chance some wicked wag should pass his jest, 
'T is sheer ill-nature — don't the world know best? 
Genius must guide when wits admire the rhyme, 
And Capel Lofi't 9 declares 't is quite sublime. 
Hear, then, ye happy sons of needless trade ! 
Swains ! quit the plough, resign the useless spade ! 
Lo ! Burns and Bloomfield, nay, a greater far, 
GiiTord was born beneath an adverse star. 
Forsook the labours of a servile state, 
Stemrn'd the rude storm, and Iriumph'd over fate : 
Then why no more? if Phoebus smiled on you, 
Bloomfield ! why not on brother Nathan too ? lo 
Him too the mania, not the muse, has seized j 
Not inspiration, but a mind diseased : 
And now no boor can seek his last abode. 
No common be inclosed without an ode. 
Oh ! since increased refinement deigns to smile 
On Britain's sons, and bless our genial isle, 
Let poesy go forth, pervade the whole, 
Alike the rustic, and mechanic soul ! 
Ye tuneful cobblers ! still your notes prolong, 
Compose at once a slipper and a song ; 
So shall the fair your handywork peruse. 
Your sonnets sure shall please — perhaps your shoes. 



5 " Melville's Mantle," a parody on "Elijah's Mantle," 
a poem. 

6 This lovely little .Tessira, the daughter of the noted 
Jew King, seems to be a follower of the Delia Crusca 
school, and has published tv.'o volumes of very respect- 
able absurdities in rhyme, as times go; besides sundry 
novels in the style of the first edition of the Monk. — 
["She since married the Morning Post — an exceeding 
good match; and is now dead — which is better." — B. 
1816.] 

7 These are the signatures of various -worthies who 
figure in the poetical departments of the newspapers. 

8 "This was meant for poor Blackett, who was then 
patronised by A. J. B." (Lady Byron); "but that I did 
not know, or this would not have been written, at least I 
think not." — B. 1816. 

9 Capel Loflft, Esq., the Maecenas of shoemakers, and 
preface-writer-general to distres.sed versemen ; a kind of 
gratis accoucheur to those who wish to be delivered of 
rhyme, but do not know how to bring forth. — [The poet 
Bloomfield owed his first celebrity to the notice of Capel 
Lofft and Thomas Hill, Esquires, "who read his "Farmer's 
Boy," in manuscript, recommended it to a publisher, and 
by their influence in society and literature, soon drew 
general attention to its merits. It is distressing to re- 
member that, after all that had been done by the zeal of 
a few friends, the public sympathy did not rest perma- 
nently on the amiable Bloomtield, who died in extreme 
poverty, in 18'23. — E.] 

10 See Nathaniel Bloomfield's ode, elegy, or whatever 
he or any one else chooses to call it, on the enclosures of 
" Honington Green." 



50 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



May Moorland weavers i boast Pindaric skill, 
And tailors' lays be longer than their bill ! 
While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, 
And pay for poems -^ when they pay for coats. 

To the famed throng now paid the tribute due, 
Neslected genius! let"me turn to you. 
Come forth, oh Campbell ! 2 give thy talents scope j 
Who dares aspire if thou must cease to hope ? 
And thou, melodious Rogers ! rise at last, 
Recall the pleasing memory of the past j 
Arise ! let blest remembrance still inspire, 
And strike to wonted tones thy hallow'd lyre; 
Restore Apollo to his vacant throne, 
Assert thy country's honour and thine own. 
What ! must deserted Poesy siill weep 
Where her last hopes with pious Cowper sleep ? 
Unless, perchance, from his cold bier she turns. 
To deck the turf that wraps her nnustrel, Burns ! 
No ! though contempt hath mark'd the spurious brood, 
The race who rhyme from folly, or for food, 
Yet still some genuine sons 't is hers to boast, 
Who, least affecting, still effect the most : 
Feel as they write, and write but as they feel — 
Bear witness Gifford,^ Sotheby,* Macneil.s 

" Why slumbers Gifford ? " once was asked in vain ', 
Why slumbers Gifford ? let us ask again. 
Are'there no follies for his pen to purge ? 6 
Are there no fools whose backs demand the scourge ? 
Are there no sins for satire's bard to greet ? 
Stalks not gigantic Vice in every street ? 
Shall peers or princes tread pollution's path, 
And 'scape alike the law's and muse's wrath ? 
Nor blaze with guilty glare through future time. 
Eternal beacons of consummate crime ? 
Arouse thee, Gifford ! be thy promise claim'd, 
Make bad. men better, or at least ashamed. 

Unhappy White ! i while life was in its spring, 
And thy young muse just waved her joyous wing, 
The spoiler swept that soaring lyre away. 
Which else had sounded an immortal lay. 
Oh ! what a noble heart was here undone, 
When Science' self destroy'd her favourite son ! 
Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit, 
She sow'd the seeds, but death hath reap'd the fruit. 
'T was thine own genius gave the final blow, 
And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low : 
So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, 
No more through rolling clouds to soar again, 



1 Vide " Recollections of a Weaver in the Moorlands of 
Staffordshire." 

2 It would be superfluous to recall to the mind of the 
reader the authors of " The Pleasures of Memory" and 
" The Pleasures of Hope," the most beautiful didactic 
poems in our language, if we except Pope's " Essay on 
Man : " but so many poetasters have started up, that even 
the names of Campbell and Rogers are became strange, 

3 Gifford, author of the Baviad and Maeviad, the first 
satires of the day, and translator of Juvenal. 

4 Sotheby, translator of Wieland's Oberon and Virgil's 
Georgics, and author of "Saul," an epic poem. — [Mr. 
Sotheby has since essentially raised his reputation by 
various original poems, and a translation of the Iliad. — E.] 

5 Macneil, whose poems are deservedly popular, par- 
ticularly "Scotland's Scailh," and the "Waes of War," 
of which ten thousand copies were sold in one month. — 
[Hector Macneil died in 1818.— E.] 

6 Mr. Gifford promised publicly that the Baviad and 
Maeviad should not be his last orii^inal works: let him 
remember, " Mox in reluctantes dracones." — [Mr. Gif- 
ford became the editor of the Quarterly Review,— which 
thenceforth occupied most of his time, — a few months 
after the first appearance of this satire.— E.] 

7 Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge, in October, 
1806, in consequence of too much excrlion in the pursuit 
of studies that would have matured a mind which disease 
and poverty could not impair, and which death itself de- 
stroyed rather than subdued. His poems abound in such 
beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest re- 
gret that 80 short a period was allotted to talents, which 
would have dignified even the sacred functions he was 
destined to assume. 



View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, 
And vving'a the shaft that quiver'd in his heart j 
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel 
He nursed the pinion which impell'd the steel ; 
While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest 
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast. 
There be who say, in these enlighten'd days, 
That splendid lies aVe all the peel's praise j 
That strain'd invention, ever on the wing, 
Alone impels the modern bard to sing : 
'T is true, that all who rhyme — nay, all who write, 
Shrink from that fatal word to genius — trite ; 
Yet Truth sometimes will lend her noblest fires. 
And decorate the verse herself inspires : 
This fact in Virtue's name let Crabbe 8 attest; 
Though nature's sternest painter, yet the best. 

And here let Shee 9 and Genius find a place, 
Whose pen and pencil yield an equal grace ; 
To guide whose hand the sister arts combine. 
And trace the poet's or the painter's line ; 
Whose magic touch cm bid the canvass glow, 
Or pour the easy rhyme's harmonious flow j 
While honours, doubly merited, attend 
The Poet's rival, but the painter's friend. 

Blest is the man who dares approach the bower, 
Where dwelt the muses at their natal hourj 
Whose steps have press'd, whose eye has mark'd afar. 
The clime that nursed the sons of song and war. 
The scenes which glory still must hover o'er, 
Her place of birth, her own Achaian shore. 
But doubly blest is he whose heart expands 
With hallow'd feelings for those classic lands ; 
Who rends the veil of ages long gone by. 
And views their renmants with a poet's eye ! 
Wright ! 10 't was thy happy lot at once to view 
Those shores of glory, and to sing them too ; 
And sure no common muse inspired thy pen, 
To hail the land of gods and godlike men. 

And you, associate bards ! ^ who snatch to light 
Those gems too long withheld from modern sight ; 
Whose mingling taste combined to cull the wreath 
Where attic flowers Aonian odours breathe, 
And all (heir renovated fragrance flung, 
To grace the beauties of your native tongue; 
Now let those minds, that nobly could transfuse 
The glorious spirit of the Grecian muse, 
Though soft the echo, scorn a borrow 'd tone : 
Resign Achaia'a lyre, and strike your own. 

Let these, or such as the.se, with just applause, 
Restore the muse's violated laws ; 
But not in flimsy Darwin's pompous chime. 
That mighty master of unmeaning rhyme. 
Whose gilded cymbals, more adorn 'd than clear, 
The eye delighted, but fatigued the ear ; 
In show the simple lyre could once surpass, 
But now, worn down, appear in native br iss ; 
While all his train of hovering sylphs around 
Evaporate in similes and sound : 
Him let them shun, with him let tinsel die : 
False glare attracts, but more offends the eye.i^ 



8 " I consider Crabbe and Coleridge as the first of these 
times, in point of power and genius." — B. 1810. 

9 Mr. Shee, author of "Rhymes on Art," and "Ele- 
ments of Art."— [Now (lt*37,) Sir Martin Shee, and 
President of the Royal Academy. — E.] 

10 Waller Rodwell Wright, late consul-general for the 
Seven Islands, is author of a very beautiful poem, just 
published : it is entitled " Horae lonicae," and is descrip- 
tive of the isles and the adjacent coast of Greece. — [To 
the third edition, which came out in 1816, was added an 
excellent translation of the " Oreste " of Alficri. After 
his return to England, Mr. Wright was chosen Recorder 
of Bury St. Edmunds.- E.] 

11 The translators of the Anthology, Bland and Meri- 
vale, have since published separate poems, which evince 
genius that only requires opportunity to attain eminence. 

12 The neglect of the "Botanic Garden" is some proof 
of returning taste. The scenery is its sole recommenda- 
tion. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



51 



Yet let them not to vulgar Wordsworth stoop, 
The meanest object of the lowly group, 
Whose verse, of all but childish prattle void, 
Seems blessed harmony to Lamb and Lloyd : i 
Let them — but hold, my muse, nor dare to teach 
A strain far, far beyond thy humble reach : 
The native genius with their being given 
Will point the path, and peal their notes to heaven. 

And thou, too, Scott ! 2 resign to minstrels rude 
The wilder slogan of a border feud : 
Let others spin their meagre lines for hire ; 
Enough for genius if itself inspire ! 
Let Southey sing, although his teeming muse, 
Prolific every spring, be too profuse ; 
Let simple Wordsworth 3 chime his childish verse, 
And brother Coleridge lull the babe at nurse j 
Let spectre-mongering Lewis aim, at most. 
To rouse the galleries, or to raise a ghost ; 
Let Moore still sigh ; let Strangford steal from Moore, 
And swear that Camoens sang such notes of yorej 
Let Hayley hobble on, Montgomery rave, 
And godly Grahame chant a stupid stave; 
Let sonneteering Bowles his strains refine, 
And whine and whimper to the fourteenth line; 
Let Stott, Carlisle,* Matilda, and the rest 
Of Grub Street, and of Grosveiior Place the best, 
Scrawl on, 'till death release us from the strain. 
Or Common Sense assert her rights again. 
But thou, with powers that mock the aid of praise, 
Shouldst leave to humbler bards ignoble lays : 
Thy country's voice, the voice of all the nine, 
Demand a hallow'd harp — that harp is thine. 
Say ! will not Caledonia's annals yield 
The glorious record of some nobler field, 
Than the vile foray of a plundering clan. 
Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name of man ? 
Or Marmion's acts of darkness, fitter food 
For Sherwood's outlaw tales of Robin Hood ? 
Scotland ! still proudly claim thy native bard, 
And be thy praise his first, his best reward ! 



1 Messrs. Lamb and Lloyd, the most ignoble followers 
of Southey and Co. 

2 By the bye, I hope that in Mr. Scott's next poem, his 
hero or heroine will be less addicted to "Giamarye," and 
more to grammar, than the Lady of the Lay and her 
bravo, William of beloraine. 

3 " Unjust. "--B. 1816. 

4 It may be asked, why I have censured the Earl of 
Carlisle, my guardian and relative, to whom I dedicated 
a volume of puerile poems a few years ago? — The guar- 
dianship was nominal, at least as far as I have been able 
to discover; the relationship I cannot help, and am very 
sorry for it; but as his lordship seemed to forget it on a 
very essential occasion to me, I shall not burden my me- 
mory with the recollection. I do not think that personal 
differences sanction the unjust condemn-.tion of a brother 
scribbler; but I see no reason why they should act as a 
preventive, when the author, noble or ignoble, has, for a 
series of years, beguiled a "discerning public" (as the 
advertisements have it) with divers reams of most ortho- 
dox, imperial nonsense. Besides, I do not step aside to 
vituperate the earl: no — his works come fairly in review 
with those of other patrician literati. If before I escaped 
from my teens, I said any thing in favour of his lord- 
ship's paper books, it was in the way of dutiful dedica- 
tion, and more from the advice of others than my own 
judgment, and I seize the first opportunity of pronoun- 
cing my sincere recantation. I have heard that some 
persons conceive me to be under obligations to Lord Car- 
lisle : if 90, I shall be most particularly happy to learn 
what they are, and when conferred, that they may be 
duly appreciated and publicly acknowledged. What I 
have humbly advanced as an opinion on his printed 
things, I am prepared to support, if necess;iry, by quota- 
lions from elegies, eulogies, odes, episodes, and certain 
facetious and dainty tragedies bearing his name and 
mark: — 

" What can ennoble knaves, or fools, or cowards? 
Alas ! not all the blood of all the Howards." 

So says Pope. Amen ! — [" Much too savage, whatever the 
foundation might be." — B. 1816.] 



Yet not with thee alone his name should live, 
But own the vast renown a world can give ; 
Be known, perchance, when Albion is no more, 
And tell the tale of what she was before ; 
To future times her faded fame recall, 
And save her glory, though his country fall. 

Yet what avails the sanguine poet's hope. 
To conquer ages, and with time to cope ? 
New eras spread their wings, new nations rise, 
And other victors fill the applauding skies; 
A few brief generations fleet along, 
Whose sons forget the poet and his song : 
E'en now, what once-loved minstrels scarce may claim 
The transient mention of a dubious name ! 
When fame's loud trump hath blown its noblest blast. 
Though long the sound, the echo sleeps at last; 
-And glory, like the phoenix 'midst her fires, 
Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires. 

Shall hoary Granta call her sable sons. 
Expert in science, more expert at puns? 
Shall these approach the muse ? ah, no ! she flies. 
Even from the tempting ore of Seaton's prize ; 
Though printers condescend the press to soil 
With rhyme by PIoare,5 and epic blank by Hoyle : s 
Not him whose page, if still upheld by whist. 
Requires no sacred theme to bid us list.f 
Ye ! who in Granta's honours would surpass, 
Must mount her Pegasus, a full-grown ass ; 
A foal well worthy of her ancient dam, 
Whose Helicon is duller than her Cam. 

There Clarke, still striving piteously "to please," 
Forgetting doggrel leads not to degrees, 
A would-be satirist, a hired buffoon, 
A monthly scribbler of some low lampoon, 
Condemn'd to drudge, the meanest of the mean, 
And furbish falsehoods for a magazine. 
Devotes to scandal his congenial mind ; 
Himself a living libel on mankind.s 

Oh ! dark asylum of a Vandal race ! 9 
At once the boast of learning, and disgrace ! 
So lost to Phccbus, that nor Hodgson's 10 verse 
Can make thee better, nor poor Hewson's" worse, 
But where fair Isis rolls her purer wave. 
The partial muse delighted loves to lave; 
On her green banks a greener wreath she wove, 
To crown the bards that haunt her classic grove; 
Where Richards wakes a genuine poet's fires, 
And modern Britons glory in their sires.i 2 

5 The Rev. Charles James Hoare published, in 1608, the 
"Shipwreck of St. Paul," a Seatonian prize poem. — E. 

6 The Rev. Charles Hoyle, author of "Exodus," an 
epic in thirteen books, and several other Seatonian prize 
poems. — E. 

7 The "Games of Hoyle," well known to the votaries 
of whist, chess, &c., are not to be superseded by the 
vagaries of his poetical namesake, whose poem comprised, 
as expressly stated in the advertisement, all the "plagues 
of Egypt." 

8 This person, who has lately betrayed the most rabid 
symptoms of confirmed authorship, is writer of a poem 
denominated the "Art of Pleasing," as "lucusanon 
lucendo," containing little pleasantry and less poetry. He 
also acts as monthly stipendiary and collector of calum- 
nies for the "Satirist." If this unfortunate young man 
would exchange the magazines for the mathematics, and 
endeavour to take a decent degree in his university, it 
might eventually prove more serviceable than his present 
salary. 

9 " Into Cambridgeshire the Emperor Probus transport- 
ed a considerable body of Vandals." -- Gibbon's Decline 
and Fall, vol. ii. p. 83. There is no reason to doubt the 
truth of this assertion ; the breed is still in high perfec- 
tion. 

10 This gentleman's name requires no praise : the man 
who in translation displays unquestionalile genius may be 
well expected to excel in original composition, of which 
it is to be hoped we shall soon see a splendid specimen. 

11 Hewson Clarke, Esq., as it is written. 

12 The "Aboriginal Britons," an excellent poem, by 
Richards.— [The Rev. George Richards, D.D. has also 



52 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



For me, who, thus unask'd, have dared to tell 
My country, what her sons should know too well, 
Zeal for he"r honour bade me here engage 
The host of idiots that infest her age ; 
No just applause her honour'd name shall lose, 
As first in freedom, dearest to the muse. 
Oh ! would thy bards but emulate thy fame, 
And rise more' worthy, Albion, of thy name ! 
What Athens was in science, Rome in power, 
What Tyre appe ir'd in her meridian hour, 
'T is thine at once, fair Albion ! to have been — 
Earth's chief dictatress, ocean's lovely queen : 
But Rome decay'd, and Athens strew'd the plain, 
And Tyre's proud piers lie shatter'd in the main ; 
Like these, thy strength may sink, in ruin hurl'd, 
And Britain fall, the bulwark of the world. 
But let me cease, and dread Cassandra's fate, 
With warning ever scoff 'd at, till too late ; 
To themes less lofty still my lay confine, 
And urge thy bards to gain a name like thine.l 

Then, hapless Britain ! be thy rulers blest. 
The senate's oracles, the people's jest ! 
Still hear thy motley orators dispense 
The flowers' of rhetoric, though not of sense, 
While Canning's colleagues hate him for his wit, 
And old dame Portland ^ fills the place of Pitt. 

Yet once again, adieu ! ere this the sail 
That wafts me hence is shivering in the gale ; 
And Afric's coast and Calpe's adverse height, 
And Stamboul's minarets must greet my sight : 
Thence shall I stray through beauty's native clime,3 
Where Kaff * is clad in rocks, and crown'd with snows 

sublime. 
But should I back return, no tempting press 
Shall drag my jouraal from the desk's recess ; 
Let coxcombs, printing as they come from far, 
Snatch his own wreath of ridicule from Carrj 
Let Aberdeen and Elgin s still pursue 
The shade of fame through regions of virtu ; 



sent from the press "Songs of the Aboriginal Bards of ^ 
Britain," " Modern France," two volumes of Miscellane- , 
ous Poems, and Bampton Lectures "On the Divine Ori- I 
gin of Prophecy." This gentleman is now Rector of St. 
Martin's in the Fields. — E.] I 

1 With this verse the satire originally ended. — E. 

2 A friend of mine being asked, why his Grace of Port- | 
land was likened to an old woman? replied, "he sup- 
posed it was because he was past bearing." — His Grace ; 
is now gathered to his grand-mothers, where he sleeps as i 
sound as ever ; but even his sleep was better than his J 
colleagues' waking. 1811. I 

3 Georgia. 4 Mount Caucasus. I 
5 Lord Elgin would fain persuade us that all the figures, 



Waste useless thousands on their Phidian freaks, 
Misshapen monuments and maim'd antiques; 
And make their grand saloons a general mart 
For all the mutilated blocks of art. 
Of Dardan tours let dilettanti tell, 
I leave topography to rapid Gell ; 6 
And, quite content, no more shall interpose 
To stun the public ear — at least with prose. 

Thus far I 've held my undisturb'd career, 
Prepared for rancour, steel'd 'gainst selfish fear; 
This thing of rhynie I ne'er disdain'd to own — 
Though not obtrusive, yet not quite unknown : 
My voice was heard ag'ain, though not so loud, 
My page, though nameless, never disavow'd j 
And now at once I tear the veil away : — 
Cheer on the pack ! the quarry stand's at bay, 
Unscared by all the din of Melbourne house, 
By Lambe's resentment, or by Holland's spouse. 
By Jeii'rey's harmless pistol, Hallam's rage, 
Edina's brawny sons and brimstone page. 
Our men in buckram shall have blows enough. 
And feel they too are " penetrable stulf : " 
And though I hope not hence unscathed to go, 
Who conquers me shall find a stubborn foe. 
The time hath been, when no harsh sound would fall 
From lips that now may seem imbued with gall; 
Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise 
The meanest thing that crawl'd beneath my eyes : 
But now, so callous grown, so changed since youth, 
I 've learn'd to think, and sternly speak the tiuth ; 
Learn'd to deride the critic's starch decree, 
And break him on the wheel he meant for me; 
To spurn the rod a scribbler bids nie kiss. 
Nor care if courts and crowds applaud or hiss : 
Nay more, though all my rival rhymesters frown, 
I too can hunt a poetaster down ; 
And, arm'd in proof, the gauntlet cast at once 
To Scotch marauder, and to southern dunce. 
Thus much I 've dared ; if my incondite lay 
Hath wrong'd these righteous'times, let others say : 
This, let the world, which knows not how to spare. 
Yet rarely blames unjustly, now declare. i 

with and without noses, in his stone-shop are the work of 
Phidias! "Credat Judaeus ! " 

6 Mr. Cell's Topography of Troy and Ithaca cannot fail 
to ensure the approbation of every man possessed of clas- 
sical taste, as well for the information Mr. Gell conveys 
to the mind of the reader, as for the ability and research 
the respective works display. 

7 "The greater part of this satire I most sincerely wish 
had never been written — not oi:ly on account of the in- 
justice of much of the critical, and some of the personal 
part of it — but the tone and temper are such .as I cannot 
approve." — Byron. July 14, 1616. Diodati, Geneva. — E. 



POSTSCRIPT TO THE SECOND EDITION. 



I have been informed, since the present edition went 
to the press, that my trusty and well-beloved cousins, 
the Edinburgh Reviewers, are preparing a most vehe- 
ment critique on my poor, gentle, iinresistins:, Muse, 
whom they have already so be-deviled with their un- 
godly ribaldry : 

" Tantaene animis coelestibus irae!" 

I suppose I must say of Jeffrey as Sir Andrew Ague- 
cheek saith, " an I had known he was so cunning of 
fence, I had seen him damned ere I had fought him." 
What a pity it is that I shall be beyond the Bosphorus 
before the next number has passed the Tweed ! But I 
yet hope to light my pipe with it in Persia. 

My northern friends have accused me, with justice, 
of personality towards their great literary anthropopha- 
gus, Jeffrey ; but what else was to be done with him 
and his dirty pack, who feed by " lying and slander- 
ing," and slake their thirst by " evil speaking ? " I 
have adduced facts already well known, and of Jef- 
frey's mind I have stated my free opinion, nor has he 



I thence sustained any injury; — what scavenger was 
ever soiled by being pelted with mud ? It may be said 
] that I quit England because I have censured there 
j " persons of honour and wit about town ; " but I am 
I coming back again, and their vengeance will keep hot 
till my return. Those who know me can testify that 
my motives for leaving England are very different 
I from fears, literary or personal : those who do not, may 
one day be convinced. Since the publication of this 
thing, my name has not been concealed ; I have been 
mostly in London, ready to answer for my transgres- 
sions, and in daily expectation of sundry cartels ; 'but, 
alas ! " the age of chivalry is over," or, in the vulgar 
tongue, there "is no spirit now-a-days. 
! There is a youth ycleped Hevvson Clarke (subaudi 
esquire), a sizer of Emanuel College, and, I believe, a 
denizen of Berwick-upon-Tweed, whom I have intro- 
duced in these pages to much better company than he 
i has been accustomed to meet ; he is, notwithstanding, 
I a very sad dog, and for no reason that I can discover, 
' except a personal quarrel with a bear, kept by me at 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



53 



Cambridge to sit for a fellowship, and whom the 
jealousy of his Trinity contemporaries prevented from 
success, has been abusing me, and, what is worse, the 
defenceless innocent above me. tinned, in " The Sati- 
rist " for one year and some months. I am utterly un- 
conscious of having given him any provocation ; in- 
deed, I am guiltless of having heard his name, till 
coupled with " The Satirist." He has therefore no 
reason to complain, and I dare say that, like Sir Fret- 
ful Plagiary, he is rather pleased than otherwise. I 
have now mentioned all who have done me tlie honour 
to notice me and mine, that is, my bear and my book, 
except the editor of " The Satirist," who, it seems, is a 



gentleman — God wot ! I wish he could impart a little 
of his gentility to his subordinate scribblers. I hear 
that Mr, Jerningham is about to take up the cudgels for 
his Maecenas, Lord Carlisle. I hope not : he was one 
of the few, who, in the very short intercourse I had 
with him, treated me with kindness when a boy ; and 
whatever he may say or do, " pour on, I will endure." 
I have nothing further to add, save a general note of 
thanksgiving to readers, purchasers, and publishers, 
and, in the words of Scott, I wish 

" To all and each a fair good night, 
And rosy dreams and slumbers light." 



HINTS FROM HORACE: 

BEING AN ALLUSION IN ENGLISH VERSE TO THE EPISTLE " AD 
PISONES, DE ARTE POETICA," AND INTENDED AS A SEaUEL TO 
" ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS." 



■ *'Ergo fungar vice cotis, acutum 

Keddere quae ferrum valet, exsors ipsa secandi." 

HOR-. De Arte Poet. 



"Rhymes are difficult things- 



they are stubborn things, sir." 

FIELDING'S Amelia. 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



Athens. Capuchin Convent, March 12, 1811. 
Who would not laugh, if Lawrence, hired to grace 
His costly canvass with each flatter'd face, 
Abused his art, till Nature, with a blush, 
Saw cits grow centaurs underneath his brush ? 
Or, should some limner join, for show or sale, 
A maid of honour to a mermaid's tail ? 
Or low Dubost i — as once the world has seen — 
Degrade God's creatures in his graphic spleen ? 
Not all that forced politeness, which defends 
Fools in their faults, could gag his grinning friends. 
Believe me, Moschus, like that picture seems 
The book which, sillier than a sick man's dreams, 
Displays a crowd of figures incomplete, 
Poetic nightmares, without head or feet. 



Humane tapiti cervicem pictor equinam 
Jungere si velit, el varias inducere plumas, 
TJndique coUatis membris, ut turpiter atrum 
Desinat in piscem mulirrr formosa superne: 
Spectatum ailmissi risum teneatis, amiri? 
Credite, Pisones, isti tabulae fore librnm 
Persimilem, cujus, velut aegri somnia, vanae 



1 Tn an English newspaper, which finds its way abroad 
■wherever there are Englishmen, I read an account of this 

dirty dauber's caricature of Mr. H as a "beast," and 

the consequent action, &c. The circumstance is, pro- 
bably, too well known to require further comment. — 
[The gentleman here alluded to was Thomas Hope, Esq., 
the author of " Anastasius," and one of the most munifi- 
cent patrons of art this country ever possessed. Having, 
somehow, offended an unprincipled French painter, by 
name Dubost, that adventurer revenged himself by a pic- 
ture called "Beauty and the Beast," in which Mr. Hope 
and his lady were represented according to the well-known 
fairy story. The picture had too much malice not to suc- 
ceed; and, to the (lisgrace of John Bull, the exhibition of 
it is said to have fetched thirty pounds in a day. A bro- 
ther of Mrs. Hope thrust his sword through the canvass; 
and M. Dubost had the consolation to get five pounds 
damages. The att'air made much noise at the time; 
though Mr. Hope had not then placed himself on that seat 
of literary eminence, which he afterwards attained. Pro- 
bably, indeed, no man's reputation in the world was ever 
80 suddenly and completely altered, as his was by the 
appearance of his magnificent romance. He died in 
1833. ~ E.] 



Poets and painters, as all artists know. 
May shoot a little with a lengthen'd bow ; 
We claim this mutual mercy for our task, 
And grant in turn the pardon which we ask; 
But make not monsters spring from gentle dams — 
Birds breed not vipers, tigers nurse not lambs. 

A labour'd, long exordium, sometimes tends 
(Like patriot speeches) but to paltry ends ; 
And nonsense in a loffy note goes down, 
As pertness passes with a legal gown : 
Thus many a bard describes in pompous strain 
The clear brook babbling through the goodly plain : 
The groves of Granta, and her gothic halls. 
King's Coll., Cam's stream, stain'd windows, and old 

walls : 
Or, in advenl'rous numbers, neatly aims 
To paint a rainbow, or — the river Thames.^ 

You sketch a tree, and so perhaps may shine — 
But daub a shipwreck like an alehouse sign j 
You plan a vase — it dwindles to a pot ; 
Then glide down Grub street — fasting and forgot; 
Laugh'd into Lethe by some quaint Review, 
Whose wit is never troublesome till — true. 

In fine, to whatsoever you aspire. 
Let it at least be simple and entire. 

The greater portion of the rhyming tribe 
(Give ear, my friend, for thou hast been a scribej 

Fingentur species, ut nee pes, nee caput uni 
Reddalur formae. Pictoribus atque poetis 
Quidlibet audendi semper fuit aequa potestas, 
Scimus, et hanc veniam petimusque damusque vicissim : 
Sed non ut placidis coeant immitia; non ut 
Serpenles avibus geminentur, tigribus agni. 

Incoeptis gravibus plerumque et magna professis 
Purpureus, late qui splendeat, unus et alter 
Assuitur paunus; cum lucus et ara Dianae, 
Et properaiitis aquae per amoenos ambitus agros, 
Aut flumen Rhenum, aut pluvius describitur arena. 
Sed nunc non erat his locus: et fortasse cupressum 
Scis simulare : quid hoc, si fractis enatat exspes 
Navibus, acre dato qui pingitur? amphora coepit 
Institui ; currente rota cur urceus exit 7 
Denique sit quod vis, simplex duntaxat et unum. 

Maxima pars vatum, pater, et juvenes patre digni, 



2 "Where pure description held the place of sense."- 
Pope. 



54 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



Are led astray by some peculiar lure. 

I labour to be brief — become obscure ; 

One falls while following elegance too fast ; 

Another soars, inflated with bombast ; 

Too low, a third crawls on, afraid to fly, 

He spins his subject to satiety ; 

Absurdly varying, he at last engraves 

Fish in the woods, and boars beneath the waves ! 

Unless your care 's exact, your judgment nice, 
The flight from folly leads but into vice ; 
None are complete, all wanting in some part, 
Like certain tailors, limited in art. 
For galligaskins Slowshears is your man ; 
But coats must claim another artisan. i 
Now this to me, I own, seems much the same 
As Vulcan's feet to bear Apollo s frame j 
Or, with a fair complexion, to expose 
Black eyes, black ringlets, but — a bottle nose ! 

Dear authors ! suit your topics to your strength, 
And ponder well your subject, and its length ; 
Nor lift your load, before you 're quite aware 
What weight your shoulders will, or will not, bear. 
But lucid Order, and Wit's siren voice, 
Await the poet, skilful in his choice; 
With native eloquence he soars along, 
Grace in his thoughts, and music in bis song. 

Let judgment teach him wisely to combine 
With future parts the now omitted line : 
This shall the author choose, or that reject, 
Precise in style, and cautious to select ; 
Nor slight applause will candid pens afford 
To him who furnishes a wanting word. 
Then fear not if 't is needful to produce 
Some term unknown, or obsolete in use, 
(As Pitt 2 has furnish'd us a word or two, 
Which lexicographers declined to do ;) 
So you indeed, with care,— (but be content 
To take this license rarely) — may invent. 
New words find credit in these latter days, 
If neatly grafted on a Gallic phrase. 
What Chaucer, Spenser did, we scarce refuse 
To Dryden's or to Pope's maturer muse. 

Decipimur specie recti. Brevis esse laboro, 
Obscurus fio: sectanfem levia, nervi 
Deficiunt animique: professus grandia, turpett 
Serpit humi, tutus nimium, timidiisque procellae: 
Qui variare cupit rem prodigialiter uiiam, 
Delphinum sylvis appingit fluctibus aprum. 

In vitium ducit culpae fuga, si caret arte. 
Aemilium circa ludum faber unus et ungues 
Exprimet, et moUes imitabitur aere capillos; 
Infelix operis summa quia ponere totum 
Nesciet. Hunc ego me, si quid compnnere curem, 
Non magis esse velim, quam pravo vivere naso, 
Spectandum nigris oculis nigoque capillo. 

Sumite materiem vestris, qui scribitis, equam 
Viribus; et versate diu quid ferre recusent 
Quid valeant humeri. Cui lecta potenter erit res, 
Nee facundia deseret hnnc nee lucidus ordo. 

Ordinis haec virtus erit et venus, aut ego fallor, 
Ut jam nunc dicat, jam nunc debentia dici 
Pleraque differat, et praesena in tempus omittat ; 
Hoc amet, hoc spernat promissi carminis auctor. 

In verbis etiam tenuis cautusque serendi8 : 
Dixeris egregie, notum si callida verbum 
Reddiderit junctura novum. Si forte necesse est 
Indiciis monstraie recentihus abdita rerum, 
Fingere cinctutis non exaudita Cethegis 
Conlinget; dabiturque licentia sumpta pudenter; 
Et nova factaqtie nuper habebunt verba fidem, si 
Graeco fonte cadant, parce detorta. Quid autem 
Caecilio Plautoque dabit Romanus, ademptum 
Virgilio Varioque? ego cur, acquirere pauca 



1 Mere common mortals were commonly content with 
one tailor and with one bill, but the more particular gen- 
tlemen found it impossible to confide their lower garments 
to the makers of their body clothes. I speak of the be- 
ginning of lfi09: what reform may have since taken place 
I neither know, nor desire to know. 

2 Mr. Pitt was liberal in his additions to our parliament- 
ary tongue; as may be seen in many publications, par- 
ticularly the Edinburgh Review. ^ 



If you can add a little, say why not, 

As well as William Pitt, and Walter Scott ? 

Since they, by force of rhyme and force of lungs, 

Enrich'd our island's ill-united tongues ; 

'T is then — and shall be — lawful to present 

Reform in writing, as in parliament. 

As forests shed their foliage by degrees, 
So fade expressions which in season please; 
And we and ours, alas ! are due to fate. 
And works and words but dwindle to a date. 
Though as a monarch nods, and commerce calls. 
Impetuous rivers stagnate in canals,- 
Though swamps subdued, and marshes drain'd, sustain 
The heavy ploughshare and the yellow grain, 
And rising ports along the busy shore 
Protect the vessel from old Ocean's roar, 
All, all, must perish ; but, surviving last. 
The love of letters half preserves the,past. 
True, some decay, yet not a few revive ; 3 
Though those shall sink, which now appear to thrive. 
As custom arbitrates, whose shifting sway 
Our life and language must alike obey. 

The immortal wars which gods and angels wage. 
Are they not shown in Milton's sacred page ? 
His strain will teach what numbers best belong 
To themes celestial told in epic song. 

The slow, sad stanza will correctly paint 
The lover's anguish, or the friend's complaint. 
But which deserves the laurel — rhyme or blank ? 
Which holds on Helicon the higher rank ? 
Let squabbling critics by themselves dispute 
This point, as puzzling as a Chancery suit. 

Satiric rhyme first sprang from selfish spleen. 
You doubt — see Dryden, Pope, St. Patrick's dean.* 

Blank verse is now, with one consent, allied 
To Tragedy, and rarely quits her side. 
Though mad Almanzor rhymed in Dryden's days. 
No sing-song hero rants in modern plays ; 

Si possum, invideor ; cum lingua Catonis et Enni 
Sermonem patrium ditaverit, et nova rerum 
Nomina protulerit ? I.icuit, scmperque licebit, 
Signature praesente nota producere nomen. 

Ut silvae foliis pronos mutantur in annos; 
Prima cadunt: ita verborum vetus interit aetas, 
Et juvenum ritu florent modo nata, vigentque. 
Debemur morti nostraque: sive receptus 
Terra Neptunus classes aquilonibus arcet, 
Regis opus; sterilisve diu palus, aptaque remis 
Vicinas urbes alit, et grave senfit aratrum : 
Seu cursum mutavit iniquum frugibus amnis, 
Doctns iter melius; mortalia facta peribunt : 
Nedum sermonum stet honos, et gratia vivax. 
Multa renascent ur, quae jam ceridere; cadeutque, 
Quae nunc sunt in honore vocabula, si volet usus; 
Quern penes arbitrium est, et jus, et norma loquendi. 

Res gestae regumqiie ducumque et tristia bella, 
Quo scribi possent numero. moiistravit Homeru.s. 

Versibus impariter junctis querimonia primum: 
Post etiam inclusa est voii sententia compos. 
Quis tamen exiguos elegos emiserit auctor, 
Grammatici cerlant, et adhuc sub judice lis est. 

Archilocum proprio rabies armavit iambo; 
Hunc socci cepere pedem grandesque cothurni, 
Alternis aptum sermcnibus, et populares 
Vinientem strcpitus, et natnm rebus agendis. 

Musa dedit fidibusdivos, puerosque deorum, 
Et pugilem vittorem, et equum certamine primum, 

3 Old halladti, old plays, and old women's stories, are at 
present in as much request as old wine or new speeches. 
In fact, this is the millennium of blark-letter : thanks to 
our Hebers, Webers, and Scotts ! —[There was consider- 
able malice in thus putting Weber, a poor German hack, 
a mere amanuensis of Sir Walter Scott, between the two 
other names.— E.] 

4 '" Mac Fleeknoe," the "Dunciad," and all Swift's lam- 
pooning ballads. Whatever their other works may be, 
these originated in personal feelings, and angry retort on 
unworthy rivals; and though the ability of these satires 
elevates the poetical, their poignancy detracts from the 
personal character of the writers. 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



55 



Whilst modest Comedy her verse foregoes 
For jest and pun i in very middling prose. 
Not that our Bens or Beaumonts show the worse 
Or lose one point, because they wrote in verse. 
But so Thalia pleases to appear, 
Poor virgin ! damn'd some twenty times a year ! 

Whate'er the scene, let this advice have weight * — 
Adapt your language to your hero's state. 
At times Melpomene forgets to groan, 
And brisk Thalia takes a serious tone; 
Nor unregarded will the act pass by 
Where angry Townly 2 lifts his voice on high. 
Again, our Shakspeare limits verse to kings, 
When common prose will serve for common things; 
And lively Hal resigns heroic ire. 
To " hollowing HoFspur 3 " and his sceptred sire. 

'T is not enough, ye bards, with all your art. 
To polish poems ; — they must touch the heart : 
Where'er the scene be laid, whate'er the song, 
Still let it bear the hearer's soul along ; 
Command your audience or to smile or weep, 
Whiche'er may please you — any thing but sleep. 
The poet claims our tears; but, by his leave, 
Before I shed them,, let me see him grieve. 

If banish'd Romeo feign'd nor sigh nor tear, 
LuU'd by his languor, I should sleep or sneer. 
Sad words, no doubt, become a serious face, 
And men look angry in the proper place. 
At double meanings folks seem wondrous sly, 
And sentiment prescribes a pensive eye ; 
For nature form'd at first the inward 'man, 
And actors copy nature — when they can. 
She bids the beating heart with rapture bound, 
Raised to the stars, or level I'd with the ground j 
And for expression's aid, 't is said, or sung, 
She gave our mind's interpreter — the tongue, 
Who, worn with use, of late would fain dispense 
(At least in theatres) with common sense; 
O'erwhelm with sound the boxes, gallery, pit, 
And raise a laugh with any thing — but wit. 

To skilful writers it will much import, 
Whence spring their scenes, from common life or 
court ; 

Et juvenum curas, et libera vina referre. 
Descriptas servare vices, operiimque colores, 
Cur ego, si nequeo ignoroque, poeta salutor? 
Cur nescire, pudens prave, quam discere malo7 

Vereibus exponi tragicis res comica non vult; 
Indignatur item privatis, ac prope socco 
Digniscarminibus narrari coena Thyestae, 
Singula quaeque locum teneant sortita decenter. 
Interdum tamen et vocem comoedia tollit, 
Iratusque Chremes tumido delitigat ore : 
Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone pedestri. 
Telephus et Peleus, cum pauper et exul, uterque 
Projicit ampuUas, et sesquipedalia verba; 
Si curat cor spectantis tetigisse querela. 

Non satis est pulchra esse poemata; dulcia punto, 
Et quocunque volent, animum auditoris aguiito. 
Ut ridentibus arrident, ita flentibus adflent 
Humani vultus; si vis me flere dolendum est 
Primum ipsi tibi ; tunc tua me infortunia laedent. 
Telephe, vel Peleu, male si mandata loqueris, 
Aut dormitabo, aut ridebo: tristia moestum 
Vultum verba decent ; iratum, plena minarum; 
Ludentem, lasciva; eeverum, seria dictu. 
Format enim natura prius nos intus ad omnem 
Fortunarum habitum; juvat, aut impellet ad iram; 
Aut ad humum moerore gravi deducit, et angit; 
Post effert animi motus interprete lingua. 
Si dicentis erunl fortunis absona dicta, 
Romani tollent equites, peditesque cachinnnm. 

Intererit mullum, Davusne loquatur an heros; 



1 With all the vulgar applause and critical abhorrence 
of puns, they have Aristotle on their side; who permits 
them to orators, and gives them consequence by a grave 
disquisition. 

2 In Vanbrugh's comedy of the " Provoked Hus- 



3 " And in his ear I '11 hollow, Mortimer ! 
IV. 



1 Henry 



Whether they seek applause by smile or tear, 
To draw a "Lying Valet," or a " Lear," 
A sage, or rakish youngster wild from school, 
A wandering " Peregrine," or plain " John Bull ;" 
All persons please when nature's voice prevails, 
Scottish or Irish, born in Wilts or Wales. 

Or follow common fame, or forge a plot. 
Who cares if mimic heroes lived or not ? 
One precept serves to regulate the scene : — 
Make it appear as if it might have been. 

If some Drawcansir you aspire to draw, 
Present him raving, and above all law : 
If female furies in your scheme are plann'd, 
Macbeth's fierce dame is ready to your hand ; 
For tears and treachery, for good and evil, 
Constance, King Richard, Hamlet and the Devil I 
But if a new design you dare essay, 
And freely wander from the beaten way, 
True to your characters, till all be past, 
Preserve consistency from first to last. 

'T is hard to venture where our betters fail, 
Or lend fresh interest to a twice-told tale ; 
And yet, perchance, 't is wiser to prefer 
A hackney'd plot, than choose a new, and err ; 
Yet copy not too closely, but record. 
More justly, thought for thought than word for word ; 

Maturusne senex, an adhuc florente juventa 

Fervidus; an matrona potens, an sedula nutrix; 

Mercatorne vagus, cultorne virentis agelli; 

Colchus an Assyrius; Thebis nutritus, an Argis. 
Aut famam sequere, aut sibi convenientia finge, 

Scriptor. Honoratum si forte reponis Achillem; 

Impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis acer, 

Jura neget sibi nata, nihil non arroget armis. 

Sit Medea ferox invictaque; flebilis Ino; 

Perfidus Ixion; lo vaga; tristis Orestes; 

Si quid inexpertum scenae committis, et audes 

Personam formare novam ; servetur ad imum 

Qualis ab incepto processerit, et sibi constet. 
Difficile est proprie communia dicere;4 tuque 

Kectius Iliacum carmen deducis in actus, 

Quam si proferres ignota indictaque primus. 

Publica materies privati juris erit, si ^ 

Nee circa vilem patulumque moraberis orbem; 

Nee verbum verbo curabis reddere fidus 



4 "Difficile est proprie communia dicere." — Mde Da- 
cier, Mde. de Sevigne, Boileau, and others, have left their 
dispute on the meaning of this passage in a tract con- 
siderably longer than the poem of Horare. It is printed 
at the close of the eleventh volume of Madame de Se- 
vigne's Letters, edited by Grouvelle, Paiis, 1606. Pre- 
suming that all who can construe may venture an opinion 
on such subjects, particularly as so many who can not 
have taken the same liberty, I should have held my 
" farthing candle " as awkwardly as another, had not my 
respect for the wits of Louis the Fourteenth's Augustan 
sierle induced me to subjoin these illustrious authorities. 
1st, Boileau : "II est difficile de trailer des sujets qui sont 
a la portee de tout le monde d'une maniere qui vous les 
rende propres, ce qui s'appelle s'approprier un sujet par le 
tour qu'on y donne." 2d, Batleux : " Mais il est bien 
difficile de donner des traits propres el individuels aux 
etres piirement possibles." 3d, Dacier: "II est difficile 
de trailer convenablement ces caracteres que tout le 
monde peut inventer." Mde. de Sevigne's opinion and 
translation, consisting of some thirty pages, I omit, par- 
ticularly as M. Grouvelle observes, ''La chose est bien 
remarqiiable, aucune de ces diverses interpretations ne 
parait etre la veritable." But, by way of comfort, it 
seems, fifty years afterwards, " Le lumineux Dumar>ais " 
made his appearance, to set Horace on his legs acain, 
•'dissiper tous les nuages, et cnncilier tous les dissenti- 
mens; " and some fifty years hence, somebody, still more 
luminous, will doubtless start up and demolish Dumarsais 
and his system on this weighty affair, as if he were no 
better than Ptolemy and Tycho, or his comments of no 
more consequence than astronomical calculations on the 
present comet. I am happy to say, " la longueur de la 
dissertation " of M. D. prevents M. G. from saying any 
more on the matter. A better poet than Boileau, and at 
least as good a scholar as Sevigne, has said, 

"A little learning is a dangerous thing." 
And, by this comparison of comments, it may be per- 
ceived how a good deal may be rendered m perilous to the 
proprietors. 



56 



HINTS FROM HORACE 



Nor trace your prototype through narrow ways, 
But only follow where he merits praise. 

For you, young bard ! whom luckless fate may lead 
To tremble on the nod of all who read, 
Ere your first score of cantos time unrolls, 
Beware — for God's sake, don't begin like Bowles ! i 
" Awake a louder and a loftier strain," — 
And pray, what follows from his boiling brain ? — 
He sinks to Southey's level in a trice, 
Whose epic mountains never fail in mice ! 
Not so of yore awoke your mighty sire 
The temper'd warblings of his master-lyre ; 
Soft as the gentler breathing of the lute; 
" Of man's first disobedience and the fruit" 
He speaks, but, as his subject swells along, 
Earth, heaven, and Hades echo with the song. 
Still to the midst of things he hastens on. 
As if we witness'd all already done ; 
Leaves on his path whatever seems too mean 
To raise the subject, or adorn the scene ; 
Gives, as each page improves upon the sight, 
Not smoke from brightness, but from darkness — light; 
And truth and fiction with such art compounds. 
We know not where to fix their several bounds. 
If you would please the public, deign to hear 
What soothes the many-headed monster's ear ; 
If your heart triumph when the hands of all 
Applaud in thunder at the curtain's fall, 
Interpres, nee desilies imitator in arctum 
Unde pedem proferre pudor vetet, aut operis lex. 
Nee sic ineipies, ut scriptor Cyclicus olim : 
"Fortunam Priami cantabo, et nobile helium." 
Quid dignum tanto feret hie promissor hiatu? 
Parturiunt montes : nascetur ridiculus mus. 
Quanto rectius hie, qui nil molitur inepte ! 
"Die mihi, Musa, virumeaptae post tempera Trojae, 
Qui mores hominum multorum vidit, et urbes." 
Non fumum ex fulgore, sed ex fumo dare lucem 
Cogitat, ut speciosa dehinc miracula promat, 
Antiphaten, Scyllamque, et cum Cyclope Charybdim. 
Nee reditum Diomedis ab interilu Meleagri, 
Nee gemino bellum Trojanum orditur ab ovo. 
Semper ad eventum festinat: et in medias res 
Non seeus an notas, auditorem rapit, et quae 
Desperat tractata nitescere posse, rellnquit: 
Atque ita mentitur, sic veris falsa remiscet, 
Prime ne medium, medio ne discrepet imam. 

Tu, quid ego et pnpulus mecum desideret, audi. 
Si plausoris egea aalaea manentis, et usque 



1 About two years ago a young man, named Townsend, 
was announced by Mr. Cumberland, in a review since de- 
ceased as being engaged in an epic poem to be entitled 
"Armageddon." The plan and specimen promise much; 
but I hope neither to offend Mr. Townsend, nor his 
friends, by recommending to his attention the lines of 
Horace to which these rhymes allude. If Mr. Townsend 
succeeds in his undertaking, as there is reason to hope, 
how much will the world be indebted to Mr. Cumberland 
for bringing him before the public ! But, till that event- 
ful day arrives, it may be doubted whether the premature 
display of his plan (sublime as the ideas confessedly are) 
has not, — by raising expectation too high, or diminishing 
curiosity, by developing his argument, — rather incurred 
the hazard of injuring Mr. Townsend's future prospects. 
Mr. Cumberland (whose talents I shall not depreciate by 
the humble tribute of my praise) and Mr. Townsend must 
not suppose me actuated by unworthy motives in this 
suggestion. I wish the author all the success he can wish 
himself, and shall be truly happy to see epic poetry weigh- 
ed up from the bathos where it lies sunken with Southey, 
Cottle, Cowley {Mrs. or Abraham), Ogilvy, Wilkie, Pye, I 
and all the "dull of pa-t and present days." Even if he 
is not a Milton, he may be better than B'acMmore ; if not j 
a Homer, an Antimachus. I should deem myself pre- '■ 
sumptuous, as a young man, in otTering advice, were it 
not addressed to one still younger. .Mr. Townsend has the ! 
greatest dilficulties to encounter: but in conquering them j 
he will find employment: in having conquered them, his ' 
reward. I know too well " the scribbler's scoff, the | 
critic's contumely; " and I am afraid time will teach Mr. 
Townsend to know them better. Those who succeed, • 
and those who do not, must bear this alike, and it is hard 
to say which have most of it. I trust that Mr. Town- | 
send's share will be from envy; — he will soon know 
mankind well enough not to attribute this expression to 
malice. j 



Deserve those plaudits — study nature's page, 
And sketch the striking traits of every age ; 
While varying man and varying'years unfold 
Life's little tale, so oft, so vainly told : 
Observe his simple childhood's dawning days. 
His pranks, his prate, his playmates, and his plays j 
Till time at length the mannish tyro weans, 
And prurient vice outstrips his tardy teens ! 

Behold him Freshman ! forced no more to groan 
O'er Virgil's 2 devilish verses and — his own; 
Prayers are too tedious, lectures too abstruse. 
He tiies from Tavell's frown to " Fordham's Mews ; 
(Unlucky Tavell ! 3 doom'd to daily cares 
By pugilistic pupils, and by bears,) ■* 
Fines, tutors, tasks, conventions threat in vain. 
Before hounds, hunters, and Newmarket plain. 
Rough with his elders, with his equals rash. 
Civil to sharpers, prodigal of cash ; 
Constant to nought— save hazard and a whore, 
Yet cursing both — for both have made him sore; 
Unread (unless, since books beguile disease. 
The p — X becomes his passage^to degrees) ; 
Fool'd, pillaged, dunn'd, he wastes his term away, 
And unexpeil"d perhaps, retires M. A. ; 
i\Iaster of arSs ! as helh and clubs s proclaim. 
Where scarce a blackleg bears a brighter name ! 

Launch'd into life, extinct his early fire. 
He apes the selfish prudence of his sire ; 
Marries for money, chooses friends for rank, 
Buys land, and shrewdly trusts not to the Bank ; 
Sits in the Senate; gets a son and heir; 
Sends him to Harrow, for himself was there. 
Mute, though he votes, unless when call'd to cheer, 
His son 's so sharp — he '11 see the dog a peer ! 

Manhood declines — age palsies every limb ; 
He quits the scene — or else the scene quits him ; 
Scrapes wealth, o'er each departing penny grieves, 
And avarice seizes all ambition leaves ; 

Sessuri, donee cantor, Vos plaudite, dicat ; 
Aetatis cujusque notandi sunt tibi mores, 
Mnbilibusque decor naturis dandus et annis. 
Reddere qui voces jam scit puer, et pede certo 
Signat humum ; gestit paribus colludeie, et iram 
Colllgit ac ponit temere, et mutatur in horas. 

Imberbis juvenis, tandem custode remote, 
Gaudet equis canibiisque, et aprici gramine campi; 
Cereus in vitium flecti, monitoribus asper, 
TJtilium tardus provisor, prodigus aeris, 
Sublimis, cupidnsque, et amata relinquere pernix. 

Conversis studiis, aetas animusque virilis 
Quaerit opes, et amicitias inservit honori; 
Commisisse cavet quod mox mutare laboret. 

Multa senem conveniunt incommnda; vel quod 
Quaerit, et inventis miser abstinet, ac timet uti; 
Vel quod res omnes timide gelideque ministrat, 
Dilator, spe longiis, iners, avidusque futuri; 
Difticilis, quaerulus, laudator temporis arti 



2 Harve/, the circulator of the circvjation of the 
blood, used to fling away Virgil in his ecstasy of admira- 
tion, and say, "the book had a devil." Now, such a cha- 
racter as I am copying would probably fling it away also, 
but rather wish that the devil had the book; not from 
dislike to the poet, but a well founded horror of hexame- 
ters. Indeed, the public school penarce of " Long and 
Short " is enough to beget an antipathy to poetry for the 
residue of a man's life, and, perhaps, so far may be an ad- 
vantage. 

3 " Infandum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem." I dare 
say Mr. Tavell (to whom I mean no affront) will under- 
stand me ; and it is no matter whether any one else does 
or no.— To the above events, "quaeque ipse miserrima 
vidi, et quorum pars magna fui," all times and terms bear 
testimony. 

4 The Rev. G. F. Tavell was a fellow and tutor of 
Triniry College, Cambridge, during Lord Byron's resi- 
dence, and owed this notice to the zeal with which he had 
protested against some juvenile vagaries, sufficiently ex- 
plained in Mr. Moore's Notices, vol. i. p. 210.— E. 

5 " Hell," a gaming-house so called, where you risk lit- 
tle, and are cheated a good deal. "Club," a pleasant pur- 
gatory, where you lose more, and are not supposed to be 
cheated at all. 



irirTMirrii— r rr trumJti^ 



^^yUdgL 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



57 



Counts cent per cent, and smiles, or vainly frets, 
O'er hoards diminish'd by young Hopeful's debts; 
Weighs well and wisely what to sell or buy, 
Complete in all life's lessons — but to die ; 
Peevish and spiteful, doating, hard to please, 
Commending every time, save times like these; 
Crazed, querulous, forsaken, half forgot, 
Expires unwept — is buried — let him rot ! 

But from the Drama let me not digress, 
Nor spare my precepts, though they please you less. 
Though woman weep, and hardest hearts are stirr'd, 
When what is done is rather seen than heard, 
Yet many deeds preserved in history's page 
Are better told than acted on the stage ; 
The ear sustains what shocks the timid eye, 
And horror thus subsides to sympathy. 
True Briton all beside, I here am French — 
Bloodshed 't is surely better to retrench ; 
The gladiatorial gore we teach to flow 
In tragic scene disgusts, though but in show ; 
We hate the carnage while we see the trick, 
And lind small sympathy in being sick. 
Not on the stage the regicide Macbeth 
Appals an audience with a monarch's death ; 
To gaze v/hen sable Hubert threats to sear 
Young Arthur's eyes, can ours or nature bear ? 
A haltered heroine i Johnson sought to slay — 
We saved Irene, but half damn'd the play, 
And (Heaven be praised !) our tolerating times 
Stint metamorphoses to pantomimes ; 
And Lewis' self, with all his sprites, would quake 
To change Earl Osmond's negro to a snake ! 
Because, in scenes exciting joy or grief. 
We loathe the action which exceeds belief: 
And yet, God knows ! what may not authors do. 
Whose postscripts prate of dyeing " heroines blue? " a 

Above all things, Dan Poet, if you can. 
Eke out your acts, I pray, with mortal man; 
Nor call a ghost, unless some cursed scrape 
Must open /ten trap-doors for your escape. 
Of all the monstrous things! 'd fain forbid, 
I loathe an opera worse than Dennis did ; 3 

Se puero, castigator censorque minorum. 
Multa feruut anni veiiientes commoda secum, 
Multa recedeiites adimunt. Ne forte seniles 
Mandentur juveni partes, pueroque viriles. 
Semper in adjunctis, aevoque morabirnur aptis. 

Aul agitur res in scenis, ant acta refertur. 
Segnius irritant animos demis-sa per aurem 
Qiiam quae sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus, et quae 
Ipse sibi tradit spectator. Non tamen intus 
Digna geri, promes in srenam; multaque lolles 
Ex oculis, quae mox narret facundia praeisens. 
Ne pueros coram populo Medea trucidet ; 
Aut humana palam coqrat exta nefarius Atreus; 
Aut in avem Progne vertatur, Cadmus in anguem. 
Quodcunque ostendis mihi sic, incredulus odi. 



1 "Irene had to speak two lines with the bowstring 
round her neck; but the audience cried out 'Murder!' 
and she was obliged to go off the stage alive." — Bos- 
well's Johnson. [These two lines were afterwards struck 
out, and Irene was carried off, to be put 1o death behind 
the scenes. "This shows," says Mr. Malone, "how 
ready modern audiences are to condemn, in a new play, 
what they have frequently endured very quietly in an old 
one. Rowe has made Moneses, in Tamerlane, die by the 
bowstring without offence." Davies assures us, in his 
Life of Garrick, that the strangling Irene, contrary to 
Horace's rule, coram populo, was suggested by Gar- 
rick.— E.] 

2 In the postscript to the "Castle Spectre," Mr. Lewis 
tells UB, that though blacks were unknown in England at 
the period of his action, yet he has made the anachronism 
to set off the scene: and if he could have produced the 
effect "by making his heroine blue," — I quote him — 
"blue he would have made her! " 

3 In 1706, Dennis, the critic, wrote an "Essay on the 
Operas after the Italian manner, which are about to be 
established on the English Stage;" in which he endea- 
vours to show, that it is a diversion of more pernicious 
consequence than the most licentious pluy that ever ap- 
peared upon the stage. — E. 



Where good and evil persons, right or wrong, 
Rage, love, and aught but moralise, in song. 
Hail, last memorial of our foreign friends, 
Which Gaul allows, and still Hesperia lends ! 
Napoleon's edicts no embargo lay 
On whores, spies, singers, wisely shipp'd away. 
Our giant capital, whose squares are spread 
Where rustics earn'd, and now may beg, their bread. 
In all iniquity is grown so nice. 
It scorns amusements which nre not of price. 
Hence the pert shopkeeper, whose throbbing ear 
Aches with orchestras which he pays to hear, 
Whom shame, not sympathy, forbids to snore, 
His anguish doubling by his own " encore ; " 
Squeezed in " Fops Alley," jostled by the beaux. 
Teased with his hat, and trembling for his toes ; 
Scarce wrestles through the night, nor tastes of ease. 
Till the dropp'd curtain gives a glad release : 
Why this, and more, he sutt'ers — can ye guess ? — 
Because it costs him dear, and makes him dress! 

So prosper eunuchs from Etruscan schools ; 
Give us but fiddlers, and they 're sure of fools ! 
Ere scenes were play'd by many a reverend clerk 4 
(What harm, if David danced before the ark?) 
In Christmas revels, simple country folks 
Were plensed with morrice-mumm'ry and coarse 

jokes. 
Improving years, with things no longer known, 
Produced blii he Punch and merry Madame Joan, 
Who still frisk on with fea's so lewdly low, 
'T is strange Benvolio f suffers such a show ; 
Suppressing peer ! to whom each vice gives place, 
Oaths, boxing, begging, — all, save rout and race. 

Farce followed Comedy, and reach'd her prime, 
In ever-laughing Foote's fantastic time : 
Mad wag ! who pardon'd none, nor spared the best 
And turn'd some very serious things to jest. 
Nor church nor state escaped his public sneers. 
Arms nor the gown, priests, lawyers, volunteers: 
" Alas, poor Yorick ! " now for ever mute ! 
Whoever laughs a laugh must sigh for Foote. 

We smile, perforce, when histrionic scenes 
Ape the swoln dialogue of kings and queens, 
When " Chrononhotonthologos must die," 
And Arthur struts in mimic majesty. 

Moschus ! with whom once more I hope to sit, 
And smile at folly, if we can't at wit j 
Yes, friend ! for thee I '11 quit my cynic cell. 
And bear Swift's motto, " Vive la bagatelle ! " 
Which charm'd our days in each ^sean clime, 
As oft at home, with revelry and rhyme. 
Then may Euphrosyne, who sped the past, 
Soothe thy life's scenes, nor leave thee in the last; 
But find in thine, like pagan Plato's bed,*" 
Some merry manuscript of mimes, when dead. 

Now to the Drama let us bend our eyes, 
Where fetter'd by whig Walpole low she lies; 

Neve minor, neu sit quinto productior actu 
Fabula, quae posci vult, et spectata reponi. 
Nee Deus intersit, nisi dignus vindice nodus 
Inciderit. 



4 "The first theatrical representations, entitled 'Mys- 
teries and Moralities,' were generally enacted at Christ- 
mas, by monks (as the only persons who could read), and 
latterly by the clergy and students of the universities. 
The dramatis personae were usually Adam, Paler, Coeles- 
tis. Faith, Vice," &c. &c. — See Warton's History of 
English Poetry. 

5 Benvolio does not bet ; but every man who maintains 
race-horses is a promoter of all the concomitant evils of 
the turf. Avoiding to bet is a little Pharisaical. Is it an 
exculpation? I think not. I never yet heard a bawd 
praised for chastity, because she herself did not commit 
fornication. 

6 Under Plato's pillow a volume of the Mimex of 
Sophron was found the day he died. —Vide Barthelemi, 
De Pauw, or Diogenes Laertius, if agreeable. De Pauw 
calls it a jest-book. Cumberland, in his Observer, terms 
it moral, like the sayings of Publius Syius. 



58 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



Corruption foil'd her, for she fear'd her glance ; 

Decorum left her for an opera dance ! 

Yet Chesterfield,! whose polish'd pen inveighs 

'Gainst laughter, fought for freedom to our plays j 

Uncheck'dby megrims of patrician brains. 

And damning dulness of lord chamberlains. 

Repeal that act ! again let Hurnour roam 

Wild o'er the stage — we 've time for tears at home ; 

Let Archer plant the horns on Sullen's brows, 

And Estifania gull her Copper - spouse ; 

The moral 's scant — but that may be excused, 

Men go not to be lectured, but amused. 

He whom our plays dispose to good or ill 

Must wear a head' in want of Willis' skill ; 

Ay, but Macheath's example — psha ! — no more ! 

It form'd no thieves — the thief vNas form'd before j 

And spite of puritans and Colliers curse,3 

Plays make mankind no better, and no worse. 

Then spare our stage, ye methodistic men ! 

Nor burn damn'd Drury if it rise again. 

Eut why to brain-scorch'd bigots thus appeal ? 

Can heavenly mercy dwell with earthly zeal ? 

For times of fire and fagot let them hope I 

Times dear alike to puritan or pope. 

As pious Calvin saw Servetus blaze, 

So would new sects on newer victims gaze. 

E'en now the songs of Solyma begin ; 

Faith cants, perplex'd apologist of sin ! 

While the Lord's servant chastens whom he loves. 

And Simeon * kicks, where Baxter only " shoves." 5 

Whom nature guides, so writes, that every dunce. 
Enraptured, thinks to do the same at once j 
But after inky thumbs and bitten nails, 
And twenty scatter'd quires, the coxcomb fails. 

Let pastoral be dumb ; for who can hope 
To match the youtliful eclogues of our Pope ? 
Yet his and Phillips' faults, of different kind, 
For art too rude, for nature too refined, 
Instruct how hard the medium 't is to hit 
'Twixt too much polish and too coarse a wit. 

A vulgar scribbler, certes, stands disgraced 
In this nice age, when all aspire to taste ; 
The dirty language, and the noisome jest, 
W^hich pleased in Swift of yore, we now detest J 
Proscribed not only in the world polite, 
But even too nasty for a city knight ! 

Peace to Swift's faults ! his wit hath made them pass, 
Unmatch'd by all, save matchless Hudibras ! 
Whose author is perhaps the first we meet 
Who from our couplet lopp'd two final feet ; 

Ex noto fictum carmen sequar, ut sibi quivis 
Speret idem : sudet multum, frust.raque laboret 
A usus idem : tantum series juncturaq'ie pollet : 
Taiitum de medio sumptis accedit honoris. 

Silvis deducti caveani, me judice, Fauni, 
Ne velut innati triviis, ac pene forenses, 
Aut nimium teneris juveiientur versibus unquam, 
Ant immunda crepent, ignominiosaque dicta. 
Offenduntur enim, quibus est equus, et pater, et res: 
Nee, si quid fricti ciceris probat et nucis emtor, 
Acquis accipiunt animis, don^ntve corona. 

Syllaba lonea brevi subjecta, vocatur iambus, 
Pes citus : unde etiara trimetris accrescere jussit. 
Nomeu iambeis, cum senos redderet ictus, 
Primus ad extremum similis sibi : non ita pridem, 



1 His speech on the Licensing Act is one of his most 
eloquent efforts. 

2 Michael Perez, the Copper Captain, in " Rule a Wife 
and have a Wife." 

3 Jerry Collier's controversy with Congreve, (Src. on 
the subject of the drama, is too well known to require 
further comment. ' 

4 Mr. Simeon is the very bully of beliefs, and castigator 
of "good works." He is ably supported by John Stick- 
les, a labourer in the same vineyard : —but I say no more, 
for, according to Johnny in full congregation, "iS'o hopes 
for them as laughs," 

5 " Baxter's Shove tc heavy-a— d Christians," the 
veritable title of a book once in good repute, and likely 
enough to be so again. 



Nor less in merit than the longer line, 
This measure moves a favourite of the Nine. 
Though at first view eight feet may seem in vain 
Form'd, save in ode, to bear a serious strain. 
Yet Scott has show n our wondering isle of late 
This measure shrinks not from a theme of weight, 
And, varied skilfullj', surpasses far 
Heroic rhyme, but most in love and war. 
Whose fluctuations, tender or sublime, 
Are curb'd too much by long-recurring rhyme. 

But many a skilful judge abhors to see. 
What few admire — irregularity. 
This some vouchsafe to pardon ; but 't is hard 
When such a word contents a British bard. 

And must the bard his glowing thoughts confine, 
Lest censure hover o'er some faulty line ? 
Remove whate'er a critic may suspect, 
To gain the paltry suffrage of " correct ? " 
Or prune the spirit of each daring phrase. 
To fly from error, not to merit praise ? 

Ye, who seek finish'd models, never cease, 
By day and nigh', to read the works of Greece. 
But our good fathers never bent their brains 
To heathen Greek, content with native strains. 
The few who read a page, or used a pen. 
Were satisfied with Chaucer and old Ben ; 
The jokes and numbers suited to their taste 
Were quaint and careless, any thing but chaste j 
Yet whether right or wrong the ancient rules. 
It will not do to call our fathers fools ! 
Though you and I, who eruditely know 
To separate the elegant and low, 
Can also, when a hobbling line appears. 
Detect with fingers^ in default of ears. 

In sooth I do not know, or greatly care 
To learn, who our first English strollers were; 
Or if, till roofs received the vagrant art. 
Our Muse, like that of Thespis, kept a cart; 
But this is certain, since our Shakspeare's days, 
There's pomp enough, if little else, in pla3's; 
Nor will Melpomene ascend her throne 
Without high heels, white plume, and Bristol stone. 

Old comedies still meet with much applause. 
Though too licentious for dranntic laws ; 
At least, we moderns, wisely, 't is confest, 
Curtail, or silence, the lascivious jest. 

Whate'er their follies, and their faults beside. 
Our enterprising bards pass nought untried ; 
Nor do they merit slight applause who choose 
An English subject for an English muse, 

Tardior et paulo graviorque veniret ad aures, 
Spondeos stabiles in jura pateriia recepit 
Commodus et patiens; non ut de sede secunda 
Cederet aut quarta socialiler. Hie et in Acci 
Kobilibus trimetris apparet rarus, et Enni. 
In scenam missos mngno cum pondere versus, 
Aut nperae celeris nimium, curaque carentis, 
Aut ignoratae premit artis crimine turpi. 

Non quivis videt immodulata poemata judex; 
Et data Romanis venia est indigna poefis. 
Idcircone vaeer, scribamque licenter? an omnes 
Visuros peccata putem mea; tutus, et intra 
Spem veniae cautus? vitavi denique culpam, 
Kon laudem merui. Vos exemplaria Graeca 
Nocturna versate manu, versafe diurna. 
At vestri proavi Plautinos et numeroe et 
Laudavere sales; nimium patienter utrumque, 
Ke dicam stulte, mirati ; si modo ego et vos 
Scimus inurbanum lepido seponere dicto, 
Legitimumque sonum digitis callemus et aure. 

Ignolum fragicae genus invenisse Camoenae 
Dicitur, et plaustris vexisse poemata Thespis, 
Quae ranereiit agerenlque peruncti faecihus ora. 
Post hunc personae pallaeque repertor honestae 
Aeschylus, et modicis instravil pulpita fignis, 
Et docuit magnumque loqui, nitique cothurno. 

Successit vetus hie comoedia, non sine multa 
Laude; sed in vitium libertas excidit, et vim 
Dignam lege regi : lex est accepta ; ihorusque 
Turpiter obticuit, sublafo jure nocendi. 

Nil infentatum nostri liquere poetae ; 
Nee minimum meruere decus, vestigia Graeca 



HINTS FROM HORACE 



59 



And leave to minds which never dare invent 
French flippancy and German sentiment. 
Where is that living language which could claim 
Poetic more, as philosophic, fame, 
If all our bards, more patient of delay, 
Would stop, like Pope, to polish by the way ? 

Lords of the quill, whose critical assaults 
O'erthrovv whole quartos with their quires of faults, 
Who soon detect, and mark where'er we fail, 
And prove our marble with too nice a nail ! 
Democritus himself was not so bad ; 
He only thought, but you would make, us mad ! 

But truth to say, most rhymers rarely guard 
Against that ridicule they deem so hard ; 
In person negligent, they wear, from sloth. 
Beards of a week, and nails of annual growth j 
Reside in garrets, fly from those they meet. 
And walk in alleys, rather than the street. 

With little rhyme, less reason, if you please, 
The name of poet may be got with ease, 
So that not tuns of helleboric juice 
Shall ever turn your head to any use ; 
Write but like Wordsworth, live beside a Lake, 
And keep your bushy locks a year from Blake j i 
Then printyour book, once more return to town, 
And boys shall hunt your hardship up and down. 

Am I not wise, if such some poets' plight. 
To purge in spring — like Bay es — before I write? 
If this precaution soften'd not my bile, 
I know no scribbler with a madder style ; 
But since (perhaps my feelings are too nice) 
I cannot purchase fame at such a price, 
I '11 labour gratis as a grinder's wheel. 
And, blunt myself, give edge to others' steel. 
Nor write at all, unless to teach the art 
To those rehearsing for the poet's part ; 
From Horace show the pleasing paths of song, 
And from my own example — what is wrong. 

Though modern practice sometimes differs quite, 
'T is just as well to think before you write ; 
Let every book that suits your theme be read, 
So shall you trace it to the fountain-head. 

He who has learn'd the duty which he owes 
To friends and country, and to pardon foes j 
Who models his deportment as may best 
Accord with brother, sire, or stranger guest ; 

Ausi deserere, et celebrare domestica facta; 
Vel qui praetextas, vel qui docuere togatas. 
Nee virtute foret clarisve potentius armis, 
Quam lingua, Latium, si non offenderet unum- 
quemque poetarum limae labor, et mora. Vos, o 
Pompilius sanguis, carmen reprehendite, quod non 
Malta dies et multa litura coercuit, atque 
Praesectum decies non castigavit, ad unguem. 

Ingenium misera quia fortunatius arte 
Credit, et excludit sanos Helicone poetas 
Democritus; bona pars non ungues ponere curat, 
Non barbam : secreta petit loca, balnea vitat. 
Nanciscetur enim pretium nomenque poetae, 
Si tribus Anticyris caput insanabile nunquam 
Tonsori LIcino commiserit. O ego laevus, 
dui purgor bilem sub verni temporis horam! 
Non alius faceret meliora poemata : verum 
Nil tanti est: ergo fungar vice colis, acutura 
Reddere quae ferrum valet, exsors ipsa secandi: 
Munus et offlcium, nil scribens ipse, docebo ; 
Unde parentur opes; quid alat formetque poetam ; 
Quid deceat, quid non; quo virtus, quo ferat error. 

Scribendi recte, sapere est et principium et fons. 
Rem tibi Socraticae poterunt ostondere chartae : 
Verbaque provisam rem non invita sequentur. 
Qui didicit patriae quid debeat, et quid amicis; 
Quo sit amore parens, quo frater amandus, et hospes; 
Quod sit conscripti, quod judicis officium; quae 
Partes in bellum missi ducis ; ille profecto 
Reddere personae ecit convenientia cuique. 



1 As famous a tonsor as Licinus himself, and better 
paid, and may, like him, be one day a senator, having a 
better qualiflcation than one half of the heads he crops, 
viz. — independence. 



Who takes our laws and worship as they are, 
Nor roars reform for senate, church, and bar j 
In practice, rather than loud precept, wise, 
Bids not his tongue, but heart, philosophise : 
Such is the man the poet should rehearse, 
As joint exemplar of his life and verse. 

Sometimes a sprightly wit, and tale well told. 
Without much grace, or weight, or art, will hold 
A longer empire o'er the public mind 
Than sounding trifles, empty, though refined. 
Unhappy Greece \ thy sons of ancient days 
The muse may celebrate with perfect praise, 
Whose generous children narrow'd not their hearts 
With commerce, given alone to arms and arts. 
Our boys (save those whom public schools compel 
To " long and short " before they 're taught to spell) 
From frugal fathers soon imbibe by rote, 
" A penny saved, my lad, 's a penny got." 
Babe of a city birth ! from sixpence take 
The third, how much will the remainder make? — 
" A s:roat." — " Ah, bravo ! Dick hath done the sum ! 
He 'll swell my fifty thousand to a plum." 

They whose young souls receive this rust betimes, 
'T is clear, are fit for any thing but rhymes ; 
And Locke will tell you, that the father's right 
Who hides all verses" from his children's sight; 
For poets (says this sagc^and many more,) 
Make sad mechanics with their lyric lore; 
And Delphi now, however rich of old, 
Discovers little silver, and less gold. 
Because Parnassus, though a mount divine, 
Is poor as Irus,3 or an Irish mine.* 

Two objects always should the poet move. 
Or one or both, — to please or to improve. 
Whate'er you teach, be brief, if you design 
For our remembrance your didactic line ; 
Redundance places memory on the rack, 
For brains may be o'erloaded, like the back- 
Fiction does best when taught to look like truth. 
And fairy fables bubble none but youth : 
Expect no credit for too wondrous tales, 
Since Jonas only springs alive from whales ! 

Respicere exemplar vitae, morumque jubebo 
Doctum imitatorem, et vivas hinc ducere voces. 

Interdum speciosa locis, morataque recte 
Fabula, nuUius veneris, sine ponrtere et arte, 
Valdius oblectat populum, meliusque moratur, 
Quam versus inopes rerum nugaeque canorae. 

Graiis ingenium, Graiis dedit ore rotundo 
Musa loqui, praeter laudem nullius avaris. 
Romani pueri longie rationibus assem 
Discunt in partes centum diducere : dicat 
Filius Albini, Si de quincunce remota est 
Uncia, quid superat ? poterat dixisse — - Triens. Eu ! 
Rem poteris servare tuam. Redit uncia: quid fit 7 
Semis. An haec animos aerugo et cura peculi 
Cum semel imbuerit, speramus carmina fingi 
Posse linenda cedro, et levi servanda cupresso ? 

Aut prodesse volunt, aut delectare poetae; 
Aut simul et jucunda et idonea dicere vitae, 
Quidquid praeoipies, esto brevis : ut cito dicta 
Percipiant animi doriles, teneantque fideles. 
Omne supervacuum pleno de pectore manat. 

Ficta voluptatis causa, sint proxima veris : 
Nee, quodcunque volet, poscat sibi fabula credi : 
Neu pransae Lamiae vivum puerum extrahat alvo. 



2 I have not the original by me, but the Italian trans- 
lation runs as follows: — "E una cosa a mio credere 
molto stravagante, che un padre desideri, o permefta, che 
suo figliuolo rollivi e perfezioni questo talento." A little 
further on : "Si trovano di rado nel Parnaso le miniere 
d' oro e d' argento. " — Educazione dei Fanciulli del 
Signor Loche. [" If the child have a poetic vein, it is to 
me the strangest thing in the world, that the father should 
desire or suflfer it to be cherished or improved." — " It is 
very seldom seen, that any one discovers mines of gold or 
silver on Parnassus." — K.] 

3 " Iro pauperior : " this is the same beggar who boxed 
with Ulysses for a pound of kid's fry, which he lost, and 
half a dozen teeth besides. — See Odyssey, b. 18. 

4 The Irish gold mine of Wicklow, which yields just 
ore enough to swear by, or gild a bad guinea. 






60 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



Young men with aught but elegance dispense j 
Maturer years require a little seuse. 
To end at once : — that bard for all is fit, 
Who mingles well instruction with his wit ; 
For him reviews shall smile, for him o'erflow 
The patronage of Paternoster-row ; 
His book, with Longman's liberal aid, shall pass 
CWho ne'er despises books that bring him brass) ; 
Through three long weeks the taste of London lead, 
And cross St. George's Channel and the Tweed. 

But every thing has faults, nor is 't unknown 
That harps and fiddles of en lose their tone, 
And wayward voices, at their owner's call, 
With all his best endeavours, only squall ; 
Dogs blink their covey, flints withhold the spark,* 
And double-barrels (damn them !) miss their mark.^^ 

Where frequent beauties strike the reader's view, 
We must not quarrel for a blot or two; 
But pardon equally to books or men, 
The slips of human nature, and the pen. 

Yet if an author, spite of foe or friend, 
Despises all advice too much to mend, 
But ever twangs the sime discordant string, 
Give him no quarter, howsoe'er he sing. 
Let Havard's 3 fate o'ertake him, who, for once, 
Produced a play too dashing for a dunce : 
At first none de'em'd it his ; but when his name 
Announced the fact — what then ? — it lost its fame. 
Though all deplore when Milton deigns to doze. 
In a long work 't is fair to steal repose. 

As pictures, so shall poems be ; some stand 
The critic eye, and please when near at hand ; 
But others at a distance striKe the sight ; 
This seeks the shade, but that demands the light. 
Nor dreads the connoisseur's fastidious view, 
But, ten times scrutinised, is ten times new. 

Parnassian pilgrims I- ye whom chance, or choice. 
Hath led to listen to the Muse's voice, 

Centuriae seniorum agitant expertia frugis : 
Celsi praetereunt austera poemata Rhamnes. 
Omne tulit punctum, qui miscuit utile dulci, 
Lectorem delectanUo, pariferque monendo. 
Hie meret aera liber Sosiis; hie et mare transit, 
Et longum nolo scriptori prorngat at-vum. 

Sunt delicta taraen, quibus ignovisse velimus; 
Kam neque chorda sonum reddit quern vult manus et 

mens, 
Poscentique gravem persaepe remittit acutum; 
JTec semper feriet qu^^dcunque minabitur arcus. 
Verum ubi plura nitent in carmine, non ego paucis 
Offendar maculis, quas aut incuria fndit, 
Aut humana parum cavit natura. Quid ergo? 
Ut scriptor si peccat idem librarius usque, 
Quamvis est monitus, venia caret; ut citharoedus 
Ridetur, chorda qui semper oberrat eadem : 
Sic mihi, qui multum cessal, fit Choerilu8 ille, 
Quern bis terve boniim cum risu miror; et idem 
Indignor, quandnqiie bonus dormitat Homerus. 
Verum operi longo fas est ohrepere somnum. 

Ut pictura, poesis: erit quae, si prnpius stes, 
Te oapiet masiis; et quaedam, si longius abstes: 
Haec amat obscurum ; vo)et haec sub luce videri, 
Judicis argutum quae non formidit acumen: 
Haec placuit semel; haec decies repetita placebit 



1 This couplet is amusingly characteristic of that mix- 
ture of fun and bitterness with which their author some- 
limes spolve in conversation; so much so, that thf.se who 
knew him might almost fancy they hear him utter the 
words. — Moore. — E. 

2 As Mr. Pope took the liberty of damning Homer, to 
■whom he was under great obligations — " And Homer 
(damn him .') caHx " — it may be presumed that any body 
or any thing may be damned in verse by poetical license; 
and, in case of accident, I beg leave to plead so illustrious 
a precedent. 

3 For the story of Billy Havard's tragedy, see "Davies's 
Life of Garrick." I believe it is " Regulus " or "Charles 
the First." The moment it was known to be his the 
theatre thinned, and the bookseller refused to give the 
customary sum for the copyright. 



Receive this counsel, aud be timely wise; 

Few reach the summit which before you lies. 

Our church and state, our courts and camps, concede 

Reward to very moderate heads indeed ! 

In these plain conmion sense will travel far; 

All ate not Erskines who mi lead the bar: 

But poesy between the best and worst 

No medium knows ; you must be last or first; 

For middling poets' miserable volumes 

Are danm'd alike by gods, and men, and columns. 

Again, my Jeffrey ! — as that sound inspires. 
How wakes my bnsom to its v\onted fires! 
Fires, such as gentle Caledonians feel 
When Southrons wri'.he upon their critic wheel, 
Or mild Eclectici,* when some, worse than Turks, 
Wr:uld rob poor Faith to decorate " good works." 
Such are the genial feelings thou canst claim — 
My falcon flies not at ignoble game. 
Mightiest of ail Dunedin's beasts of chase ! 
For thee my Pegasus would mend his pace. 
Arise, my Jeffrey ! or my inkless pen 
Shall never blunt its edge on meaner men ; 
Till thee or thine mine evil eye discerns, 
Alas ! I cannot "strike at wretched kernes." 
Inhuman Saxon ! wilt thou then resign 
A muse and heart by choice so wholly thine ? 
Dear d— d contemner of my schoolboy songs, 
Hast thou no vengeance for my manhood's wrongs ? 
If unprovoked thou once could bid me bleed, 
Hast thou no weapon for my daring deed ? 
What ! not a word '. — and am I then so low ? 
Wilt thou forbear, who never spared a foe ? 
Hast thou no wrath, or wish to give it vent ? 
No wit for nobles, dunces by descent? 
No jest on " minors," quibbles on a name. 
Nor one facetious paragraph of blame ? 
Is it for this on Ilion I have stood, 
And thought of Homer less than Holyrood ? 

O major juvenum, quamvis et voce paterna 
Fingeris ad rectum, et per te sapis; hoc tibi dictum 
Tolle memor: certis medium et tolerabile rebus 
Recte cnncedi : consultus juris, et ^ctor 
Causarum med'ocris abest virtute diserti 
Messalae, nee scit quantum Ca>sellius Aulus: 
Sed tamen in prelio est : m^diocribus esse poetis 
Non homines, non di, non concessere columnae. 
Vt gratas inter mensas symphonia discors, 
Eterassum unguentum, et Sardo cum melle papaver 
Offendunt, poterat duci quia coena sine istis ; 



4 To the Eclectic or Christian Reviewers, I have to re- 
turn thanks for the fervour of that charily which, in 
1609. induced them to express a hope that a thing then 
published by me might lead to certain consequences, 
which, although natural enough, surely came but rashly 
from reverend lips. I refer them to their own pages, 
where they congratulated themselves on the prt spect of a 
tilt between Mr. Jeffrey and myself, from which some 
great good was to accrue, provided one or b»ith were 
knocked on the head. Having survived two years and a 
half those "Elegies" which they were kindly preparing 
to review, I have no peculiar gusto to give them "so joy- 
ful a trouble," except, indeed, "upon compuision, Hal;" 
but if, as David says in the "Rivals," it should come to 
"bloody sword and gun fighting," we "won't run, will 
we, Sir Lucius?" I do not kiiow what I had done to 
these Eclectic gentlemen: my works are their lawful per- 
quisite, to be hewn in pieces like Agag, if it seem meet 
unto them: but why they should be in such a hurry to 
kill off their author, I am ignorant. "The race is not al- 
1 ways to the swift, nor the battle to the strong:" and 
I now, as these Christians have "smote me on one cheek," 
jl hold them up the other; and, in return for their good 
I wishes, give them an opportunity of repeating them. 
Had any other set of men expressed such sentiments, I 
should have smiled, and left them to the "recording 
angel;" but from the pharisees of Christianity decency 
might be expected. I can assure these brethren, that, 
; publican and sinner as I am, I would not have treated 
j " mine enemy's dog thus." To show tliem the superiority 
! of my brotherly love, if ever the Reverend Messrs. 
Simeon or Ramsden should be engaged in such a conflict 
; as that in which they requested me to fall, I hope they 
may escape with being " winged " only, and that Heavi- 
I side may be at hand to extract the ball. 



imiiwiii f I Mirf ' f fa iiint'"lMnfc 



m^ammmmtmii:M 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



61 



On shore of Euxine or iE^ean sea, 

My hate, untravell'd, fondly turned to thee. 

Ah ! let me cease ; in vain my bosom burns, 

From Corydon unkind Alexis (urns: i 

Thy rhymes are vain ; thy Jefi'rey then forego, 

Nor woo that anger which he will not show. 

What then ? — Edina starves some lanker son, 

To write an article thou canst not shun ; 

Some less fastidious Scotchman shall be found, 

As bold in Billing-.gate, though less renown'd. 

As if at table some discordant dish 
Should shock our optics, such as frogs for fish ; 
As oil in lieu of butter men decry, 
And poppies please not in a modern pie ; 
If all such mixtures then be half a crime. 
We must have excellence to relish rhyme. 
Mere roast and boil d no epicure invites j 
Thus poetry disgusts, or else delights. 

Who shoot not flying rarely touch a gun : 
Will he who sw^ims not to the river run ? 
And men unpractised in exchanging knocks 
Must go to Jackson ^ ere they dare to box. 
Whatever the weapon, cudgel, fist, or foil, 
None reach expertness without years of toilj 
But fifty dunces can, with perfect ease. 
Tag twenty thousand couplets, when they please. 
Why not ? — shall I, thus qualified lo sit 
For rotten boroughs, never show my wit? 
Shall I, whose fathers with the quorum sate, 
And lived in freedom on a fair estate ; 
Who left me heir, with stables, kennels, packs, 
To all their income, and to— twice its tax ; 
Whose form and pedigree have scarce a fault. 
Shall I, I say, suppress my attic salt ? 

Thus think " the mob of gentlemen ; " but you, 
Besides all this, must have some genius too. 
Be this your sober judgment, and a rule, 
And print not piping hot from Southey's school, 
Who (ere another Thalaba appears), 
I trust, will spare us for at least nine years. 
And hark 'ye, Southey ! 3 pray — but do n't be vex'd - 
Burn all your last three works — and half the next. 

Sic animis natum inventumque poema juvandis, 
Si paulum a sumfno decessit, vergit ad imum. 

Ludere qui nescit, campesiribus abstinet armis, 
Indoctusque pilae, discive. trnchive, quiescit, 
Ne spissae risum tullant impune roronae : 
Clui nescit, versus tarnen audet fingere ! — Quid nil 
Liber et ingenuus praesertim census equestrem 
Summam nummorum, vitioque remotus ab omni. 
Tu nihil invita dices faciesve Minerva: 
Id tibi judicium est, ea mens; si quid tamen olim 
Scripseris, in Metti descendat judicis aures, 
Et patris, et nostras, uonumque prema'ur in annum. 



But why this vain advice ? once published, bocks 
Can never be recall'd — from pastry-cooks ! 
Though "Madoc," with " Pucelle,"4 instead of punk. 
May travel back to Quito — on a trunk ! 8 

Orpheus, we learn from Ovid and Lempriere, 
Led all wild beasts but women by the ear j 
And had he fiddled at the present hour, 
We 'd seen the lions waltzing in the Tower; 
And old Amphion, such were minstrels then. 
Had built St. Paul's without the aid of Wren. 
Verse too was justice, and the bards of Gieece 
Did more than constables to keep the peace j 
Abolish'd cuckoldom with much applause, 
Call'd county meetings, and enforced the laws. 
Cut down crown influence with reforming scythes. 
And served the church — without demanding tithes; 

Membranis intus positis, delere licebit 
Quod non edideris; nescit vox missa reverti. 

Sylvestres homines ►-acer interpresque deorum 
Caedibus et victu foedo deterruit Orpheus : 
Dictus ob hoc Icnire tigres, rabidosque leones: 
Dictus et Amphion, Thebanae conditor arois, 
Saxa movere sono testudinis, et prece blanda 
Ducere quo vellet : fuit haec sapientia quondam, 
Publica privatis secerneie; sacra profanis; 
Concubitu prohibere vago : dare jura maritis; 
Oppida moliri; leges incidere ligno. 
Sic honor et nomen divinis vatibus atque 
Carminibus venit. Post hos insignis Homeru8 
Tyrtaeusque mares animos in Martia bella 



1 Invenies alium, si te hie fastidit, Alexin. 

2 Lord Byron's taste for boxing brought him acquaint- 
ed, at an early period, with this distinguished, and, it is 
not too much to say, respectrd, professor of the art; for 
whom, throughout life, he, and also the late Mr. Wind- 
ham, entertained a sincere regard. In a note to the 
eleventh canto of Don .Tuan, lie calls him "his old friend, 
and corporeal pastor and master." — E. 

3 Mr. Southey has lately tied another canister to his 
tail in the "Curse of Kehama," maugre the neglect of 
Madoc, &c., and has in one instance had a wonderful 
eflfect. A literary friend of mine, walking out one lovely 
evening last summer, on the eleventh bridge of the Pad- 
dington canal, was alarmed by the cry of "one in jeo- 
pardy: " he rushed along, collected a body of Irish hay- 
makers (supping on butter-milk in an adjacent paddock), 
procured three rakes, one eel-spear, and a landing-net, and 
at last (horresco referens) pulled out — his own publisher. 
The unfortunate man was gone for ever, and so was a 
large quarto wherewith he had taken the leap, which 
proved, on inquiry, to have been Mr. Southey's last work. 
Its "alacrity of sinking" was so great, that it has never 
since been heard of; though some maintain that it is at 
this moment concealed at Alderman Birch's pastry premi- 
ses, Cornhill. Be this as it" may, the coroner's inquest 
brought in a verdict of " Felo de bibliopola" against a 
"quarto unknown:" and circumstantial evidence being 
since strong against the "Curse of Kehama" (of which 



the above words are an exac t description), it will be tried 
by its peers next session, in Grub street — Arthur, Al- 
fred, Davideie, Richard (.'oeur de Linn, Exodus Exodia, 
Epigoniad, Calvary, Fall of Cambria. Siege of Acre, Don 
Roderick, and Tom Thumb the Great, are the names of 
the twelve jurors. The judges, are Pye, Bowles, and the 
bellman of St. Sepulchre's. The same advocates, pro and 
con, will be employed as are now engaged in Sir F. Bur- 
dell's celebrated cause in the Scotch courts. The public 
anxiously await the result, and all live publishers will be 
subpoenaed as witnesses. — But Mr. Southey has publish- 
ed the "Curse of Kehama." — an inviting title to quib- 
blers. By the bye, it is a good deal beneath Scott and 
Campbell, and not much above Southey, to allow the booby 
Ballantyne to entitle them, in the Edinburgh Annual Re- 
gister (of which, by the bye, Souihey is editor) "the 
grand poetical triumvirate of the day" But, on second 
thoughts, it can be no great degree of praise to be the one- 
eyed leadei-s of the blind, though they might as well keep 
to themselves "Scott's thirty thousand copies sold," 
which must sadly discnmlit poor Southey's unsaleables. 
Poor Southey, it should seem, is the " Lepidus " of this 
poetical triumvirate. I am only surprised to see him in 
such good company. 
" Such things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, 
But wonder how the devil he came there." 
The trio are well defined in the sixth proposition of 
Euclid -—"Because, in the triangles D B C, A C B, D B 
is equal to A C, and B C common to both; the two sides 
D B, B C, are equal to the two A C, C B, each to each, and 
the angle D B C is equal to the angle A C B: therefore, 
the base D C is equal to the base A B, and the triangle D 
B C (Mr. Souihey) is equal to the triangle A C B, the less 
to the greater, which is absurd," &c. — The editor of 
the Edinburgh Register will find the rest of the theorem 
hard by his sta*^!ing; he has only to cross the river; 't is 
the first turnpike t'other side "Pons Asinorum."» 

4 Voltaire's "Pucelle" is not quite so immaculate as 
Mr. Southey's "Joan of Arc," and yet I am afraid the 
Frenchman has both more truth and poetry too on his 
side — (they rarely go together)— than our patriotic min- 
strel, whose first essay was in praise of a fanatical French 
strumpet, whose title of witch would be correct with the 
change of the first letter. 

5 Like Sir Bland Burgess's "Richard;" the tenth book 
of which I read at Malta, on a trunk of Eyres, 19, Cock- 
spur-street. If this be doubted, I shall buy a portmanteau 
to quote from. 

* This Latin has sorely puzzled the University of Edin- 
burgh. Ballantyne said it meant the " Bridge of Berwick," 
but Southey claimed it as half English ; Scott swore it was 
the " Brig' o' Stirling : " he had just passed two King 
James's and a dozen Douglasses fcver it. At last it was 
decided by Jeffrey, that it meant nothing more nor lesa 
than the "counter of Archy Constable's shop." 



62 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



And hence, throughout all Hellas and the East, 
Each poet was a prophet and a priest, 
Whose old-establish'd board of joint controls 
Included kingdoms in the cure of souls. 

Next rose the martial Homer, Epic's prince, 
And fighting's been in fashion ever since ; 
And old Tyrtaeus, when the Spartans warr'd, 
(A limping leader, but a lofty bard,) 
Though waird Ithome had resisted long, 
Reduced the fortress by the force of song. 

When oracles prevail'd, in times of old, 
In song alone Apollo's will was told. 
Then if your verse is what all verse should be, 
And gods were not ashamed on't, why should we ? 

The INIuse, like mortal females, may be woo'd ; 
In turns she '11 seem a Paphian, or a prude ; 
Fierce as a bride when first she feels alfright. 
Mild as the same upon the second night; 
Wild as the wife of alderman or peer, 
Now for his grace, and now a grenadier ! 
Her eyes beseem, her heart belies, her zone, 
Ice in a crowd, and lava when alone. 

If verse be studied with some show of art, 
Kind Nature always will perform her part ; 
Though without genius, and a native vein 
Of wit, we loathe an artificial stiain — 
Yet art and nature join'd will win the prize, 
Unless they act like us and our allies. 

The youth who trains to ride, or run a race, 
Must bear privations with unruffled face. 
Be caird to labour when he thinks to dine. 
And, harder still, leave wenching and his wine. 
Ladies who sing, at least who sing at sight, 
Have followed music through her farthest flight, 
But rhymers tell you neither more or less, 
" I 've got a pretty poem for the press ; " 
And that 's enough ; then write and print so fast; - 
If Satan take the hindmost, who 'd be last ? 
They storm the types, they publish, one and all. 
They leap the counter, and they leave the stall. 
Provincial maidens, men of high command. 
Yea, baronets have ink'd the bloody hand ! i 
Cash cannot quell them ; PoUio play'd this prank, 
(Then Phoebus first found credjt in a bank 1) 
Not all the living only, but the dead. 
Fool on, as fluent as an Orpheus' head ; "^ 
Damn'd all their days, they posthumously thrive 
Dug up from dust, though buried when alive ! 
Reviews record this epiclemic crime. 
Those Books of Martyrs to the rage for rhyme. 
Alas ! woe worth the scribbler ! often seen 
In Morning Post, or Monthly Magazine. 
There lurk his earlier lays ;" but soon, hot-press'd. 
Behold a quarto I — Tarts must tell the rest. 
Then leave, ye wise, the lyre's precarious chords 
To muse-mad baronets, or madder loids, 

Versibus exacuit; dictae per carmina sortes : 
Et vitae monstrata via est : et gratia regum 
Pieriis tentata modis : ludusque repertus, 
Et longorum operum finis : ne forte pudori 
Sit tibi Musa lyrae solers, et cantor Apollo. 

Natura fieret laudabile carmen, an arte, 
Quaesitum est : ego nee studium sine divite venai 
Nee rude quid prosit video ingenium : alterius sic 
Altera poscit opem res, et conjurat amice. 
Qui studet optatam cursu contingere metam, 
Multa tulit fecitqne puer; sudavit, et alsit; 
Abstinuit Venere et vino: qui Pythia cantat 
Tibicen, didicit piius, extimuitque magistrum. 
Nunc satis est dixisse; ego mira poemata pango: 



Or country Crispins, now grown somewhat stale, 
Twin Doric minstrels, drunk with Doric ale ! 
Hark to those notes, narcotically soft ! 
The cobbler-laureats 3 sing to Capel Lofft !« 
Till, lo ! that modern Midas, as he hears, 
Adds an ell growth to his egregious ears ! 

There lives one druid, who prepares in time 
'Gainst future feuds his poor revenge of rhyme; 
Racks his dull memory, and his duller muse, 
To publish faults which friendship should excuse. 
If friendship 's nothing, self-regard might teach 
More polish'd usage of his pirts of speech. 
But what is shame, or what is aught to him ? 
He vents his spleen, or gratifies his whim. 
Some fancied slight has roused his lurking hate. 
Some folly cross'd, some jest, or some debate ; 
Up to his den Sir Scribbler hies, and soon 
The gather'd gall is voided in lampoon. 
Perhaps at some pert speech you 've dared to frown, 
Perhaps your poem may have pleased the town : 

Occupet extremum scabies: mihi turpe relinqui est, 
Et, quod non didici, sane nescire fateri. 
******* 



1 The Red Hand of Ulnter, introduced generally in a 
canton, marks the shield of a baronet of the United King- 
dom. — E. 

2 " Tum quoque marmorea caput a cervice revulsum, 

Gurgite cum medio portans Oeagrius Hebrus, 
Volveret Eurydicen vox ipsa, et frigida lingua; 
Ah, miseram Eurydicen I anima fugiente vocabat ; 
Eurydicen toio referebant flumine ripae." — 

Oeorgic, iv. 523. 



3 I beg Nathaniel's pardon : he is not a cobbler; it is a 
tailor, but begged Capel Loflft to sink the profession in his 
preface to two pair of panta — ■^t^sha I — of cantos, which 
he wished the public to try o-n- but the sieve of a patron 
let it out, and so far saved theetpense of an advertisement 

I to his country customers. — Merry's " Moorfields whine " 
was nothing to all this. The " Delia Cruscans " were 
people of some education, and no profession; but these 
Arcadians ("Arcades ambo '^ — bumpkins both) send out 
their native nonsense without the smallest alloy, and leave 
all the shoes and smallclothes in the parish unrepaired, to 
patch up Elegies on Enclosures and Paeans to Gunpowder. 
Sitting on a shcpbnard, they describe the fields of battle, 
when the only blood they ever saw was shed from the 
finger; and an " Essay on War " is produced by the ninth 
part of a " poet, " 

" And own that nine such poets made a Tate." 

Did Nathan ever read that line of Pope? and if he did, 
why not take it as his motto? 

4 This well-meaning gentleman has spoiled some excel- 
lent shoemakers, and been accessary to the poetical un- 
doing of many of the industiious poor. Nathaniel Bloom- 
field and his brother Bobby have set all Somersetshire 
singing; nor has the malady confined itself to one county. 
Pratt too (who once was wiser) has caught the contagion 
of patronage, and decoyed a poor fellow named Blackett 
into poetry; but he died during the operation, leaving one 
child and two volumes of "Remains " utterly destitute. 
The girl, if she don't take a poetical twist, and come forth 
as a ehoe-mi.king Sappho, may do well; but the "trage- 
dies" are as ri"kely as if they had been the offspring of 
an Earl or a Seatonian prize poet. The patrons of this 
poor lad are certainly answerable for his end; and it ought 
to be an indictable offence. But this is the least they 
have done: for, by a refinement of barbarity, they have 
made the (late) man posthumously ridiculous, by printing 
what he would have had sense enough never to print him- 
self. Certes these rakers of " Remains" come under the 
statute against "resurrection men." What does it sig- 
nify whether a poor dear dead dunce is lo be stuck up in 
Surgeons' or in Stationers' Hall ? Is it so bad to unearth 
his bones as his blunders? Is it not better to gibbet his 
body on a heath, than his soul in an octavo ? " We know 
what we are, but we know not what we may be: " and it 
is to be hoped we never shall know, if a man who has 
passed through life with a sort of eclat, is to find himself 
a mountebank on the other side of Styx, and made, like 
poor Joe Blackett. the laughing-stock of purgatory. The 
plea of publication is to provide for the child; now, might 
not some of this " Sutor ultra Crepidum's" friends and 
seducers have done a decent action without inveigling 
Pratt into biography? And then his inscription split 
into so many modicums ! — "To the Duchess of Somuch. 
the Right Hon. So-and-So, and Mrs. and Miss Somebody, 
these volumes are, &c. &c." — why, this is doling out 
the "soft milk of dedication" in gills, — there is but a 
quart, and he divides it among a dozen. Why, Pratt, 
hadst thou not a puff left? Dost thou think six families 
of distinction can share this in quiet? There is a child, 
a book, and a dedication : send the girt to her grace, the 
volumes to the grocer, and the dedication to the devil. 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



63 



If so, alas ! 't is nature iu the man — 

May Heaven forgive you, for he never can ! 

Then be it so ; and may his withering bays 

Bloom fresh in sitire, though they fade in praise I 

While his lost songs no more shall steep and stink, 

The dullest, fattest weeds on Lethe's brink, 

But springing upwards from the sluggish mould, 

Be (what they never were before) be — sold ! 

Should some rich bard (but such a monster now. 

In modern physics, we can scarce allow). 

Should some pretending scribbler of the court, 

Some rhyming peer — there 's plenty of the sort l — 

All but one poor dependent priest withdrawn, 

(Ah ! too regardless of his chaplain's yawn !) 

Condemn the unlucky curate to recite 

Their last dramatic work by candle-light, 

Kow would the preacher turn each rueful leaf, 

Dull as his sermons, but not half so brief! 

Yet, since 't is promised at the rector's death, 

He '11 risk no living for a little breath. 

Then spouts and fo'ims, and cries at every line, 

(The Lord forgive him !) " Bravo ! grand ! divine !" 

Hoarse with those praises (which, by flatt'ry fed. 

Dependence barters for her bitter bread). 

He strides and stamps along with creaking boot, 

Till the floor echoes his emphatic foot. 

Then sits again, then rolls his pious eye, 

As when the dying vicar will not die ! 

Nor feels, forsooth, emotion at his heart ; — 

But all dissemblers overact their part. 

Ye who aspire to " build the lofty rhyme," 2 
Believe not all who laud your false " sublime ; " 
But if some friend shall hear your work, and say, 
" Expunge that stanza, lop that line away," 
And, after fruitless efforts, you return 
Without amendment, and he answers, " Burn ! " 
That instant throw your paper in the fire. 
Ask not his thoughts, or follow his desire ; 
But (if true bard !) you scorn to condescend, 
And will not alter what you can't defend. 
If you will breed this bastard of your brains,^ 
We '11 have no words — I 've only lost my pains. 

Si carmina condes, 

Nunquam te fallant anima sub vulpe latentes. 
Quintilio si quid recitares, Corrige, sodes, 
Hoc(aiebat) et hoc : melius te posse negares, 
Bis terque expertum frustra, delere jubebat, 
Et male tornatos incudi reddere versus. 
Si defendere delictum quam vertere malles, 
Nullum ultra verbum, aut operam insumebat inanem, 
Quin sine rivali teque et tua solus amares. 



1 Here will Mr. Gifford allow me to introduce once more 
to his notice the sole survivor, the "ultimus Romano- 
rum," the last of the Cruscanti --"Edwin " the "pro- 
found" by our Lady of Punishment ! here he is, as live- 
ly as in the days of "well said Baviad the Correct." I 
thought Fitzgerald had been the tail of poesy; but, alas ! 
he is only the penultimate. 

A familiar Epistle to the Editor of the Morning 
Chronicle, 
" What reams of paper, floods of ink," 
Do some men spoil, who never think ! 
And 80 perhaps you '11 say of me, 
In which your readers may agree. 
Still I write on, and tell you why; 
Nothing 's so bad, you can't deny, 
But may instruct or entertain 
Without the risk of giving pain, &c. &c. 

On some Modern Quads and Reformists. 
In tracing of the human mind 

Through all its various courses, 
Though strange, 't is true, we often find 

It knows not its resources : 
And men through life assume a part 

For which no talents they possess, 
Yet wonder that, with all their art, 
They meet no better with success, &c. &o. 

2 See Milton's Lycidas.— E. 

3 "Bastard of your brains." — Winerva being the first 
by Jupiter's head-piece, and a variety of equally unac- 
countable parturitions upon earth, such as Madoc, &c. 

&.C. &.C. 



Yet, if you only prize your favourite thought, 
As critics kindly do, and authors ought ; 
If your cool friend annoy you now and then, 
And cross whole pages with his plaguy penj 
No matter, throw your ornaments aside, — 
Better let him than all the world deride. 
Give light to passages too much in shade, 
Nor let^a doubt obscure one verse you 've made ; 
Your friend's "a Johnson," not to leave one word, 
However trifling, which may seem absurd ; 
Such erring trifles lead to serious ills. 
And furnish food for critics,'! or their quills. 

As the Scotch fiddle, with its touching tune. 
Or the sad influence of the angry moon, 
All men avoid bad writers' ready tongues. 
As yawnmg waiters fly 5 Fitzscribble's lungs; 
Yet on he mouths — ten minutes — tedious each 
As prelate's homily, or placeman's speech j 
Long as the last years of a lingering lease, 
When riot pauses until rents increise. 
While such a minstrel, muttering fustian, strays 
O'er hedge and ditch, through unfrequented ways. 
If by some chance he walks into a well. 
And shouts for succour with stentorian yell, 
" A rope ! help. Christians, as ye hope for grace ! " 
Nor woman, man, nor child will stir a pace; 
For there his carcass he might freely fling, 
From frenzy, or the humour of the thing. 
Though tliis has happen'd to more bards than one ; 
I 'Jl tell you Budgeirs story,— and have done. 

Budgell, a rogue and rhymes'er, for no good, 
(Unless his case be much misunderstood) 
When teased with creditors' continual claims, 
" To die like Cato,"6 leapt into the Thames! 
And theref(.re be it lawful through the town 
For any bard to poison, hang, or drown. 
Who saves the intended suicide receives 
Small thanks from him who loathes the life he leaves ; 
And, sooth to say, mad poets must not lose 
The glory of that death they freely choose. 

Nor is it certain that some sorts of verse 
Prick not the poet's conscience as a curse ; 

Vir bonus et prudens versus reprehendet inertes : 
Culpabit duros; incomptis allinet atrum 
Transverso oalamo signum: ambiliosa recidet 
Ornamenta ; parum Claris lucem dare coget ; 
Arguet ambigue dictum ; mutanda notabit ; 
Fiet Aristarchus; nee dicet, Cur ego amicum 
Offeiidam in nugis? hae nugae seria ducent 
In mala derisum semel exreptumque sinistra. 

TJt mala quem scabies aut morbus regius urguet, 
Aut fanaticus error et iracunda Diana, 
Vesanum tetigisse timent fugiuntque poetam, 
Qui sapiunt: agitant pueri, incautique sequuntur. 
Hie dum sublimes versus ructatur, et errat 
Si veluti merulis intentus decidit auceps 
In puleum, foveamve ; licet, Succurrife, longum 
Clamet, lo cives ! non sit qui tollere curet. 
Si quis euret opem fcrre, et demittere funem. 
Qui scis an prudens hue se dejecerit, atque 
Servari nolit? Dicam : Siculique pnetae 
Narrabo intoritum. Deus immortalis haberi 
Dum cupit Empedocles, ardentem frigidua Aetnam 
Insiluit : sit jus liceatque perire poetis : 



4 "A crust for the critics.' 
sal." 



Bayes, in the " Rehear- 



5 And the "waiters" are the only fortunate people who 
can " fly " from them: all the rest, viz. the sad subscri- 
bers to the " Literary Fund," being compelled, by courtesy, 
to sit out the recitation without a hope of exclaiming. 
'Sic' (that is, by choking Filz. with bad wine, or worse 
poetry) " me servavit Apollo ! " 

6 On his table were found these words : " What Cato 
did, and Addison approved, cannot be wrong." But Addi- 
son did not "approve; " and if he had, it would not have 
mended the matter. He had invited his daughter on the 
same water-party ; but Miss Budgell, by some accident, 
CFcaped this last paternal attention. Thus fell the syco- 
phant of " Atticus," and the enemy of Pope. 



64 



THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 



Dosed 1 with vile drams on Sundaj' he was found, 
Or got a child on consecrated ground 1 
And hence is haunted with a rhyming rage — 
Fear'd like a bear just bursting from his cage. 

Invitum qui servat, idem facit occidenli. 
Necsemel hoc fecit ; nee, si retractus erit, jam 
Fiet homo, et ponet famosae mortis araorem. 



1 If "dosed with," &c. be censured as low, I beg leave 
to refer to the original for something still lower; and if 
any reader will translate "Minxerit in patrios cinere*;," 
&ic. into a decent couplet, I will insert said couplet in lieu 
of the present. 



If free, all fly his versifying fit, 

Fatal at once to simpleton or wit. 

But him, unhappy ! whom he seizes, — /itm 

He flays with recitation limb by limb ; 

Probes to the quick where'er he makes his breach, 

And gorges like a lawyer — or a leech. 

Nee satis apparet cur versus factitet: utrum 
Minxerit in patrios cineres, an triste bidental 
Moverit incestus: certe furit, ac velut nrsus, 
Objectos caveae valuit si frangere clathros, 
Indoctum doctumque fugat recitator acerbus. 
Quern vero arripiiit, tenet, occiditque legendo, 
Kon missura cutem, nisi plena cruoris, birudo. 



THE CURSE OF MINERVA.' 



Athens, Capuchin Convent, March 17, 1811. 

Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, 

Along Morea's hills the setting sun j 

Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright. 

But one unclouded blaze of living light ; 

O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws, 

Gilds the green wave that trembles as it glows; 

On old ^gina's rock and Hydra's isle 

The god of gladness sheds his parting smile; 

O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine, 

Though there his altars are no more divine. 

Descending fast, the mountain-shadows kiss 

Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis ! 

Their azure arches through the long expanse, 

More deeply purpled, meet his mellowing glance. 

And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 

Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven ; 

Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, 

Behind his Delphian rock he sinks to sleep. 

On such an eve his palest beam he cast 
When, Athens ! here thy wisest look'd his last. 
How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray. 
That closed their murder'd sage's 2 latest day ! 
Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill. 
The precious hour of parting lingers still; 
But sad his light to agonising eyes. 
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes ; 
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour. 
The land where Phoebus never frown'd before ; 
But ere he sunk below Citheron's head. 
The cup of woe was quaff' d — the spirit fled ; 
The soul of him that scorn 'd to fear or fly. 
Who lived and died as none can live or die. 



1 This fierce philippic on Lord Elgin, whose collection 
of Athenian marbles was ultimately purchased for the 
nation, in 1616, at the cost of thirty-five thousand pounds, 
was written nt Athens, in March, Ifell, and prepared for 
publication along with the " Hints from Horace ; " but, 
like that satire, suppressed by Lord Byron, from motives 
which the reader will easily understand. It was first 
given to the world, in 1828. Few can wonder that Lord 
Byron's feelings should have been powerfully excited by 
the spectacle of the despoiled Parthenon; but it is only 
due to Lord F.lgin to keep in mind, that, had those pre- 
cious marbles remained, they must, in all likelihood, have 
perished for ever amidst the miserable scenes of violence 
which Athens has since witnessed ; and that their pre- 
sence in England has already, by universal admission, 
been of the most essential advantage to the fine arts of 
our own country. The political allusions in this poem 
are not such as require much explanation. It contains 
many lines, which, it is hoped, the author, on mature re- 
flection, disapproved of — but is too vigorous a specimen 
of his iambics to be omitted in any collective edition of 
his works. — E. 

3 Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sun- 
set (the hour of execution), notwithstanding the entrea- 
ties of his disciples to wait till the sun went down. 



But, lo ! from high Hymettus to the plain 
The queen of night asserts her silent reign ; 3 
No murky vapour, herald of the storm, 
Hides her fair face, or girds her glowing form. 
With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play, 
There the white column greets her grateful ray,' 
And bright around, with quivering beams beset, 
Her emblem sparkles o'er the niinaret : 
The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide, 
Where meek Cephisus sheds his scanty tide. 
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque, 
The gleaming torrent of the gay kiosk,* 
And sad and sombre 'mid the holy calm, 
Near Theseus' fane, yon solitary palm ; 
All, tinged \^ith varied hues, arrest the eye ; 
And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by. 

Again the ^i:geaD, heard no more afar. 
Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war: 
Again his waves in milder tints unfold 
Their long expanse of sapphire and of gold, 
Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle 
That frown, where gentler ocean deigns to smile. 

As thus, within the wall of Pallas' fane, 
I mark'd the beauties of the land and main, 
Alone, and friendless, on the magic shore, 
Whose arts and arms but live in~poets' lore; 
Oft as the matchless dome I turn'd to scan, 
Sacred to gods, but not secure from man, 
The past returned, the present seem'd to cease. 
And Glory knew no clime beyond her Greece ! 

Hours roll'd along, and Dian's orb on high 
Had gain'd the centre of her softest sky ; 
And yet unwearied still my footsteps trod 
O'er the vain shrine of many a vanish'd god : 
But chiefly, Pallas ! thine ; when Hecate's glare, 
Check'd by thy columns, fell more sadly fair 
O'er the chill marble, where the s'artling tread 
Thrills the lone heart like echoes from the dead. 
Long had I mused, and treisured every trace 
The wreck of Greece recorded of her race. 
When, lo ! a giant form before me strode, 
j And Pallas hall'd me in her own abode! 

Yes, 't was Minerva's self; but, ah ! how changed, 
i Since o'er the Dardan field in arms she ranged ! 
! Not such as erst, by her divine command, 
I Her form appear'dfrom Phidias' plastic hand: 

Gone were the terrors of her awful brow, 

Her idle asgis bore no Gorgon now ; 



3 The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our 
own country; the days iu winter are longer, but in sum- 
mer of less duration, 
I 4 The kiosk is a Turkish summer-house; the palm is 
I without the present walls of Athens, not far from the 
j temple of Theseus, between which and the tree the wall 
I intervenes. Cephisus' stream is indeed scanty, and Ilis- 
I sus has no stream at all. 



THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 



65 



Her helm was dinted, and the broken lance 
Seem'd weak and shaftless e'en to mortal glance j 
The olive branch, which still she deign'd to clasp, 
Shrunk from her touch, and wither'd in her grasp ; 
And, ah ! though still the brightest of the sky, 
Celestial tears bedimm'd her large blue eye j 
Round the rent casque her owlet circled slow. 
And mourn'd his mistress with a shriek of woe ! 

" Mortal ! " — 't was thus she spake — " that blush 
of shame 
Proclaims thee Briton, once a noble name ; 
First of the mighty, foremost of the free, 
Now honour'd less by all, and least by me : 
Chief of thy foes sh ill Pallas still be found. 
Seek'st thou the cause of loathing ? — look around. 
Lo ! here, despite of war and wasting fire, 
I saw successive tyrannies expire. 
'Scaped from the ravage of the Turk and Goth, 
Thy country sends a spoiler worse than both. 
Survey this vacant, violated fane ; 
Recount the relics torn that yet remain : 
These Cecrops placed, this Pericles adorn'd,i 
That Adrian rear'd when drooping Science mourn'd. 
What more I owe let gratitude attest — 
Know, Alaric and Elgin did the rest. 
That all may learn from whence the plunderer came, 
The insulted wall sustains his hated name : 
For Elgin's fame thus grateful Pallas pleads, 
Below, his name — above, behold his deeds ! 
Be ever hail'd with equal honour here 
The Gothic monarch and the Pictish peer : 
Arms gave the first his right, the last had none, 
But basely stole what less barbarians won. 
So when the lion quits his fell repast. 
Next prowls the wolf, the filthy jackal last : 
Flesh, limbs, and blood the former make their own, 
The last poor brute securely gnaws the bone. 
Yet still the gods are just, and crimes are cross'd : 
See here what Elgin won, and what he lost ! 
Another name with hi" pollutes my shrine : 
Behold where Dian's beams disdain to shine ! 
Some retribution still might Pallas claim. 
When Venus half avenged Minerva's shame." 2 

She ceased awhile, and thus I dared reply, 
To soothe the vengeance kindling in her eye : 
" Daughter of Jove ! in Britain's injured name, 
A true-born Briton may the deed disclaim. 
Frown not on England ; England owns him not : 
Athena, no ! thy plunderer was a Scot. 
Ask'st thou the difference ? From fair Phyles' towers 
Survey Bceotia ; — Caledonia's ours. 
And well I know within that bastard land 3 
Hath Wisdom's goddess never held command ; 
A barren soil, where Nature's germs, confined 
To stern sterility, can stint the mind ; 
Whose thistle well betrays the niggard earth. 
Emblem of all to whom the land gives birth ; 
Each genial influence nurtured to resist ; 
A land of meanness, sophistry, and mist. 
Each breeze from foggy mount and marshy plain 
Dilutes with drivel every drizzly brain, 
Till, burst at length, each wat'ry head o'erflows, 
Foul as their soil, and frigid as their snows. 
Then thousand schemes of petulance and pride 
Despatch her scheming children far and wide : 
Some east, some west, some every where but north. 
In quest of lawless gain, they issue forth. 



1 This is spoken of the city in general, and not of the 
Acropolis in particular. The temple of Jupiter Olympius, 
by some supposed the Pantheon, was finished by Hadrian ; 
sixteen columns are ..tanding, of the most beautiful mar- 
ble and architecture. 

2 His lordship's name, and that of one who no longer 
bears it, are carved conspicuously on the Parthenon ; 
above, in a part not far distant, are the torn remnants of 
the basso relievos, destroyed in a vain attempt to remove 
them. 

3 "Irish baetardB," according to Sir Callaghan O'Bralla- 
ghan. 



And thus — accursed be the day and year ! — 

She sent a Pict to play the felon here. 

Yet Caledonia claims some native worth, 

As dull Bceotia gave a Pindar birth ; 

So may her few, the letter'd and the brave, 

Bound to no clime, and victors of the grave. 

Shake off the sordid dust of such a land. 

And shine like children of a happier strand j 

As once, of yore, in some obnoxious place, 

Ten names (if found) had saved a wretched race." 

•' Mortal ! " the blue-eyed maid resumed, " once 
more 
Bear back my mandate to thy native shore. 
Though fallen, alas ! this vengeance yet is mine. 
To turn my counsels far from lands like thine. 
Hear then in silence Pallas' stern behest ; 
Hear and believe, for Time will tell the rest. 

" First on the head of him who did this deed 
My curse shall light,— on him and all his seed : 
Without one spark of intellectual fire, 
Be all the sons as senseless as the sire : 
If one with wit the parent brood disgrace. 
Believe him bastard of a brighter race : 
Still with his hireling artists let him prate. 
And folly's praise repay for Wisdom's hate ; 
Long of their patron's gusto let them tell, 
Whose noblest, native gusto is — to sell : 
To sell, and make — may Shame record the day I — 
The state receiver of his pilfer'd prey.4 
Meantime, the flattering, feeble dotard. West, 
Europe's worst dauber, and poor Britain's best, 
With palsied hand shall turn each model o'er, 
And own himself an infant of fourscore. 6 
Be all the bruisers cuU'd from all St. Giles', 
That art and nature may compare their styles ; 
While brawny brutes in stupid wonder stare, 
And marvel at his lordship's ' stone shop ' 6 there. 
Round the throng'd gate shall sauntering coxcombs 

creep. 
To lounge and lucubrate, to prate and peep ; 
While many a languid maid, with longing sigh. 
On giant statues casts the curious eye ; 
The room with transient glance appears to skim. 
Yet marks the mighty back and length of limb ; 
Mourns o'er the difference of now and then ; 
Exclaims, * These Greeks indeed were proper men ! ' 
Draws slight comparisons of these with those, 
And envies Lais all her Attic beaux. 
When shall a modern maid have swains like these ! 
Alas ! Sir Harry is no Hercules ! 
And last of all, amidst the gaping crew, 
Some calm spectator, as he takes his view, 
In silent indignation mix'd with grief, 
Admires the plunder, but abhors the thief. 
Oh, loathed in life, nor pardon'd in the dust, 
May hate pursue his sacrilegious lust ! 
Link'd with the fool that fired the Ephesian dome. 
Shall vengeance follow far beyond the tomb, 
And Eratostratus and Elgin shine 
In many a branding page and burning line ; 
Alike reserved for aye to stand accurs'd, 
Perchance the second blacker than the first. 

" So let him stand, through ages yet unborn, 
Fix'd statue on the pedestal of Scorn ; 
Though not for him alone revenge shall wait. 
But fits thy country for her coming fate : 
Hers were the deeds that taught her lawless son 
To do what oft Britannia's self had done. 



4 In 1816, thirty-five thousand pounds were voted by 
Parliament for the purchase of the Elgin marbles. — E. 

5 Mr. West, on seeing the "Elgin Collection" (I sup- 
pose we shall hear of the " Abershaw " and "Jack Shep- 
pard" collection), declared himself "a mere tyro" in 
art. 

6 Poor Crib was sadly puzzled when the marbles were 
first exhibited at Elgin House : he asked if It was not "a 
stone shop 7 " -- He was right ; it is a shop. 



6* 



66 



THE WALTZ. 



Look to the Baltic — blazing from afar, 
Your old ally yet mourns perfidious war.l 
Not to such deeds did Pallas lend her aid, 
Or break the compact which herself had made ; 
Far from such councils, from the faithless field 
She fled — but left behind her Gorgon shield : 
A fatal gift that turn'd your friends to stone, 
And left lost Albion hated and alone. 

" Look to the East, where Ganges' swarthy race 
Shall shake your tyrant empire to its bise ; 
Lo ! there Rebellion rears her ghastly head, 
And glares the Nemesis of native dead ; 
Till Indus rolls a deep purpureal flood. 
And claims his long arrear of northern blood. 
So may ye perish ! — Pallas, when she gave 
Your free-born rights, forbade ye to enslave. 

"Look on your Spain!— she clasps the hand she 
hates, 
But boldly clasps, and thrusts you from her gates. 
Bear witness, bright Barossa ! thou canst tell 
Whose were the sons that bravely fought and fell. 
But Lusitania, kind and dear ally, 
Can spare a few to fight, and sometimes fly. 
Oh glorious field ! by Famine fiercely won, 
The Gaul retires for once, and all is done ! 
But when did Pallas teach, that one retreat 
Retrieved three long olympiads of defeat ? 

" Look last at home — ye love not to look there ; 
On the grim smile of comfortless despair : 
Your city saddens : loud though Revel howls. 
Here Famine faints, and yonder Rapine prowls. 
See all alike of more or less bereft; 
No misers tremble when there 's nothing left. 
' Blest paper credit ; ' 2 vvho shall dare to sing ? 
It clogs like lead Corruption's weary wing. 
Yet Pallas pluck'd each premier by the ear, 
Who gods and men alike disdain'd to hear ; 
But one, repentant o'er a bankrupt state, 
On Pallas calls, — but calls, alas ! too late : 
Then raves for * * ; to that Mentor bends, 
Though he and Pallas never yet were friends. 
Him senates hear, whom never yet they heard, 
Contemptuous once, and now no less absurd. 
So, once of yore, each reasonable frog 
Swore faith and fealty to his sovereign 'log.' 
Thus hail'd your rulers their patrician clod, 
As Egypt chose an onion for a god. 

" Now fare ye well ! enjoy your little hour ; 
Go, grasp the shadow of your vanish'd power j 



1 The afeir of Copenhagen. — E. 

2 " Blest paper credit ! last and best supply. 

That lends Corruption lighter wings to fly." — Pope. 



Gloss o'er the failure of each fondest scheme ; 

Your strength a name, your bloated wealth a dream. 

Gone is that gold, the marvel of mankind. 

And pirates barter all that 's left behind.3 

No more the hirelings, purchased near and far, 

Crowd to the ranks of mercenary war. 

The idle merchant on the useless quay 

Droops o'er the bales no bark may bear away j 

Or, back returning, sees rejected stores 

Rot piecemeal on his own encumber'd shores : 

The starved mechanic breaks his rusting loom, 

And desperate mans him 'gainst the coming doom. 

Then in the senate of your sinking slate 

Show me the man whose counsels may have weight. 

Vain is each voice where tones could once command} 

E'en factions cease to charm a factious land : 

Yet jarring sects convulse a sister isle, 

And light with maddening hands the mutual pile. 

'"T is done, 't is past, since Pallas warns in vain ; 
The Furies seize her abdicated reign : 
Wide o'er the realm they wave their kindling brands. 
And wring her vitals with their fiery hands. 
But one convulsive struggle still remains. 
And Gaul shall weep ere Albion wear her chains. 
The banner'd pomp of war, the glittering files, 
O'er whose gay trappings stern Bellona smiles j 
The brazen trump, the spirit-stirring drum, 
That bid the foe defiance ere they come ; 
The hero bounding at his country's call. 
The glorious death that consecrates his fall, 
Swell the young heart with visionary charms, 
And bid it antedate the joys of arms. 
But know, a lesson you may yet be taught. 
With death alone are laurels cheaply bought : 
Not in the conflict Havoc seeks delight. 
His day of mercy is the day of fight. 
But when the field is fought, the battle won, 
Though drench'd with gore, his woes are but begun : 
His deeper deeds as yet ye know by name ; 
The slaughter'd peasant and the ravish'd dame, 
The rifled mansion and the foe-reapd field, 
111 suit with souls at home, untaught to yield. 
Say with what eye along the distant down 
Would flying burghers mark the blazing town ? 
How view the column of ascending flames 
Shake his red shadow o'er the startled Thames ? 
Nay, frown not, Albion ! for the torch was thine 
That lit such pyres from Tagus to the Rhine : 
Now should they burst on thy devoted coast, 
Go, ask thy bosom who deserves them most. 
The law of heaven and earth is life for life. 
And she who raised, in vain regrets, the strife." 



3 The Deal and Dover traffickers in specie. 



THE WALTZ: 

AN APOSTROPHIC HYMN.« 



'Qualis in Eurotae ripis, aut per juga Cynthi, 
Exercet Diana choros. " VIRGIL. 

"Such on Eurota's banks, or Cynthia's height, 
Diana seems : and so she charms the sight. 
When in the dance the graceful goddess leads 
The quire of nymphs, and overtops their heads." 

DRYDEN'S Virgil. 



TO THE PUBLISHER. 

Sir, — I am a country gentleman of a midland county. 
I might have been a parliament-man for a certain 
borough ; having had the offer of as many votes as 



General T. at the general election, in 1812.6 But 



4 This trifle was written at Cheltenham in the autumn 
of 1812, and published anonymously in the spring of the 
following year. It was not very well received at the time 



by the public; and the author was by no means anxious 
that it should be considered as his handiwork. " I hear," 
he says, in a letter to a friend, "that a certain malicious 
publication on waltzing is attributed to me. This report, 
I suppose, you will take care to contradict ; as the author, 
I am sure, will not like that I should wear his cap and 
bells." — E. 

5 State of the poll (last day), 5. 



THE WALTZ. 



67 



was all for domestic happiness ; as, fifteen years ago, 
on a visit to London, I married a middle-aged maid of 
honour. We lived happily at Hornem Hall, till last 
season, when my wife and I were invited by the 
Countess of Waltzaway (a distant relation of my 
spouse) to pass the winter in town. Thinking no 
harm, and our girls being come to a marriageable (or, 
as they call it, marketable) age, and having besides a 
Chancery suit inveterately entailed upon the family 
estate, we came up in our old chariot, — of which, by 
the bye, my wife grew so much ashamed in less than a 
week, that I was obliged to buy a second-hand barouche, 
of which I might mount the box, Mrs. H. saj's, if I 
could drive, but never see the inside — that place be- 
ing reserved for the Honourable Augustus Tiptoe, her 
partner-general and opera-knight. Hearing great 
praises of Mrs. H.'s dancing (she was famous for birth- 
night minuets in the latter end of the last century), I 
unbooted, and went to a ball at the Countess's, expect- 
ing to see a country dance, or, at most, cotillions, reels, 
and all the old paces to the newest tunes. But, judge 
of my surprise, on arriving, to see poor dear Mrs. 
Hornem with her arms half round the loins of a huge 
hussar-looking gentleman I never set eyes on before ; 
and his, to say truth, rather more than half round her 

waist, turning round, and round, to a d d see-saw 

up-and-down sort of tune, that reminded me of the 
" Black Joke," only more " affettuoso," till it made 
me quite giddy with wondering they were not so. By- 
and-by they stopped a bit, and I thought they would 
sit or fall down : — but no ; with Mrs. H.'s hand on his 
shoulder, '■'• quam jamiliarittr''''^ (as Terence said, 
when 1 was at school), they walked about a minute, 
and then at it again, like two cock-chafers spitted on 
the same bodkin. I asked what all this meant, when, 
with a loud laugh, a child no older than our Wilhel- 
mina (a name I never heard but in the Vicar of Wake- 
field, though her mother would call her after the 
Princess of Swappenbach,) said, " Lord ! Mr. Hornem, 
can't you see they are valtzing ? " or waltzing (I forget 
which) ; and then up she got, and her mother and 
sister, and away they went, and round-abouted it till 
supper-time. Now, that I know what it is, I like it of 
all things, and so does Mrs. H. (though I have broken 
my shins, and four times overturned Mrs. Hornem "s 
maid, in practising the preliminary steps in a morn- 
ing). Indeed, so much do I like it, that having a turn 
for rhyme, tastily displayed in some election ballads, 
and songs in honour of all the victories (but till lately 
I have had little practice in that way), I sat down, and 
with the aid of William Fitzgerald, Esq. ,2 and a few 
hints from Dr. Busby,3 (whose recitations I attend, and 
am monstrous fond of Master Busby's manner of de- 
livering his father's late successful " Drury Lane Ad- 
dress,") I composed the following hymn, wherewithal 
to make my sentiments known to the public ; whom, 
nevertheless, I heartily despise, as well as the critics. 
I am, Sir,' yours, &c. &c. 

HORACE HORNEM. 



Henceforth in all the bronze of brightness shine, 

The least a vestal of the virgin Nine. 

Far be from thee and thine the name of prude : 

Mock'd, yet triumphant ; sneer'd at, unsubdued ; 

Thy legs must move to conquer as they fly, 

If but thy coats are reasonably high ; 

Thy breast — if bare enough — requires no shield ; 

Dance forth — sans armour thou shalt take the field, 

And own — impregnable to most assaults, 

Thy not too lawfully begotten " Waltz." 

Hail, nimble nymph ! to whom the young hussar, 
The whisker'd votary of waltz and war. 
His night devotes, despite of spur and boots ; 
A sight unmatch'd since Orpheus and his brutes : 
Haii, spirit-stirring Waltz ! — beneath whose banners 
A modern hero fought for modish manners ; 
On Hounslow's heath to rival Wellesley's 6 fame, 
Cock'd — fired — and miss'd his man — but gain'd his 

aim ; 
Hail, moving Muse ! to whom the fair one's breast 
Gives all it can, and bids us take the rest. 
Oh ! for the flow of Busby, or of Fitz, 
The latter's loyalty, the former's wits. 
To "energise the object I pursue," s 
And give both Belial and his dance their due ! 

Imperial Waltz ! imported from the Rhine 
(Famed for the growth of pedigrees and wine). 
Long be thine import from all duty free, 
And hock itself be less esteem'd than thee; 
In some few qualities alike — for hock 
Improves our cellar — thou our living stock. 
The head to hock belongs — thy subtler art 
Intoxicates alone the heedless heart : 
Through the full veins thy gentler poison swims. 
And wakes to wantonness the willing limbs. 

Oh, Germany ! how much to thee we owe, 
As heaven-born Pitt can testify below, 
Ere cursed confederation made thee France's, 
And only left us thy d d debts and dances ! 



THE WALTZ. 



Muse of the many-twinkling feet ! * whose charms 
Are now extended up from legs to arms ; 
Terpsichore ! — too long misdeem'd a maid — 
Reproachful term — bestow'd but to upbraid — 

1 My Latin is all forgotten, if a man can be said to have 
forgotten what he never remembered; but I bought my 
title-pape motto of a Catholic priest for a three-shilling 
bank token, after much haggling for the even sixpence. I 
grudged the money to a papist, being all foi the memory 
of Perceval and "No popery," and quite regretting the 
downfal of the pope, because we can't burn him any 
more. 

2 See ante, p. 42. —E. 

3 See " Rejected Addresses." — E. 

4 "Glance their mauy-twinkling feet." — Oray. 



5 To rival Lord Wellesley's, or his nephew's, as the 
reader pleases: — the one gained a pretty woman, whom 
he deserved, by fighting for; and the other has been fight- 
ifig in the Peninsula many a long day, "by Shrewsbury 
clock," without gaining any thing in that country but the 
title of "the Great Lord," and "the Lord;" which 
savours of profanation, having been hitherto applied only 
to that Being to whom " Te Deums " for carnage are the 
rankest blasphemy. — It is to be presumed the general will 
one day return to his Sabine farm ; there 

" To tame the genius of the stubborn plain, 
Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain ! " 

The Lord Peterborough conquered continents in a sum- 
mer ; we do more — we contrive both to conquer and lose 
them in a shorter season. If the "great Lord's " Cin- 
cinnatian progress in agriculture be no speedier than the 
proportional average of time in Pope's couplet, it will, ac- 
cording to the farmers' proverb, be "ploughing with 
dogs." 

By the bye — one of this illustrious person's new titles 
is forgotten —it is, however, worth remembering — "Sal- 
vador del mundo ! " credite, posted > If this be the ap- 
pellation annexed by the inhabitants of the Peninsula to 
the name of a man who has not yet saved them —query 
— are they worth saving, even in this world? for, accord- 
ng to the mildest modifications of any Christian creed, 



I those three words make the odds touch against them 
j the next— " Saviour of the world," quotha ! — it were 
I to be wished that he, or any one else, could save a corner 
' of it — his country. Yet this stupid misnomer, although 
it shows the near connection between superstition and 
impiety, so far has its use, that it proves there can be lit- 
tle to dread from those Catholics (inquisitorial Catholics 
loo) who can confer such an appellation on a Protestant. 
I suppose next year he will be entitled the "Virgin 
Mary : " if so, Lord George Gordon himself would have 
nothing to object to such liberal bastards of our Lady of 
Babylon. 

C Among the addresses sent in to the Drury Lane Com- 
mittee was one by Dr. Busby, which began by asking — 
"When energising objects men pursue. 
What are the prodigies they cannot do? " — E. 



■iPHHHnnPHVBim 



68 



THE WALTZ. 



Of subsidies and Hanover bereft, 
We bless thee still — for George the Third is left ! 
Of kings the best — and last, not least in worth, 
For graciously begetting George the Fourth. 
To Germany, and'highnesses serene. 
Who owe us millions — don't we owe the queen ? 
To Germany, what owe we not besides ? 
So oft bestowing Brunswickers and brides ; 
Who paid for vulgar, witli her royal blood, 
Drawn from the stem of each Teutonic stud : 
Who sent us — so be pardon'd all her faults — 
A dozen dukes, some kings, a queen — and Waltz. 

But peace to her — her emperor and diet. 
Though now transferr'd to Buonaparte's " fiat ! " 
Back to my theme — Muse of motion ! say. 
How first to Albion found thy Waltz her way ? 

Borne on the breath of hyperborean gales. 
From Hamburg's port (while Hamburg yet had mails), 
Ere yet unlucky Fame — compell'd tocreep 
To snowy Gottenburg — was chill'd to sleep j 
Or, starting from her slumbers, deign'd arise, 
Heligoland ! to stock thy mart with lies ; 
While unburnt Moscow i yet had news to send, 
Nor owed her fiery exit to a friend. 
She came — Waltz came — and with her certain sets 
Of true despatches, and as true gazettes ; 
Then flamed of Austerlitz the blest despatch. 
Which Moniteur nor Morning Post can match ; 
And — almost crush'd beneath the glorious news — 
Ten plays, and forty tales of Kotzebue's ; 
One envoy's letters, six composers' airs, 
And loads from Frankfort and from Leipsic fairs; 
Meiner's four volumes upon womankind, 
Like Lapland witches to ensure a wind ; 
Brunck's heaviest tome for ballast, and, to back it, 
Of Heyne, such as should not sink the packet. 

Fraught with this cargo — and her fairest freight, 
Delighlful Waltz, on tiptoe for a mate, 
The welcome vessel reach 'd the genial strand. 
And round her flock'd the daughters of the laud. 
Not decent David, when, before the ark, 
His grand pas-seul excited some remark ; 
Not love-lorn Quixote, when his Sancho thought 
The knight's fandango friskier than it ought : 
Not soft Herodias, when, with winning tread, 
Her nimble feet danced oflF another's head j 
Not Cleopatra on her galley's deck, 
Display'd so much of leg, or more of neck, 
Than thou, ambrosial Waltz, when first the moon 
Beheld thee twirling to a Saxon tune ! 

To you, ye husbands of ten years ! whose brows 
Ache with the annual tributes of a spouse ; 
To you of nine years less, who only bear 
The budding sprouts of those that you shall wear, 
With added ornaments around them roll'd 
Of native brass, or law-awarded gold ; 
To you, ye matrons, ever on the watch 
To "mar a son's, or make a daughter's, match ; 



1 The patriotic arson of our amiable allies cannot be 
sufficiently commended — nor subscribed for. Amongst 
other details omitted in the various despatches of our elo- 
quent ambassador, he did not state (being too much occu- 
pied with the exploits of Colonel C , in swimming 

rivers frozen, and galloping over roads impassable,) that 
one entire province perished by famine in the most melan- 
choly manner, as follows: — In General Rostopchin's con- 
summate conflagration, the consumption of tallow and 
train oil was so great, that the market was inadequate to 
the demand : and thus one hundred and thirty-three thou- 
sand persons were starved to death, by being reduced to 
wholesome diet ! The lamplighters of London have since 
subscribed a pint (of oil) a piece, and the tallow-chandlers 
have unanimously voted a quantity of best moulds (four 
to the pound), to the relief of the surviving Scythians ; 
— the scarcity will soon, by such exertions, and a proper 
attention to the quality rather than the quantity of pro- 
vision, be totally alleviated. It is said, in return, that the 
untouched Ukraine has subscribed sixty thousand beeves 
for a day's meal to our suffering manufacturers. 



To you, ye children of— whom chance accords — 
Always the ladies, and sowetimes their lords; 
To you, ye single gentlemen, who seek 
Torments for life, or pleasures for a week ; 
As Love or Hymen your endeavours guide, 
To gain your own, or snatch another's bride ; — 
To one and all the lovely stranger came, 
And every ball-room echoes with her name. 

Endearing Waltz ! — to thy more melting tune 
Bow Irish jig, and ancient rigadoon. 
Scotch reels, avaunt ! and country-dance, forego 
Your future claims to each fantastic toe .' 
Waltz — Waltz alone — both legs and arms demands, 
Liberal of feet, and lavish of her hands ; 
Hands which may freely range in public sight 
Where ne'er before — but — pray " put out the light." 
Methinks the glare of yonder chandelier 
Shines much too far — or I am much too near ; 
And true, though strange — Waltz whispers this re- 
mark, 
" My slippery steps are safest in the dark ! " 
But here the Muse with due decorum halts, 
And lends her longest petticoat to Waltz. 

Observant travellers of every time I 
Ye quartos published upon every clime ! 
say, shall dull Romaika's heavy round. 
Fandango's wriggle, or Bolero's bound ; 
Can Egypt's Almas 3 — tantalising group — 
Columbia's caperers to the warlike whoop — 
Can aught from cold Kamschatka to Cape Horn 
With Waltz compare, or after Waltz be borne ? 
Ah, no ! from IVIorier's pages down to Galfs, 
Each tourist pens a paragraph for " Waltz." 

Shades of those belles whose reign began of yore, 
"With George the Third's — and ended long before ! — 
Though in your daughters' daughters yet you thrive, 
Burst from your lead, and be yourselves alive ! 
Back to the ball-room speed your spectred host : 
Fool's Paradise is dull to that you lost. 
No treacherous powder bids conjecture quake; 
No stifF-starch'd stays make meddling fingers ache ; 
(Transferr'd to those ambiguous things that ape 
Goats in their visage,3 women in their shape ;) 
No damsel faints when rather closely press'd, 
But more caressing seems when most caress'd ; 
Superfluous hartshorn, and reviving salts. 
Both banish'd by the sovereign cordial " Waltz." 

Seductive Waltz ! — though on thy native shore 
Even Werter's self proclaim'd thee half a whore; 
Werter — to decent vice though much inclined. 
Yet warm, not wanton ; dazzled, but not blind — 



2 Dancing girls — who do for hire what Waltz doth 
gratis. 

3 It cannot be complained now, as in the Lady Baus- 
eiere's time, of the " Sieur de la Croix," that there be 
"no whiskers;" but how far these are indications of 
valour in the field, or elsewhere, may still be question- 
able. Much may be, and hath been, avouched on both 
sides. In the oldeu time philosophers had whiskers, and 
soldiers none — Scipio himself was shaven — Hannibal 
thought his one eye handsome enough without a beard; 
but Adrian, the emperor, wore a beard (having warts on 
his chin, which neither the Empress Sabina nor even the 
courtiers could abide)— Turenne had whiskers, Marl- 
borough none — Buonaparte is unwhiskered, the Regent 
whiskered ; " argal " greatness of mind and whiskers 
may or may not go together; but certainly the different 
occurrences, since the growth of the last mentioned, go 
further in behalf of whiskers than the anathema of An- 
selm did against long hair in the reign of Henry I. — 
Formerly, red was a favourite colour. See Lodowick Bar- 
rey's comedy of Ram Alley, 1661 ; Act I. Scene I. 

" Tajfeta. Now for a wager — What coloured beard 
comes next by the window? 

" Adriana. A black man's, I think. 

" Taffeta. I think not so: I think a red, for that is 
most in fashion." 

There is "nothing new under the sun; " but red, then 
a favourite, has now subsided into a favourite's colour. 



11 



THE WALTZ 



69 



Though gentle Genlis, in her strife with Stael, 
Would even proscribe thee from a Paris ball ; 
The fashion hails — from countesses to queens, 
And maids and valets waltz behind the scenes ; 
Wide and more wide thy witching circle spreads, 
And turns — if nothing else — at least our heads; 
With thee even clumsy cits attempt to bounce, 
And cockneys practise what they can't pronounce. 
Gods ! how the glorious theme my strain exalts. 
And rhyme finds partner rhyme in praise of ' ' Waltz ! " 

Blest was the time Waltz chose for her debut ; 
The court, the Regent, like herself were new; i 
New face for friends, for foes some new rewards ; 
New ornaments for black and royal guards ; 
New laws to hang the rogues that roar'd for bread j 
New coins (most new) 2 to follow those that fled ; 
New victories — nor can we prize them less, 
Though Jenky wonders at his own success j 
New wars, because the old succeed so well, 
That most survivors envy those who fell ; 
New mistresses — no, old — and yet 't is true, 
Though they be old, the thing is something nev7 ; 
Each new, quite new — (except some ancient tricks), 3 
New white sticks, gold-sticks, broom-sticks, all new 

sticks ! 
With vests or ribands — deck'd alike in hue, 
New troopers strut, new turncoats blush in blue : 

So saith the muse : my ,4 what say you ? 

Such was the time when Waltz might best maintain 

Her new preferments in this novel reign ; 

Such was the time, nor ever yet was such ; 

Hoops are no more, and petticoats not much; 

Morals and minuets, virtue and her stays. 

And tell-tale powder — all have had their days. 

The ball begins — the honours of the house 

First duly done by daughter or by spouse, 

Some potentate — or royal or serene — 

With Kent's gay grace, or sapient Gloster's mien, 

Leads forth the ready dame, whose rising flush 

Might once have heen mistaken for a blush. 

From where the garb just leaves the bosom free. 

That spot where hearts * were once supposed to be ; 



1 An anachronism — Waltz and the battle of Austerlitz 
are before said to have opened the ball together ; the bard 
means (if he means any thing), Waltz was not so much in 
vogue till the Regent attained the acme of his popularity. 
Waltz, the comet, whiskers, and the new government, 
illuminated heaven and earth, in all their glory, much 
about the same time : of these the comet only has dis- 
appeared ; the other three continue to astonish us still. — 
Printer's Devil. 

2 Amongst others a new ninepence — a creditable coin 
now forthcoming, worth a pound, in paper, at the fairest 
calculation. 

3 " Oh that right should thus overcome might .' " Who 
does not remember the "delicate investigation" in the 
" Merry Wives of Windsor 1" — 

" Ford. Pray you, come near : if I suspect without 
cause, why then make sport at me ; then let me be your 
jest; I deserve it. How now? whither bear you this? 

" Mrs. Ford. What have you to do whither they bear 
it? —you were best meddle with buck-washing." 

4 The gentle, or ferocious, reader may fill up the blank 
as he pleases — there are several dissyllabic names at his 
service (being already in the Regent's) : it would not be 
fa^r to back any peculiar initial against the alphabet, as 
every month vvill add to the list now entered for the 
sweepstakes : — a distinguished consonant is said to be the 
favourite, much against the wishes of the knowing ones. 

5 " We have changed all that," says the Mock Doctor 
— 't is all gone — Asmodeus knows where. After all, it 
is of no great importance how women's hearts are dis- 
posed of; they have nature's privilege to distribute them 
as absurdly as possible. But there are also some men 
with hearts so thoroughly bad, as to remind us of those 
phenomena often mentioned in natural history; viz. a 



Round all the confines of the yielded waist, 

The strangest hand may wander undisplaced j 

The lady's in return may grasp as much 

As princely paunches ofler to her touch. 

Pleased round the chalky floor how well they trip, 

One hand reposing on the royal hip ; 

The other to the shoulder no" less royal 

Ascending with atFection truly loyal ! 

Thus front to front the partners move or stand, 

The foot may rest, but none withdraw the hand j 

And all in turn may follow in their rank, 

The Earl of— Asterisk — and Lady — Blank ; 

Sir — Such-a-one — with those of fashion's host, 

For whose blest surnames — vide " Morning Post " 

(Or if for that impartial print too late, 

Search Doctors' Commons six months from my date) — 

Thus all and each, in movement swift or slow. 

The genial contact gently undergo ; 

Till some might marvel, with the modest Turk, 

If " nothing follows all this palming work ? " 6 

True, honest Mirza ! — you may trust my rhyme — 

Something does follow at a fitter time j 

The breast thus publicly resign'd to man, 

In private may resist him if it can. 

ye who loved our grandpaothers of yore, 
Fitzpatrick, Sheridan, and many more. 
And thou, my prince ! whose sovereign taste and will 
It is to love the lovely beldames still ! 
Thou ghost of Queensbury ! Avhose judging sprite 
Satan may spare to peep a single night, 
Pronounce — if ever in your days of bliss 
Asmodeus struck so bright a stroke as this ; 
To teach the young ideas how to rise, 
Flush in the cheek, and languish in the eyes; 
Rush to the heart, and lighten through the frame, 
With half-told wish and ill-dissembled flame, 
For prurient nature still will storm the breast — 
Who, tempted thus, can answer for the rest ? 

But ye — who never felt a single thought 
For what our morals are to be, or ought; 
Who wisely wish the charms you view to reap. 
Say — would you make those beauties quite so cheap ? 
Hot from the hands promiscuously applied, 
Round the slight waist, or down the glowing side, 
Where were the rapture then to clasp the form 
From this lewd grasp and lawless contact warm ? 
At once love's most endearing thought resign. 
To press the hand so press 'd by none but thine ; 
To gaze upon that eye which never met 
Another's ardent look without regret ; 
Approach the lip which all, without restraint, 
Come near enough —if not to touch — to taint ; 
If such thou lovest — love her then no more, 
Or give — like her — caresses to a score ; 
Her mind with these is gone, and with it go 
The little left behind it to bestow. 

Voluptuous Waltz ! and dare I thus blaspheme ? 
Thy bard forgot thy praises were his theme. 
Terpsichore forgive ! — at every ball 
My wife now waltzes — and my daughters shall; 
My son — (or stop — 't is needless to enquire — 
These little accidents should ne'er transpire; 
Some ages hence our genealogic tree 
Will wear as green a bough for him as me) — 
Waltzing shall rear, to make our name amends, 
Grandsons for me — in heirs to all his friends. 



mass of solid stone — only to be opened by force — and 
when divided, you discover a toad in the centre, lively, 
and with the reputation of being venomous. 

6 In Turkey a pertinent, here an impertinent and super- 
fluous, question — literally put, as in the text, by a Per- 
sian to Morier, on seeing a Waltz in Pera.—Vide Morier'e 
Travels. 



9P9«F 



«H 



«HPi 



70 



ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE. 



ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE 



'Expende Annibalem: — quot libras in duce summo 
Invenies?" JUVENAL, Sa<. x. 



"The Emperor Nepf>s •was acknowledged by the Senate, by the Italians, and by the Provincials of Gaul; his moral 
virtues, and military talents, were loudly celebrated ; and those who derived any private benefit from his govern- 
ment announced in prophetic strains the restoration of public felicity. * * By this shameful abdication, he 
protracted his life a few years, in a very ambiguous state, between an Emperor and an Exile, till " — GIB- 
BON 'S Decline and Fall, vol. vi. p. 220. 



I. 

'T is done — but yesterday a King ! 

And arm'd with Kings to strive — 
And now thou art a nameless thing : 

So abject — yet alive ! 
Is this the man of thousand thrones, 
Who strew'd our earth with hostile bones, 

And can he thus survive ? 2 
Since he, miscall'd the Morning Star, 
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. 

II. 

Ill-minded man ! why scourge thy kind 

Who bow'd so low the linee ? 
By gazing on thyself grown blind, 

Thou taught'st the rest to see. 
With might unquestion'd, — power to save, 
Thine only gift hath been the grave, 

To those that worshipped thee j 
Nor till thy fall could mortals guess 
Ambition's less than littleness ! 

III. 

Thanks for that lesson — it will teach 

To after-warriors more, 
Than high Philosophy can preach, 

And vainly preach'd before. 
That spell upon the minds of men 
Breaks never to unite again. 

That led them to adore 
Those Pagod things of sabre sway, 
With fronts of brass, and feet of clay. 



1 The reader has seen, that Lord Byron, when publish- 
ing "The Corsair," in January, 1814, announced an ap- 
parently quite serious resolution to withdraw, for some 
years at least, from poetry. His letters of the February 
and March following, abound in repetitions of the same 
determination. On the morning of the ninth of April. he 
writes — "No more rhyme for — or rather /rom — me. 
I have taken my leave of that stage, and henceforth will 
mountebank it no longer." In the evening, a Gazette 
Extraordinary announced the abdication of Fontainebleau, 
and the Poet violated his vows next morning, by com- 
posing this Ode, which he immediately published, though 
without his name. His Diary says, " April 10. To-day 
I have boxed one hour — written an Ode to Napoleon 
Buonaparte — copied it — eaten six biscuits — drunk four 
bottles of soda water, and redde away the rest of my 
time." — E. 

2 "I don't know— but I think J, even I (an insect com- 
pared with this creature), have set my life on casts not a 
millionth part of this man's. But, after all, a crown may 
not be worth dying for. Yet, to outlive Lodi for this ! ! ! 
Oh that Juvenal or Johnson could rise from the dead ! 
'Expende — quot libras in duce summo invenies 7* I 
knew they were light in the bilance of mortality; but I 
thought their living dust weighed more carats. Alas! 
this imperial diamond hath a flaw in it, and is now hardly 
fit to stick in a elazier's pencil ; — the pen of the historian 
won't rate it worth a ducat. Psha! ' something too much 
of this.' But I won't give him up even now ; though all 
his admirers have, like the Thanes, fallen from him." — 
Byron Diary, April 9. — E. 



IV. 

The triumph, and the vanity, 

The rapture of the strife 3 _ 
The earthquake voice of Victory, 

To thee the breath of life ; 
The sword, the sceptre, and that sway 
Which man seem'd made but to obey, 

Wherewith renown was rife — 
All quell'd ! — Dark Spirit ! what must be 
The madness of thy memory ! 

V. 

The Desolator desolate ! 

The Victor overthrown ! 
The Arbiter of others' fate 

A Suppliant for his own ! 
Is it some yet imperial hope 
That with such change can calmly cope ? 

Or dread of death alone ? 
To die a prince — or live a slave — 
Thy choice is most ignobly brave ! 

VI. 
He who of old would rend the oak, 

Dream'd not of the rebound ; 
Chaiu'd by the trunk he vainly broke — 

Alone — how look'd he round ? 
Thou, in the sternness of thy strength, 
An equal deed hast done at length, 

And darker fate hast found : 
He fell, the forest prowlers' prey ; 
But thou must eat thy heart away ! 

VII. 
The Roman,* when his burning heart 

Was slaked with blood of Rome, 
Threw down the dagger — dared depart, 

In savage grandeur, home. — 
He dared depart in utter scorn 
Of men that such a yoke had borne. 

Yet left him such a doom ! 
His only glory was that hour 
Of self-upheld abandon'd power. 

VIII. 
The Spaniard, when the lust of sway 

Had lost its quickening spell, 
Cast crowns for rosaries away, 

An empire for a cell j 
A strict accountant of his beads, 
A subtle disputant on creeds, 

His dotage trifled well : 
Yet better had he neither knovni 
A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne. 

IX. 

But thou — from thy reluctant hand 

The thunderbolt is wrung — 
Too late thou leav'st the high command 

To which thy weakness clung ; 

3"Cerfaminis gaudia" — the expression of Attila in 
his harangue to his army, previous to the battle of Cha- 
lons, given in Cassiodorus. 
I 4 Sylla. 



I 



ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE 



71 



All Evil Spirit as thou art, 
It is enough to grieve the heart 
To see thine own unstrung ; 
To think that God's fair world hath been 
The footstool of a thing so mean ; 



X. 



And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, 
Who thus can hoard his own ! 

And Monarchs bow'd the trembling limb, 
And thank'd him for a throne ! 

Fair Freedom ! we may hold thee dear. 

When thus thy mightiest foes their fear 
In humblest guise have shown. 

Oh ! ne'er may tyrant leave behind 

A brighter name to lure mankind ! 



XI. 

Thine evil deeds are writ in gore, 

Nor written thus in vain — 
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more 

Or deepen every stain : 
If thou hadst died as honour dies, 
Some new Napoleon might arise, 

To shame the world again — 
But who would soar the solar height, 
To set in such a starless night ? 



XII. 

Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust 

Is vile as vulgar clay ; 
Thy scales, Mortality ! are just 

To all that pass away : 
But yet methought the'living great 
Some higher sparks should animate. 

To dazzle and dismay : 
Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make mirth 
Of these the Conquerors of the earth. 

XIII. 

And she, proud Austria's mournful flower. 

Thy still imperial bride ; 
How bears her breast the torturing hour ? 

Still clings she to thy side ? 
Must she too bend, must she too share 
Thy late repentance, long despair, 

Thou throneless Homicide ? 
If still she loves thee, hoard that gem ; 
'T is worth thy vanish'd diadem 1 1 

XIV. 

Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, 

And gaze upon the sea ; 
That element may meet thy smile — 

It ne'er was ruled by thee ! 
Or trace with thine all idle hand 
In loitering mood upon the sand 

That Earth is now as free ! 
That Corinth's pedagogue* hath now 
Transferr'd his by-word to thy brow. 



1 It is well known that Count Neipperg, a gentleman in 
the suite of the emperor of Austria, who was first pre- 
sented to Maria Louisa within a few daya after Napoleon's 
abdication, became, in the sequel, her chamberlain, and 
then her husband. He is said to have been a man of re- 
markably plain appearance. The Count died in 1831.— E. 

2 Dionysius the Younger, esteemed a greater tyrant 



XV. 

Thou Timour ! in his captive's cage 3 

What though's will there be thine, 

While brooding in thy prison'd rage ? 

But one — " The world was mine I " 
Unless, like he of Babylon, 
All sense is with thy sceptre gone. 

Life will not long confine 
That spirit pour'd so widely forth — 
So long obey'd — so little worth ! 



XVI. 

Or, like the thief of fire from heaven,* 

Wilt thou withstand the shock ? 
And share with him, the unforgiven, 

His vulture and his rock ! 
Foredoom'd by God — by man accurst, 
And that last act, though not thy worst, 

The very Fiend's arch mock ; * 
He in his fall preserved his pride, 
And, if a mortal, had as proudly died ! 



XVII. 

There was a day — there was an hour, 

While earth was Gaul's— Gaul thine - 
When that immeasurable power 

Unsated to resign 
Had been an act of purer fame, 
Than gathers round Marengo's name 

And gilded thy decline. 
Through the long twilight of all time. 
Despite some passing clouds of crime. 



XVIII. 

But thou forsooth must be a king. 

And don fhe purple vest, — 
As if that foolish robe could wring 

Remembrance from thy breast. 
Where is that faded garment ? where 
The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear. 

The star — the string — the crest ? 
Vain froward child of empire ! say, 
Are all thy playthings snatch'd away ? 



XIX. 

Where may the wearied eye repose 

When gazing on the Great ; 
Where neither guilty glory glows, 

Nor despicable state ? 
Yes — one — the first — the last —the best- 
The Cincinnatus of the West, 

Whom envy dared not hate, 
Bequeath'd the name of Washington, 
To make man blush there was but one ! 



than his father, on being for the second time banished 
from Syracuse, retired to Corinth, where he was obliged 
to turn schoolmaster, for a subsistence. — E. 

3 The cage of Bajazet, by order of Tamerlane. 

4 Prometheus. 

5 « xhe very fiend's arch mock — 

To lip a wanton, and suppose her chaste." — 

Shakspeare. 
We believe there is no doubt of the truth of the anecdote 
here alluded to — of Napoleon's having found leisure for 
an unworthy amour, the very evening of his arrival at 
Fontainebleau.-- £. 



Tm 



72 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The subsequent poems were written at the request 
of my friend, the Hon. Douglas Kinnaird, for a Selec- 
tion of Hebrew Melodies, and have been published, 
with the music, arranged by Mr. Braham and Mr. 
Nathan. 

January, 1815. 

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.i 



She walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies; 

And all that 's best of dark and bright 
Meet in her aspect and her eyes : 

Thus mellow'd to that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

II. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 
Had half impair'd the nameless grace 

Which waves in every raven tress. 
Or softly lightens o'er her face ; 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express. 
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 

III. 

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 

But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent ! 



THE HARP THE MONARCH SIINSTREL 

SWEPT. 

I. 

The harp the monarch minstrel swept, 

The King of men, the loved of Heaven, 
Which Music hallo w'd while she wept 

O'er tones her heart of hearts had given. 

Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven ! 
It soften'd men of iron mould, 

It gave them virtues not their own j 
No ear so dull, no soul so cold. 

That felt not, fired not to the tone, 

Till David's lyre grew mightier than his throne ! 
II. 
It told the triumphs of our King, 

It wafted glory to our God ; 
It made our gladden'd valleys ring. 

The cedars bow, the mountains nod ; 

Its sound aspired to heaven and there abode ! 
Since then, though heard on earth no more, 

Devotion and her daughter Love 
Still bid the bursting spirit soar 

To sounds that seem as from above. 

In dreams that day's broad light can not remove. 



IF THAT HIGH WORLD. 
I. 

If that high world, which lies beyond 
Our own, surviving Love endears; 

If there (he cherish'd heart be fond. 
The eye the same, except in tears — 



How welcome those untrodden spheres ! 

How sweet this very hour to die ! 
To soar from earth and find all fears 

Lost in thy light— Eternity ! 
IL 
It must be so : 't is not for self 

That we so tremble on the brink ; 
And striving to o'erleap the gulf, 

Yet cling to Being's severing link. 
Oh ! in that future let us think 

To hold each heart the heart that shares, 
With them the in)mortal waters drink. 

And soul in soul grow deathless theirs ! 



THE WILD GAZELLE. 
I. 

The wild gazelle on Judah's hills 

Exulting yet may bound. 
And drink from all the living rills 

That gush on holy ground ; 
Its airy step and glorious eye 
May glance in tameless transport by : — 

IL 
A step as fleet, an eye more bright, 

Hath Judah witness'd there j 
And o'er her scenes of lost delight 

Inhabitants more fair. 
The cedars wave on Lebanon, 
But Judah's statelier maids are gone I 

in. 

More blest each palm that shades those pla 

Than Israel's scatter'd race ; 
For, taking root, it there remains 

In solitary grace: 
It cannot quit its place of birth. 
It will not live in other earth. 

IV. 
But we must wander witheringly, 

In other lands to die ; 
And where our fathers' ashes be, 

Our own may never lie : 
Our temple hath not left a stone, 
And Mockery sits on Salem's throne. 



OH! WEEP FOR THOSE. 

Oh ! weep for those that wept by Babel's stream, 
Whose shrines are desolate, whose land a dream; 
Weep for the harp of Judah's broken shell ; 
Mourn — where their God hath dwelt the Godless 
dwell ! 

IL 
And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet ? 
And when shall Zion's songs again seem sweet? 
And Judah's melody once more rejoice 
The hearts that leap'd before its heavenly voice ? 

III. 

Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast, 
How shall ye flee nway and be at rest ! 
The wild-dove hath her nest, the fox his cave, 
Mankind their country — Israel but the grave I 



1 These stanzas were written by Lord Byron, on return- 
ing from a ball room, where he had seen Mrs. (now Lady) ON JORDAN'S BANKS. 
Wilmot Horton, the wife of his relation, the present 

Governor of Ceylon. On this occasion Mrs. Wilmot Hor- L 

ton had appeared in mourning, with numerous spangles on On Jordan's banks the Arab camels stray, 

her dress.— E. On Sion's hill the False One's votaries pray, 



')? 



HEBREW MELODIES 



73 



The Baal-adorer bows on Sinai's steep — 

Yet there — even there — Oh God ! thy thunders sleep : 

II. 
There— where thy finger scorch'd the tablet stone ! 
There — where thy shadow to thy people shone ! 
Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fire : 
Thyself —none living see and not expire ! 

III. 
Oh ! in the lightning let thy glance appear ; 
Sweep from his shiver d hand the oppressor's spear ! 
How long by tyrants shall thy land be trod ! 
How long thy temple worshipless, Oh God ! 



JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER. 



Since our Country, our God — Oh, my Sire ! 
Demand that thy Daughter expire ; 
Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow — 
Strike the bosom that 's bared for thee now ! 

II. 

And the voice of my mourning is o'er, 
And the mountains behold me no more : 
If the hand that I love lay me low, 
There cannot be pain in the blow ! 

III. 

And of this, oh, my Father! be sure — 
That the blood of thy child is as pure 
As the blessing I beg ere it flow, 
And the last thought that soothes me below. 

IV. 
Though the virgins of Salem lament, 
Be the judge and the hero unbent ! 
I have won the great battle for thee, 
And my Father and Country are free I 

V. 
When this blood of thy giving hath gush'd, 
When the voice that thou lovest is hush'd, 
Let my memory still be thy pride. 
And forget not I smiled as I died I 



OH 



SNATCH'D AWAY IN BEAUTY'S 
BLOOM. 



Oh ! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom. 
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb j 
But on thy turf shall roses rear 
Their leaves, the earliest of the year ; 
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom : 

n. 

And oft by yon blue gushing stream 
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head. 

And feed deep thought with many a dream, 1 
And lingering pause and lightly tread ; 
Fond wretch ! as if her step disturb'd the dead ! 

III. 

Away ! we know that tears are vain. 
That death nor heeds nor hears distress: 

Will this unteach us to complain ? 
Or make one mourner weep the less ? 

And thou — who telTst me to forget, 

Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 



MY SOUL IS DARK. 
I. 

My soul is dark — Oh ! quickly string 
The harp I yet can brook to hear ; 

And let thy gentle fingers fling 
Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. 



If in this heart a hope be dear, 
That sound shall charm it forth again : 

If in these eyes there lurk a tear, 
'T will flow, and cease to burn my brain. 

n. 

But bid the strain be wild and deep, 

Nor let thy notes of joy be first : 
I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep. 

Or else this heavy heart will burst j 
For it hath been by sorrow nursed, 

And ached in sleepless silence long ; 
And now 't is doom'd to know the worst, 

And break at once — or yield to song. 



I SAW THEE WEEP. 



I saw thee weep — the big bright tear 

Came o'er that eye of blue ; 
And then methought it did appear 

A violet dropping dew : 
I saw thee smile — the sapphire's blaze 

Beside thee ceased to shine ; 
It could not match the living rays 

That fill'd that glance of thine. 

II. 

As clouds from yonder sun receive 

A deep and mellow dye. 
Which scarce the shade of coming eve 

Can banish from the sky, 
Those smiles unto the moodiest mind 

Their own pure joy impart ', 
Their sunshine leaves a glow behind 

That lightens o'er the heart. 



THY DAYS ARE DONE. 
I. 

Thy days are done, thy fame begun ; 

Thy country's strains record 
The triumphs of her chosen Son, 

The slaughters of his sword ! 
The deeds he did, the fields he won, 

The freedom he restored 1 

II. 

Though thou art fall'n, while we are free 
Thou shalt not taste of death ! 

The generous blood that flow'd from thee 
Disdain"d to sink beneath : 

Within our veins its currents be, 
Thy spirit on our breath ! 

III. 

Thy name, our charging hosts along, 

Shall be the battle-word ! 
Thy fall, the theme of choral song 

From virgin voices pour'd ! 
To weep would do thy glory wrong; 

Thou shalt not be deplored. 



SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST BATTLE. 
I. 

Warriors and chiefs ! should the shaft or the sword 
Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord, 
Heed not the corse, though a king's, in your path : 
Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath ! 

II. 

Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow. 
Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe. 
Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet ! 
Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet. 



74 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



III. 

Farewell to others, but never we part, 
Heir to my royalty, son of my heart ! 
Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway, 
Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day ! 



SAUL. 



Thou whose spell can raise the dead, 
Bid the prophet's form appear. 

♦' Samuel, raise thy buried head ! 
King, behold the phantom seer ! " 

Earth yawn'd ; he stood, the centre of a cloud : 
Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud- 
Death stood all glassy in his tixed eye j 
His hand was wither d, and his veins were dry J 
His foot, in bony whiteness, glitter'd there, 
Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare ; 
From lips that moved not and unbreatliiug frame, 
Like cavern'd winds, the hollow accents came. 
Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak. 
At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke. 

n. 

" Why is my sleep disquieted ? 
Who is he that calls tbe dead ? 
Is it thou, King ? Behold, 
Bloodless are these limbs, and cold : 
Such are mine ; and such shall be 
Thine to-morrow, when with me: 
Ere the coming day is done, 
Such shalt thou be, such thy son. 
Fare thee well, but for a day. 
Then we mix our mouldering clay. 
Thou, thy race, lie pale and low, 
Pierced by shafts of many a bow; 
And the falchion by thy side 
To thy heart thy hand shall guide : 
Crownless, breathless, headless fall, 
Son and sire, the house of Saul 1 " 



ALL IS VANITY, SAITH THE PREACHER." 
I. 

Fame, wisdom, love, and power were mine, 

And health and youth possess'd mej 
My goblets blush'd from every vine, 

And lovely forms caress'd me ; 
I suun'd my heart in beauty's eyes, 

And felt my soul grow tender ; 
All earth can give, or mortal prize, 

Was mine of regal splendour. 

II. 

I strive to number o'er what days 

Remembrance can discover, 
Which all that life or earth displays 

Would lure me to live over. 
There rose no day, there roll'd no hour 

Of pleasure unembitter'd ; 
And not a trapping deck'd my power 

That gall'd not while it glitter'd. 

III. 

The serpent of the field, by art 

And spells, is won from harming ; 
But that which coils around tlie heart, 

Oh ! who hath power of charming ? 
It will not list to wisdom's lore, 

Nor music's voice can lure it j 
But there it stings for evermore 

The soul that must endure it. 



WHEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS SUFFERING 
CLAY. 

I. 

When coldness wraps this suffering clay, 

Ah ! whither strays the immortal mind ? 
It cannot die, it cannot stay. 

But leaves its darken'd dust behind. 
Then, unembodied, doth it trace 

By steps each planet's heavenly way ? 
Or fill at once the realms of space, 

A thing of eyes, that all survey ? 

IL 

Eternal, boundless, undecay'd, 

A thought unseen, but seeing all. 
All, all in earth, or skies display'd. 

Shall it survey, shall it recall : 
Each fainter trace that memory holds 

So darkly of departed years, 
In one broad glance the soul beholds, 

And all, that was, at once appears. 

in. 

Before Creation peopled earth. 

Its eye shall roll through Chaos back ; 
And where the furthest heaven had birth. 

The spirit trace its rising track. 
And where the future mars or makes. 

Its glance dilate o'er all to be, 
While sun is quench'd or system breaks, 

Fix'd in its own eternity. 

IV. 

Above or Love, Hope, Hate, or Fear, 

It lives all passionless and pure : 
An age shall fleet like earthly year; 

Its years as moments shall'endure. 
Away, away, without a wing. 

O'er all, through all, its thought shall fly ; 
A nameless and eternal thing, 

Forgetting what it was to die. 



VISION OF BELSHAZZAR. 



The King was on his throne. 

The Satraps throng'd the hall ; 
A thousand bright lamps shone 

O'er that high festival. 
A thousand rups of gold. 

In Judah deem'd divine — 
Jehovah's vessels hold 

The godless Heathen's wine ! 

n. 

In that same hour and hall. 

The fingers of a hand 
Came forth against the wall, 

And wrote as if on sand : 
The fingers of a man ; — 

A solitary hand 
Along the letters ran. 

And traced them like a wand. 
III. 
The monarch saw, and shook. 

And bade no more rejoice ; 
All bloodless wax'd his look. 

And tremulous his voice. 
" Let the men of lore appear. 

The wisest of the earth, 
And expound the words of fear, 

Which mar our royal mirth." 
IV. 
Chaldea's seers are good, 

But here they have no skill ; 
And the unknown letters stood 

Untold and awful still. 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



75 



And Babel's men of age 
Are wise and deep in lorej 

But now tiiey were not sage, 
They saw — but knew no more. 

V. 

A captive in the land, 

A stranger and a youth. 
He heard the king's command, 

He saw that writing's truth. 
The lamps around were bright, 

The prophecy in viewj 
He read it on that nightj — 

The morrow proved it true. 

VI. 

" Belshazzar's grave is made, 

His kingdom pass'J away, 
He, in the balance weigh'd, 

Is light and worthless clay, 
The shroud, his robe of state, 

His canopy the stone ; 
The Mede is at his gate ! 

The Persian on his throne ! 



SUN OF THE SLEEPLESS! 

Sun of the sleepless ! melancholy star ! 

Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far. 

That shovv'st the darkness thou canst not dispel, 

How like art thou to joy remember'd well ! 

So gleams the past, the light of other days. 

Which shines, but Avarms not with its powerless rays j 

A night-beam Sorrow watcheth to behold. 

Distinct, but distant — clear — but, oh how cold ! 



WERE MY BOSOM AS FALSE AS THOU 
DEEM'ST IT TO BE. 



I, 



be, 



Were my bosom as false as thou deem'st it 

I need not have wander'd from far Galilee; 

It was but abjuring my creed to efface 

The curse which, thou say'st, is the crime of my race. 

IL 

If the bad ever triumph, then God is with thee ! 
If the slave only sin, thou art spotless and free ! 
If the Exile on earth is an Outcast on high, 
Live on in thy faith, but in mine I will die. 

in. 

I have lost for that faith more than thou canst bestow, 
As the God who permits thee to prosper doth know j 
In his hand is my heart and my hope — and in thine 
The land and the life which for him I resign. 



HEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE. 
I. 

Oh , Mariamne ! now for thee 

The heart for which thou bled'st is bleeding; 
Revenge is lost in agony. 

And wild remorse to rage succeeding. 
Oh, Mririamne ! where art thou ? 

Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading: 
Ah ! couldst thou — thou wouldst pardon now, 
Though Heaven were to my prayer unheeding. 



And is she dead ? — and did they dare 
Obey my frenzy's jealous raving? 

My wrath but doom'd my own despair: 
The sword that smote her 's o'er me waving.- 



But thou art cold, my murder'd love ! 

And this dark heart is vainly craving 
For her who soars alone above. 

And leaves my soul unworthy saving. 

HI. 

She 's gone, who shared my diadem ; 

She sunk, with her my joys entombing; 
I swept that flower from Judah's stem. 

Whose leaves for me alone were blooming ; 
And mine 's the guilt, and mine the hell, 

This bosom's desolation dooming; 
And I have earn'd those tortures well. 

Which unconsumed are still consuming ! 



ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF 
JERUSALEM BY TITUS. 



From the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome, 

I beheld thee, oh Sion ! when render'd to Rome : 

'T was thy last sun went down, and the flames of thy 

fall 
Flash'd back on the last glance I gave to thy wall. 

II. 

I look'd for thy temple, I look'd for my home, 
And forgot for a moment my bondage to come ; 
I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane, 
And the fast fetter'd hands that made vengeance in 
vain. 

IIL 

On many an eve, the high spot whence I gazed 
Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed ; 
While I stood on the height, and beheld the decline 
Of the rays from the mountain that shone on thy shrine. 

IV. 
And now on that mountain I stood on that day, 
But I mark'd not the twilight beam melting away ; 
Oh ! would that the lightning had glared in its stead. 
And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's head I 



But the Gods of the Pagan shall never profane 
The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to reign; 
And scatter'd and scorn'd as thy people may be. 
Our worship, oh Father ! is only for thee. 



BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON WE SAT 
DOWN AND WEPT. 

L 

We sate down and wept by the waters 

Of Babel, and thought of the day 
When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters, 

Made Salem's high places his prey ; 
And ye, oh her desolate daughters ! 

Were scatter'd all weeping away. 

H. 

While sadly we gazed on the river 
Which roll'd on in freedom below, 

They demanded the song; but, oh never 
That triumph the stranger shall know ! 

May this right hand be wither'd for ever, 
Ere it string our high harp for the foe ! 

IIL 

On the willow that harp is suspended. 
Oh Salem ! its sound should be free ; 

And the hour when thy glories were ended 
But left me that tokenof thee : 

And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended 
With the voice of the spoiler by me ! 



76 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 

i. 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

II. 
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen : 
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, 
That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown. 

in. 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast. 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd ; 
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill. 
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew 
still I 

IV. 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide. 
But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride : 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 



And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 

With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail ; 



And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

yi. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword. 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! 



A SPIRIT PASSED BEFORE ME, 

FE^OM JOB. 

I. 

A spirit pass'd before m.e : I beheld 

The face of immortality unveil'd — / 

Deep sleep came down on every eye save mine — 

And there it stood, — all formless — but divine : 

Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake ; 

And as my damp hair stiffen d, thus it spake : 

IL 

" Is man more just than God ? Is man more pure 
Than he who deems even Seraphs insecure ? 
Creatures of clay — vain dwellers in the dust ! 
The moth survives you, and are ye more just ? 
Things of a day ! you wither ere' the night, 
Heedless and blind to Wisdom's wasted light ! " 



THE MORGANTE MAGGIORE OF PULCI/ 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The Morgante Maggiore, of the first canto of which 
this translation is ottered, divides with the Orlando 
Innamorato the honour of having formed and suggested 
the style and story of Ariosto. The great defects of 
Boiardo were his treating too seriously the narratives 
of chivalry, and his harsh style. Ariosto, in his con- 
tinuation, by a judicious mixture of the gaiety of Pulci, 
has avoided the one; and Berni, in his reformation of 
Boiardo's poem, has corrected the other. Fulci may 
be considered as the precursor and model of Berni 
altogether, as he has partly been to Ariosto, however 
inferior to both his copyists. He is no less the founder 
of a new style of poetry very lately sprung up in Eng- 
land. I allude to that of the ingenious Whistlecraft. 
The serious poems on Roncesvalles in the same lan- 
guage, and more particularly the excellent one of Mr. 
Merivale, are to be traced to the same source. It has 
never yet been decided entirely whether Pulci's inten- 
tion was or was not to deride the religion which is one 
of his favourite topics. It appears to me, that such an 
intention would have been no less hazardous to the 
poet than to the priest, particularly in that age and 
country ; and the permission to publish the poem, and 
its reception among the classics of Italy, prove that it 
neither was nor is so interpreted. That he intended 
to ridicule the monastic life, and suffered his imagina- 
tion to play with the simple dulness of his converted 
giant, seems evident enough ^ but surely it were as 
unjust to accuse him of irreligion on this account, as 
to denounce Fielding for his Parson Adams, Barnabas, 



1 Composed at Ravenna, in February, 1820. 



Thwackum, Supple, and the Ordinary in Jonathan 
Wild, — or Scott, for the exquisite use of his Covenant- 
ers in the " Tales of my Landlord." 

In the following translation I have used the liberty 
of the original Avith the proper names : as Pulci uses 
Gan, Ganellon, or Ganellone ; Carlo, Carlomagno, or 
Carlomano; Rondel, or Rondello, &c., as it suits his 
convenience ; so has the translator. In other respects 
the version is faithful to the best of the ti-anslator's 
ability in combining his interpretation of the one lan- 
guage with the not very easy task of reducing it to the 
same versification in the other. The reader, on com- 
paring it with the original, is requested to remember 
that the antiquated language of Pulci, however pure, 
is not easy to the generality of Italians themselves, from 
its great mixture of Tr.scan proverbs; and he may 
therefore be more indulgent to the present attempt. 
How far the translator has succeeded, and whether or 
no he shall continue the work, are questions which the 
public will decide. He was induced to make the ex- 
periment partly by his love for, and partial intercourse 
with, the Itali .n language, of Avhich it is so easy to 
acquire a slight knowledge, and with which it is so 
nearly impossible for a foreigner to become accurately 
conversant. The Italian language is like a capricious 
beauty, who accords her smiles to all, her favours to 
few, and sometimes least to those who have courted her 
longest. The translator wished also to present in an 
English dress a part at least of a poem never yet ren- 
dered into a northern language ; at the same time that 
it has been the original of some of the most celebrated 
productions on this side of the Alps, as well as of those 
recent experiments in poetry in England which have 
been already mentioned. 



CANTO PRIMO. 

I. 

In principio era il Verbo appresso a Dio ; 
Ed era Iddio il Verlx), e '1 Verbo lui : 
Questo era nel principio, al parer mio ; 
E nulla si puo far sanza costui : 



CANTO THE FIRST. 



In the beginning was the Word next God ; 

God was the Word, the Word no less was he : 
This was in the beginning, to my mode 

Of thinking, and without him nought could be ; 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



77 



Pero, giusto Signor benigno e pio, 
Mandami solo un de gli angeli tui, 
Che m' accompagni, e rechimi a memoria 
Una famosa autica e degna storia. 

II. 

E tu Vergine, figlia, e madre, e sposa 
Di quel Signor, che ti dette le chiave 
Del cielo e dell' abisso, e d' ogni cosa, 
Quel di che Gabriel tuo ti disse Ave I 
Perche tu se' de' tuo' servi pietosa, 
Con dolce rime, e stil grato e soave, 
Ajuta i versi miei benignamente, 
E'nfino al fine alluniina la mente. 

III. 

Era nel tempo, quando Filomena 
Con la sorella si lamenta e plora, 
Che si ricorda di sua antica pena, 
E pe' boschetti le ninfe innaniora, 
E Febo il carro temperato mena, 
Che '1 suo Fetonte 1' ammaestra ancora. 
Ed appariva appunto all' orizzonte, 
Tal che Titon si graffiava la fronte. 

IV. 

Quand' io varai la mia barchetta, prima 
Per ubbidir chi sempre ubbidir debbe 
La mente, e faticarsi in prosa e in rima, 
E del mio Carlo Imperador m' increbbe ; 
Che so quanti la penna ha posto in cima, 
Che tutti la sua gloria prevarrebbe : 
E stata quella istoria, a quel ch' i' veggio, 
Di Carlo male intesa, e scritta peggio. 

V. 
Diceva gia Lionardo Aretino, 

Che s' egli avesse avuto scrittor degno, 
Com' egli ebbe un Ormanno il suo Pipino 
Ch' avesse diligenzia avuto e ingegno j 
Sarebbe Carlo Magno un uom divino j 
Pero ch' egli ebbe gran vittorie e regno, 
E fece per la chiesa e per la fede 
Certo assai piu, che non si dice o crede. 

VI. 

Guardisi ancora a san Liberatore 
Quella badia la presso a Manoppello, 
Giu ne gli Abbruzzi fatta per suo onore, 
Dove fu la battaglia e '1 gran fiaggello 
D' un re pagan, che Carlo imperadore 
Uccise, e tanto del sue popol fello : 
E vedesi tante ossa, e tanto il sanno, 
Che tutte in Giusaffa poi si vedranno. 

VII. 

Ma il mondo cieco e ignorante non prezza 
Le sue virtu, com' io vorrei vedere : 
E tu, Fiorenza, de la sua grandezza 
Possiedi, e sempre potrai possedere 
Ogni costume ed ogni gentilezza 
Che si potesse aquistare o avere 
Col senno col tesoro o con la lancia 
Dal nobil sangue e venuto di Francia. 

VIIL 
Dodici paladini aveva in corte 
Carlo ; e '1 piu savio e famoso era Orlando : 
Gan traditor Io condusse a la morte 
In Roncisvalle un trattato ordinando ; 
La dove il corno sono tanto forte 
Dopo la dolorosa rotta, quando^ 
Ne la sua commedia Dante qui dice, 
E mettelo con Carlo in ciel felice. 

IX. 

Era per Pasqua quella di natale: 
Carlo la corte avea tutta in Parigi ; 
Orlando, com' io dico, il principale 
Evvi, il Danese, Astolfo, e Ansuigi : 



Therefore, just Lord ! from out thy high abode, 

Benign and pious, bid an angel ilee, 
One only, to be my companion, who 
Shall help my famous, worthy, old song through. 

II. 

And thou, oh Virgin ! daughter, mother, bride, 
Of the same Lord, who gave to you each key 

Of heaven, and hell, and every thing beside. 
The day thy Gabriel said " All hail ! " to thee, 

Since to thy servants pity's ne'er denied, 

With flowing rhymes, a pleasant style and free, 

Be to my verses then benignly kind. 

And to the end illuminate my mind. 

III. 

'T was in the season when sad Philomel 
Weeps with her sister, who remembers and 

Deplores the ancient woes which both befel. 
And makes the nymphs enamour'd, to the hand 

Of Phaeton by Phoebus loved so well 
His car (but temper'd by his sire's command) 

Was given, and on the horizon's verge just now 

Appear'd, so that Tithonus scratch'd his brow : 

IV. 

When I prepared my bark first to obey, 
As it should still obey, the helm, my mind, 

And carry prose or rhyme, and this my lay 
Of Charles the Emperor, whom you will find 

By several pens already praised ; but they 
Who to diffuse his glory were inclined, 

For all that I can see in prose or verse, 

Have understood Charles badly, and wrote worse. 

V. 

Leonardo Aretino said already, 

That if, like Pepin, Charles had had a writer 
Of genius quick, and diligently steady. 

No hero would in history look brighter j 
He in the cabinet being always ready. 

And in the field a most victorious fighter, 
Who for the church and Christian faith had wrought, 
Certes, far more than yet is said or thought. 

VI. 

You still may see at Saint Liberatore, 
The abbey, no great way from Manopell, 

Erected in the Abruzzi to his glory. 
Because of the great battle in which fell 

A pagan king, according to the story. 
And felon people whom Charles sent to hell : 

And there are bones so many, and so many, 

Near them Giusaffa's would seem few, if any. 

VII. 

But the world, blind and ignorant, don't prize 
His virtues as I wish to see them : thou, 

Florence, by his great bounty don't arise, 
And hast, and may have, if thou wilt allow, 

All proper customs and true courtesies : 

Whate'er thou hast acquired from then till now, 

With knightly courage, treasure, or the lance. 

Is sprung from out the noble blood of France. 

VIII. 

Twelve paladins had Charles in court, of whom 
The wisest and most famous was Orlando; 

Him traitor Gan conducted to the tomb 
In Roncesvalles, as the villain plann'd too, 

While the horn rang so loud, and knell'd the doom 
Of their sad rout, though he did all knight can do ; 

And Dante in his comedy has given 

To him a happy seat with Charles in heaven. 

IX. 

'T was Christmas-day ; in Paris all his court 
Charles held ; the chief, I sav, Orlando was. 

The Dane ; Astolfo there too did resort, 
Also Ansuigi, the gay time to pass 



7* 



78 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



Fannosi feste e cose trionfale, 
E molto celebravan San Dionigi ; 
Angiolin di Bajona, ed Ulivieri 
V era venuto, e '1 gentil Berlinghieri. 

X. 

Eravi Avolio, ed Avino, ed Ottone 
Di Normmdia, Riccardo Paladino, 
E '1 savio Namo, e '1 vecchio Salamone, 
Gualtier da Monlione, e Baldovino 
Ch' era figliuol del tristo Ganellone. 
Troppo lieto era il figliuol di Pipino j 
Tanto che spesso d' allegrezza game 
Veggendo tutti i paladini insieme. 

XI. 

Ma la Fortuna attenta sta nascosa, 
Per guastar sempre ciascun nostro efifetto ; 
Mentre che Carlo cosi si riposa, 
Orlando governava in fatto e in detto 
La corte e Carlo Magno ed ogni cosa : 
Gan per invidia scoppia il maladetto, 
E cominciava un di con Carlo a dire: 
Abbiam noi sempre Orlando ad ubbidire. 

XII. 

lo ho creduto mille volte dirti : 

Orlando ha in se troppa presunzione : 
Noi slam qui conti, re, duchi a servirti 
E Namo, Ottone, Uggieri e Salamone, 
Per onorarti ognun, per ubbidirti : 
Che costui abbi ogui reputazione 
Nol soiferrem ; ma siam deliberati 
Da un fanciullo non esser governati. 

XIII. 

Tu cominciasti insino in Aspramonte 
A dargli a intender che fusse gagliardo, 
E facesse gran cose a quella fonte j 
Ma se non fusse stato il buon Gherardo, 

10 so che la vittoria era d' Almonte : 

Ma egli ebbe sempre P occhio a lo stendardo j 
Che si voleva quel di coronarlo : 
Questo e colui ch' ha meritato, Carlo. 

XIV. 

Se ti ricorda gia sendo in Guascogna, 
Quando e' vi venne la gente di Spagna, 

11 popol de' Cristiani avea vergogna, 
Se non mostrava la sua forza magna. 

II ver convien pur dir, quando e' bisogna: 
Sappi ch' ognuno imperador si lagna : 
Quant' io per me, ripassero que' monti 
Ch' io passai 'n qua con sessantaduo conti. 

XV. 
La tua grandezza dispensar si vuole, 
E far rhe ciascun abbi la sua parte : 
La corte tutta quanta se ne duole : 
Tu credi che costui sia forse Marte? 
Orlando un giorno udi queste parole, 
Che si sedeva soletto in disparte : 
Dispiacquegli di Gan quel che diceva j 
Ma molto piu che Carlo gli credeva. 

XVI. 
E voile con la spada uccider Gano ; 
Ma Ulivieri in quel mezzo si mise, 
E Durlindana gli trasse di mano, 
E cosi il me' che seppe gli divise, 
Orlando si sdegno con Carlo Mano, 
E poco men che quivi don 1' uccise ; 
E dipartissi di Parigi solo, 
E scopi^ia e' mpazza di sdegno e di duolo. 

XVII. 

Ad Ermellina moglie del Danese 
Tolse Cortana, e poi tolse Rondello ; 
E 'n verso Brara il suo cammin poi prese. 
Alda la bella, come vide quello, 



In festival and in triumphal sport, 

The much-renovvn'd St. Dennis being the caose ; 
Angiolin of Bayonne, and Oliver, 
And gentle Belinghieri too came there : 

X. 

Avolio, and Arino, and Othone 

Of Normandy, and Richard Paladin, 
Wise Hamo, and the ancient Salamone, 

Walter of Lion's Mount and Baldovin, 
Who was the son of the sad Ganellone, 

Were there, exciting too much gladness in 
The son of Pepin : — when his knigh's came hither. 
He groan'd with joy to see them altogether. 

XI. 

But watchful Fortune, lurking, takes good heed 
Ever some bar 'gainst our intents to bring. 

While Charles reposed him thus, in word and deed, 
Orlando ruled court, Charles, and every thing j 

Curst Gan, with envy bursting, had such need 
To vent his spite, that thus with Charles the king 

One day he openly began to say, 

" Orlando must we always then obey ? 

XIL 

"A thousand times I 've been about to say, 

Orlando too presumptuously goes on ; 
Here are we, counts, kings, dukes, to own thy sway, 

Hamo, and Otho, Ogier, Solomon, 
Each has to honour thee and to obey ; 

But he has too much credit near the throne, 
Which we won't sutfer, but are quite decided 
By such a boy to be no longer guided. 

XIIL 

" And even at Aspramont thou didst begin 
To let him know he was a gallant knight. 

And by the fount did much the day to win ; 
But I know who that day had won the fight 

If it had not for good Gherardo been : 

The victory was Almonte's else ; his sight 

He kept upon the standard, and the laurels 

In fact and fairness are his earning, Charles. 

XIV. 

" If thou rememberest being in Gascony, 
When there advanced the nations out of Spain, 

The Christian cause had suJfer'd shamefully, 
Had not his valour driven them back again. 

Best speak the truth when there 's a reason why : 
Know then, oh emperor ! that all complain : 

As for myself, I shall repass the mounts 

O'er which I cross'd with two and sixty counts. 

XV. 

" 'T is fit thy grandeur should dispense relief, 
So that each here may have his proper part. 

For the whole court is more or less in grief: 
Perhaps thou deem'st this lad a Mars in heart ? " 

Orlando one day heard this speech in brief, 
As by himself it chanced he sate apart : 

Displeased he was with Gan because he said it, 

But much more still that Charles should give him credit 

XVI. 

And with the sword he would have murder'd Gan, 

But Oliver thrust in between the pair, 
And from his hand extracted Durlindan, 

And thus at length they separated were. 
Orlando angry too with Carloman, 

Wanted but little to have slain him there ; 
Then forth alone from Paris went the chief, 
And burst and madden'd with disdain and grie£ 

X\TI. 

From Ermellina, consort of the Dane, 
He took Cortana, and then took Rondell, 

And on towards Brara prick'd him o'er the plain; 
And when she saw him coming, Aldabella 



^ 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE 



79 



Per abbracciailo .le braccia distese. 
Orlando, che ismarrito avea il cervello, 
Com' ella disse : ben venga il mio Orlando : 
Gli voile ia su la testa dar col brando. 

XVIII. 
Come colui che la furia consiglia, 
Egli pareva a Gan dar veramente : 
Alda la bella si fe' maraviglia : 
Orlando si ravvide prestamente : 
E la sua sposa pigliava la briglia, 
E scese dal caval subitamente : 
Ed ogni cosa narrava a costei, 
E riposossi alcun giorno con lei. 

XIX. 

Poi si parti portato dal furore, 
E termino passare in Pagania ; 
E mentre che cavalca, il traditore 
Di Gan sempre ricorda per la via : 
E cavalcando d' uno in altro errore, 
In un deserto truova una badia 
In luoghi oscuri e paesi lontani, 
Ch' era a' confin' tra Cristiani e pagani. 

XX. 

L' abate si chiamava Chiaramonte, 
Era del sangue disceso d'Anglante : 
Di sopra a la badia v' era un gran monte, 
Dove abitava alcun fiero gigaute, 
De' quali uno avea nome Passamonte, 
L' altro Alabastro, e '1 terzo era Morgante: 
Con certe frombe gittavan da alto, 
Ed ogni di facevan qualche assalto. 

XXI. 

I monachetti non potieno uscire 

Del monistero o per legne o per acque : 
Orlando picchia, e non volieno aprire, 
Fin che a 1' abate a la fine pur piacque ; 
Entrato drento cominciava a dire, 
Come colui, che di Maria gia nacque 
Adora, ed era Cristian battezzato, 
E com' egli era a la badia arrivato. 

XXII. 
Disse 1' abate : il ben venuto sia : 
Di quel ch' io ho volentier ti daremo, 
Poi che tu credi al figliuol di Maria j 
E la cagion, cavalier, ti diremo, 
Accio che non 1' imputi a villania, 
Perche a 1' entrar resistenza facemo, 
E non ti voile aprir quel monachetto : 
Cosi intervien chi vive con sospetto. 

XXIII. 

Quando ci venni al principio abitare 
Queste montagne, benche sleno oscure 
Come tu vedi ; pur si potea stare 
Sanza sospetto, ch' ell' eran sicure : 
Sol da le fiere t' avevi a guardare ; 
Fernoci spesso di brutte paure ; 
Or ci bisogna, se vogliamo starci. 
Da le bestie dimestiche guardarci. 

XXIV. 
Queste ci fan piuttosto stare a segno 
Sonci appariti tre fieri giganti, 
Non so di quel paese o di qual regno, 
Ma molto son feroci tutti quanti : 
La forza e '1 malvoler giunt' a lo 'ngegno 
Sai che puo '1 tutto ; e noi non siam bastanti j 
Questi perturban si 1' orazion nostra, 
Che non so piu che far, s' altri nol mostra. 

XXV. 
Gli antichi padri nostri nel deserto, 
Se le lor opre sante erano e giuste, 
Del ben servir da Dio n' avean buon merto ; 
Ne creder sol vivessin di locuste : 



Stretch'd forth her arms to clasp her lord again : 

Orlando, in whose brain all was not well. 
As " Welconde, my Orlando, home," she said, 
Raised up his sword to smite her on the head. 

XVIII. 

Like him a fury counsels ; his revenge 
On Gan in that rash act he seem'd to take, 

Which Aldabella thought extremely strange j 
But soon Orlando found himself awake j 

And his spouse took his bridle on this change, 
And he dismounted from his horse, and spake 

Of every thing which pass'd without demur, 

And then reposed himself some days with her. 

XIX. 

Then full of wrath departed from the place, 
And far as pagan countries roam'd astray. 

And while he rode, yet still at every pace 
The traitor Gan remember'd by the way j 

And wandering on in error a long space, 
An abbey which in a lone desert lay, 

'Midst glens obscure, and distant lands, he found, 

Which form'd the Christian's and the pagan's bound. 

XX. 

The abbot was call'd Clermont, and by blood 
Descended from Angrante : under cover 

Of a great mountain's brow the abbey stood, 
But certain savage giants look'd him over ; 

One Passamont was foremost of the brood, 
And Alabaster and Morgante hover 

Second and third, with certain slings, and throw 

In daily jeopardy the place below. 

XXI. 

The monks could pass the convent gate no more, 
Nor leave their cells for water or for wood j 

Orlando knock'd, but none would ope, before 
Unto the prior it at length seem'd good ; 

Enter'd, he said that he was taught to adore 
Him who was born of Mary's holiest blood. 

And was baptized a Christian j and then show'd 

How to the abbey he had found his road. 

XXII. 

Said the abbot, " You are welcome ; what is mine 
We give you freely, since that you believe 

With us in Mary Mother's Son divine; 
And that you may not, cavalier, conceive 

The cause of our delay to let you in 
To be rusticity, you shall receive 

The reason why our gate was barr'd to you : 

Thus those who in suspicion live must do. 

XXIII. 

" When hither to inhabit first we came 
These mountains, albeit that they are obscure, 

As you perceive, yet without fear or blame 
They seem'd to promise an asylum sure : 

From savage brutes alone, too fierce to tame, 
'T was fit our quiet dwelling to secure ; 

But now, if here we 'd stay, we needs must guard 

Against domestic beasts with watch and ward. 

XXIV. 

<' These make us stand, in fact, upon the watch ; 

For late there have appear'd three giants rough; 
What nation or what kingdom bore the batch 

I know not, but they are all of savage stuff; 
When force and malice with some genius match, 

You know, they can do all — we are not enough : 
And these so much our orisons derange, 
I know not what to do, till matters change. 

XXV. 

" Our ancient fathers living the desert in. 
For just and holy works were duly fed ; 

Think not they lived on locusts sole, 't is certain 
That manna was rain'd down from heaven instead j 



80 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



Piovea dal ciel la manna, questo e certo ; 
Ma qui convien che spesso assaggi e guste 
Sassi che piovon di sopra quel nionte, 
Che gettano Alabastro e Passamonte. 

XXVI. 

E '1 terzo ch' e Morgante, assai piu fiero, 
Isveglie e pini e faggi e cerri e gli oppi, 
E gettagli infin qui : questo e pur vero ; 
Non posso far che d' ira non iscoppi. 
Mentre che parlan cosi in cimitero, 
Un sasso par che Rondel quasi sgroppi ; 
Che da' giganti giu venne da alto 
Tanto, ch' e' prese sotto 11 tetto un salto. 

XXVII. 

Tirati drento, cavalier, per Dio, 
Disse 1' abate, che la manna casca. 
Risponde Orlando : caro abate mio, 
Costui non vuol che '1 mio caval piu pasca: 
Veggo che lo guarrebbe del restio : 
Quel sasso par che di buon braccio nasca. 
Rispose il santo padre : io non t' inganno, 
Credo che '1 monte un giorno gitteranno. 

XXVIII. 
Orlando governar fece Rondello, 
E ordinar per se da colazione : 
Poi disse : abate, io voglio andare a quello 
Che dette al mino caval con quel cantone. 
Disse P abate : come car fratello 
Consiglierotti sanza passione ? 

10 ti sconforto, baron, di tal gita ; 
Ch' io so che tu vi lascerai la vita. 

XXIX. 

Quel Passamonte porta in man tre dardi ; 
Chi frombe, chi baston, chi mazzafrustl j 
Sai che giganti piu di noi gagliardi 
Son per ragion, che son anco piu giusti ; 
E pur se vuoi andar fa che ti guardij 
Che questi son villan molto e robusti. 
Rispose Orlando : io lo vedro per certo ; 
Ed avviossi a pie su pel deserto. 

XXX. 

Disse 1' abate col segnarlo in fronte : 
Va, che da Dio e me sia benedetto. 
Orlando, poi che salito ebbe il monte. 
Si dirizzo, come 1' abate detto 
Gli avea, dove sta quel Passamonte; 

11 quale Orlando veggendo soletto, 
Molto lo squadra di drieto e davante ; 
Poi domando, se star volea per fante ? 

XXXI. 

E' prometteva di farlo godere. 
Orlando disse : pazzo Saracino, 

10 vengo a te, com' e di Dio volere, 
Per darti morte, e non per ragazzino ; 
A' monaci suoi fatto hai dispiacere ; 
Non puo piu comportarti can mastino. 
Questo gigante armar si corse a furia, 
Quando senti ch' e' gli diceva ingiuria. 

XXXII. 

E ritomato ove aspettava Orlando, 

11 qual non s'era partito da bomba ; 
Subito venne la corda girando, 

E lascia un sasso andar fuor de la fromba, 
Che in su la testa giugnea rotohndo 
Al conte Orlando, e 1' elmetto rimbomba ; 
E' cadde per la pena traniortito ; 
Ma piu che morto par, tanto e stordito. 

XXXIII. 

Passamonte penso che fusse morto, 
E disse : io voglio andarmi a disarmare : 
Questo poltron per chi m' aveva scorto ? 
Ma Cristo i suoi non suole abbandonare, 



But here 't is fit we keep on the alert in [bread. 

Our bounds, or taste the stones showrer'd down for 
From off yon mountain daily raining faster, 
And flung by Passamont and Alabaster. 

XXVI. 

" The third, Morgante, 's savagest by far j he 
Plucks up pines, beeches, poplar-trees, and oaks, 

And flings them, our community to bury; 
And all that I can do but more provokes." 

While thus they parley in the cemetery, 
A stone from one of their gigantic strokes. 

Which nearly crush'd Rondell, came tumbling over, 

So that he took a long leap under cover. 

xxvu. 

" For God-sake, cavalier, come in with speed ; 

The manna 's falling now," the abbot cried. 
" This fellow does not wish my horse should feed, 

Dear abbot," Roland unto him replied. 
" Of restiveness he 'd cure him had he need ; 

That stone seems with good will and aim applied." 
The holy father said, " I don't deceive ; 
They '11 one day fling the mountain, I believe." 

XXVIII. 
" Orlando bade them take care of Rondello, 

And also made a breakfast of his own : 
" Abbot," he said, " I want to find that fellow 

Who flung at my good horse yon corner-stone." 
Said the abbot, " Let not my advice seem shallow j 

As to a brother dear I speak alone ; 
I would dissuade you, baron, from this strife, 
As knowing sure that you will lose your life. 

XXIX. 

" That Passamont has in his hand three darts — 
Such slings, clubs, ballast-stones, that yield you must; 

You know that giants have much stouter hearts 
Than us, with reason, in proportion just : 

If go you will, guard well against their arts. 
For these are very barbarous and robust." 

Orlando answer'd, " This I '11 see, be sure, 

And walk the wild on foot to be secure." 

XXX. 

The abbot sign'd the great cross on his front, 
" Then go you with God's benison and mine : " 

Orlando, after he had scaled the mount. 
As the abbot had directed, kept the line 

Right to the usual haunt of Passamont ; 
Who, seeing him alone in this design, 

Survey'd him fore and aft with eyes observant, 

Then ask'd him, " If he wish'd to stay as servant ? " 

XXXI. 

And promised him an office of great ease. 

But said Orlando, " Saracen insane ! 
I come to kill you, if it shall so please 

God, not to serve as footboy in your train ; 
You with his monks so oft have broke the peace — 

Vile dog ! 't is past his patience to sustain." 
The giant ran to fetch his arms, quite furious. 
When he received an answer so injurious. 

XXXII. 

And being retum'd to where Orlando stood, 
Who had not moved him from the spot, and swinging 

The cord, he hurl'd a stone with strength so rude, 
Asshow'd a sample of his skill in slinging; 

It roll'd on Count Orlando's helmet good 
And head, and. set both head and helmet ringing. 

So that he swoon'd with pain as if he died. 

But more than dead, he seem'd so stupified. 

XXXIII. 

Then Passamont, who thought him slain outright, 
Said, *' I will go, and while he lies along, 

Disarm me : why such craven did I fight ?" 
But Christ his servants ne'er abandons long, 






w 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



81 



Massime Orlando, ch' egli arebbe il torto. 
Mentre il giganle 1' arme va a spogliare, 
Orlando in questo tempo si riserite, 
E rivocava e la forza e la mente. 

XXXIV. 

E grido forte : gigante, ove vai ? 
Ben ti pensasti d' avermi ammazzato ! 
Volgiti a drieto, che, s' ale non hai, 
Non puoi da me fuggir, can rinnegato : 
A tradimento ingiuriato m' hai, 
Donde il gigante allor maravigliato 
Si volse a drieto, e riteneva il passo ; 
Pol si chino per tor di terra un sasso. 

XXXV. 

Orlando avea Cortana ignuda in xnano j 
Trasse a la testa : e Cortana tagliava : 
Per mezzo il teschio parti del pagano, 
E Passamonte morto rovinava : 
E nel cadere il superbo e villano 
Divotamente Macon bestemmiava ; 
Ma mentre che bestemmia il crudo e acerbo, 
Orlando ringraziava il Padre e '1 Verbo. 

XXXVI. 

Dicendo : quanta grazia oggi m' ha 'data ! 
Sempre ti sono, o signor mio, teuuto j 
Per te conosco la vita salvata ; 
Pero che dal gigante era abbattuto : 
Ogni cosa a ragion fai misurata ; 
Non val nostro poter sanza il tuo ajuto. 
Priegoti, sopra me tenga la mano, 
Tanto che ancor ritorni a Carlo Mano. 

XXXVII. 

Poi ch' ebbe questo detto sen' andoe, 
Tanto che trouva Alabastro piu basso 
Che si sforzava, quando e' lo trovoe, 
Di sveglier d' una ripa fuori un masso. 
Orlando, com' e' giunse a quel, gridoe : 
Che pensi tu, ghiotton, gittar quel sasso ? 
Quando Alabastro questo grido intende, 
Subitameate la sua fromba prende, 

XXXVIII. 

E' trasse d' una pietra molto grossa, 
Tanto ch' Orlando bisogno schermisse ; 
Che se 1' avesse giunto la percossa, 
Non bisognava il medico venisse. 
Orlando adopero poi la sua possa ; 
Nel pettignou tutta la spada misse : 
E morto cadde questo babalone, 
E non dimentico pero Macone. 

XXXIX. 

Morgante aveva al suo modo un palagio 
Fatto di frasche e di schegge e di terra : 
Quivi, secondo lui, si posa ad agio ; 
Quivi la notte si rinchiude e serra. 
Orlando piechia, e daragli disagio, 
Perche il gigante dal sonno si sferra ; 
Vennegli aprir come una cosa matta j 
Ch' un' aspra visione aveva fatta. 

XL. 

E 'gli parea ch' un feroce serpente 
L' avea assalito, e chiamar Maconietto ; 
Ma Macometto non valea niente : 
Ond' e' chiamava Gesu benedetto j 
E liberato 1' avea final mente. 
Venne alia porta, ed ebbe cosi detto ; 
Chi buzza gua? pur sempre borbottando. 
Tu '1 saprai tosto, gli rispose Orlando. 

XLI. 

Vengo per farti, come a' tuo' fratelli, 
Far de' peccati tuoi la penitenzia, 
Da' monaci mandate, cattivelli, 
Come stato e divina providenzia ; 



Especially Orlando, such a knight, 

As to desert vi^ould almost be a wrong. 
While the giant goes to put off his defences, 
Orlando has recall'd his force and senses : 

XXXIV. 

And loud he shouted, " Giant, where dost go ? 

Thou thought 'st me doubtless for the bier outlaid j 
To the right about — without wings thou 'rt too slow 

To fly my vengeance — currish renegade ? " 
'T was but by treachery thou laid'st me low." 

The giant his astonishment betray'd. 
And turu'd about, and stopp'd his journey on, 
And then he stoop'd to pick up a great stone. 

XXXV. 

Orlando had Cortana bare in hand ; 

To split the head in twain was what he schemed : — 
Cortana clave the skull like a true brand, 

And pagan Passamont died unredeem'd, 
Yet harsh and haughty, as he lay he bann'd, 

And most devoutly Macon still blasphemed ; 
But while his crude, rude blasphemies he heard, 
Orlando thank'd the Father and the Word, — 

XXXVI. 

Saying, " What grace to me thou 'st this day given ! 

And I to thee, oh Lord ! am ever bound. 
I know my life was saved by thee from heaven, 

Since by the giant I was fairly down'd. 
All things by thee are measured just and even ; 

Our power without thine aid would nought be found : 
I pray thee take heed of me, till I can 
At least return once more to Carloman." 

XXXVII. 

And having said thus much, he went his way j 

And Alabaster he found out below, 
Doing the very best that in him lay 

To root from out a bank a rock or two. 
Orlando, when he reach'd him, loud 'gan say, 

" How think'st thou, glutton, such a stone to throw ?" 
When Alabaster heard his deep voice ring. 
He suddenly betook him to his sling, 

XXXVIIL 

And hurl'd a fragment of a size so large, 
That if it had in fact fulfill'd its mission. 

And Roland not avail'd him of his targe, 
There would have been no need of a physician. 

Orlando set himself in turn to charge, 
And in his bulky bosom made incision 

With all his sword. The lout fell ; but o'erthrown, he 

However by no means forgot Macone. 

XXXIX. 

Morgante had a palace in his mode. 

Composed of branches, logs of wood, and earth. 
And stretch'd himself at ease in this abode, 

And shut himself at night within his berth. 
Orlando knock'd, and knock'd again, to goad 

The giant from his sleep ; and he came forth. 
The door to open, like a crazy thing, 
For a rough dream had shook him slumbering. 

XL. 

He thought that a fierce serpent had attack'd him ; 

And Mahomet he call'd ; but Mahomet 
Is nothing worth, and not an instant back'd him 

But praying blessed Jesu, he was set 
At liberty from all the fears which rack'd him ; 

And to the gate he came with great regret — 
" Who knocks here ? " grumbling all the while, said he. 
" That," said Orlando, " you will quickly see : 

XLI. 

" I come to preach to you, as to your brothers, 
Sent by the miserable monks — repentance ; 

For Providence divine, in you and others. 
Condemns the evil done my new acquaintance. 



>v* 



82 MORGANTE 


MAGGIORE. 


Pel mal ch' avete fatto a torto a quelli, 


'T is writ on high — your wrong must pay another's ; 


E dato in ciel cosi questa sentenzia ; 


From heaven itself is issued out this sentence. 


Sappi, che t'reddo gia piu ch' un pilastro 


Know then, that colder now than a pilaster 


Laiciato ho Passauioute e' 1 tuo Alabastro. 


I left your Passamont and Alabaster." 


XLII. 


XLII. 


Disse Morgante : o gentil cavaliere, 


Morgante, said, " Oh gentle cavalier ! 


Per lo tuo Dio non mi dir villania : 


Now by thy God say me no villany ; 


Di grazii il noma tuo vorrei sapere; 


The favour of your name I fain would hear, 1 , 


Se se' Crlitian, deh dillo in cortesia. 


And if a Christian, speak for courtesy." \ 


Rispose Orlando : di cotal mastiere 


Replied Orlando, " So much to your ear j 


Contenterotti per la fede mia ; 


I by my faith disclose contentedly ; j 


Adoro Cristo, ch' e Signor verace ; 


Christ I adore, who is the genuine Lord, 


E puoi tu adorarlo, se ti place. 


And, if you please, by you may be adored." 


XLIII. 


XLIII. 


Rispose il Saracin con umil voce : 


The Saracen rejoin'd in humble tone. 


lo ho fatto una strana visione, 


" I have had an extraordinary vision ; 


Che m' assaliva un serpente feroce: 


A savage serpent fell on me alone. 


Non mi valeva per chiamar Macone : 


And Macon would not pity my condition; 


Onde al tuo Dio che fu confitto in croce 


Hence to thy God, who for ye did atone 


Rivolsi presto la mia intenzione : 


Upon the cross, preferr'd I my petition ; 


E' mi soccorse, e fui libero e sano, 


His timely succour set me safe and free, 


E son disposto al tutto esser Cristiano. 


And I a Christian am disposed to be." 


XLIV. 


XLIV. 


Rispose Orlando : baron giusfo e pio, 


Orlando answer'd, "Baron just and pious. 


Se ques'o buon voler terrai nel core, 


If this good wish your heart can really move, 


L' anima tua ara quel vero Dio 


To the true God, you will not then deny us 


Che ci puo sol gradir d' eterno onore : 


Eternal honour, you will go above, 


E s' tu vorrai, sarai compagno mio, 


And, if you please, as friends we will ally us, j 


E ameroiti con perfetto amore : 


And I will love you with a perfect love. 


Gl' idoli vostri son bugiardi e vani : 


Your idols are vain liars, full of fraud : 


11 vero Dio e lo Dio de' Cristiani. 


The only true God is the Christian's God. 


XLV. 


XLV. 


Venne questo Signor sanza peccato 
Ne le sua madre vergine pulzella : 


" The Lord descended to the virgin breast 


Of Mary Mother, sinless and divine ; 


Se conoscessi quel Signor beato, 


If you acknowledge the Redeemer blest. 


Sanza '1 qual non risplende sole o stella, 


Without whom neither sun nor star can shine, 


Aresti gia Macon tuo rinnegato, 


Abjure bad Macon's false and felon test. 


E la sua fede iniqua ingiusta e fella ; 
Battezzati al mio Dio di buon talento. 


Your renegado god, and worship mine, — 


Baptize yourself with zeal, since you repent." 


Morgante gli risposo : io son contento. 


To which Morgante answer'd, " I 'm content." 


XLVI. 


XLVI. 


E corse Orlando subito abbracciare : 


And then Orlando to embrace him flew, 


Orlando gran carezze gli facea, 


And made much of his convert, as he cried, | 


E disse : a la badia ti vo' menare. 


" To the abbey 1 will gladly marshal you.'' | 


Morgante, andianci presto, respondea ; 


To whom Morgante, " Let us go," replied j . i 


Co' monaci la pace ci vuol fare. 


" I to the friars have for peace to sue." ! 


De la qual cosa Orlando in se godea, 


Which thing Orlando heard with inward pride, | 


Dicendo ; fratel mio divoto e buono, 


Saying, " My brother, so devout and good, | 


lo vo che chiegga a 1' abate perdono. 


Ask the abbot pardon, as I wish you would : | 


XLVII. 


XLVII. 


Da poi che Dio ralluminato t' ha, 


" Since God has granted your illumination. 


Ed acettato per la sua umiltadej 


Accepting you in mercy for his own, j 


Vuolsi che tu ancor usi umilta. 


Humility should be your first oblation." j 


Disse Morgante : per la tua bontade, 


Morgante said, " For goodness' sake, make known,— ; 


Poi che il tuo Dio mio sempre omai sara, 


Since ihat your God is to be mine — your station, 


Dimraio del nonie tuo la veritade, 


And let your name in verity be shown ; 


Poi di me dispor puoi al tucTcomando ; 


Then will I every thing at your command do." 
On which the other said, he was Orlando. 


Ond' e' gli disse, com' egli era Orlando. 


XLVIII. 


XLVIIL i 


Disse il gigante : Gesu benedetto 


" Then," quoth the giant, " blessed be Jesu j 


Per mille volte ringraziato sia ; 


A thousand times with gratitude and praise ! 


Sentito t' ho non)ar, baron perfetto, 


Oft, perfect baron ! have 1 heard of you 


Per tutti i tempi de la vita mia : 


Through all the different periods of my days : | 


E, com' io dissi sempremai suggetto 


And, as I said, to be your vassal too 1 


Esser ti vo' per la tua gagliardia. 


I wish, for your great gallantry always." 1 


Insieme molte cose ragionaro, 


Thtis reasoning, they continued much to say, j 


E 'n verso la badia poi s' inviaro. 


And on\\ ards to the abbey went their way. j 


XLIX. 


XLIX. 


£ per la via da que' giganti morti 
Orlando con Morgante si ragiona : 


And by the way about the giants dead 


Orlando with Morgante reason'd : " Be, 


De la lor morte vo' che ti conforti ; 


For their decease, I pray you, comforted ; 


E poi che piace a Dio, a me perdona ,• 


And, since it is God's pleasure, pardon me; 










il^ 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



83 



A' monaci avean tatto mille torti j 
E la nostra scrittura aperto suona. 
II ben remunerate, e '1 mal punito ; 
E mai non ha questo Signer fallito, 



Pero ch' egli ama la giustizia tanto, 

Che vuol, che sempre il suo giudicio morda 
Ognun ch' abbi peccato tanto o quanto ; 
E cosi il ben ristorar si ricorda : 
E non saria senza giustizia santo : 
Adunque al suo voler presto t' accorda : 
Che debbe ognun voler quel che vuol questo, 
Ed accordarsi volentieri e presto. 

LI. 

E sonsi i nostri dottori accordati, 
Figliando tutti une conclusione, 
Che que' son nel ciel glorificati, 
S' avessin nel pensier compassione 
De' miseri parenti, che dannati 
Son ne lo inferno in gran confusione. 
La lor felicita nulla sarebbe ; 
E vidi che qui ingiusto Iddio parebbe. 

LII. 

Ma egli anno posto in Gesu ferma spene ; 
E tanto pare a lor, quanto a lui pare ; 
Afferman cio ch' e' fa, che facci bene, 
E che non possi in nessun nriodo errare : 
Se padre o madre e nell' eterne pane, 
Di questo non si posson conturbare : 
Che quel che piace a Dio, sol piace a loro : 
Questo s' osserva ne 1' eterno coro. 

LIII. 

Al savio suol bastar poche parole, 
Disse Morgante ; tu il potrai vedere, 
De'miei fratelli, Orlando, se mi duole, 
E s' io m' accordero di Dio al volere, 
Come tu di' che in ciel servar si suole : 
Morti co' morti ; or pensiam di godere; 
Io vo tagliar le rnani a tutti quanti, 
E porteroUe a que' monaci santi, 

LIV. 
Accio ch' ognun sia piu sicuro e certo. 
Com' e' son morti, e non abbin paura 
Andar soletti per questo deserto ; 
E perche veggan la mia mente pura 
A quel Signor che m' ha il suo regno aperto. 
E tratto fuor di tenebre si oscura. 
E poi taglio le mani a' due fratelli, 
E lasciagli a le fiere ed agli uccelli. 

LV. 

A la badia insieme se ne vanno, 
Ove 1' abate assai dubbioso aspetta : 
I monaci che '1 fatto ancor non sanno, 
Correvano a 1' abate tutti in fretti, 
Dicendo paurosi e pien' d' afFanno : 
Volefe vol costui drento si metta ? 
Quando 1' abate vedeva il gigante, 
Si turbo tutto nel primo sembiante. 

LVI. 

Orlando che turbato cosi il vede, 
Gli disse presto: abate, datti pace, 
Questo e Cristiano, e in Cristo nostro crede, 
E rinnegato ha il suo Macon fallace. 
Morgante i moncherin mosfro per fede, 
Come i gi^anti ciascun morto aiace : 
Donde 1' abate ringraziavia Iddio, 
Dicendo ; or m' hai contento, Signor mio. 

LVII. 

E risguardava, e squadrava Morgante, 
La sua grandezza e una volta e due, 
E poi gli disse: famoso gigante, 
Sappi ch' io non mi maraviglio piue, 



A thousand wrongs unto the monks they bred, 

And our true Scripture soundeth openly. 
Good is rewarded, and chastised the ill, 
Which the Lord never faileth to fulfil : 

L. 

" Because his love of justice unto all 
Is such, he wills his judgment should devour 

All who have sin, however great or small ; 
But good he well remembers to restore. 

Nor without justice holy could we call 
Him, whom I now require you to adore. 

All men must make his will their wishes sway, 

And quickly and spontaneously obey. 

LI, 

" And here our doctors are of one accord, 
I Coming on this point to the same conclusion, — 
1 That in their thoughts who praise in heaven the Lord 
I If pity e'er was guilty of intrusion 

For their unfortunate relations stored 
I In hell below, and damn'd in great confusion, — 
■ Their happiness would be reduced to nought, 
I And thus unjust the Almighty's self be thought. 

I LII. 

i " But they in Christ have firmest hope, and all 
j Which seems (o him, to them too must appear 
j Well done ; nor could it otherwise befall ; 
I He never can in any purpose err. 
If sire or mother suffer endless thrall. 

They don't disturb themselves for him or her : 
What pleases God to them must joy inspire ; — 
Such is the observance of the eternal choir." 

LIII. 

" A word unto the wise," Morgante said, 
" Is wont to be enough, and you shall see 

How much I grieve about my brethren dead ; 
And. if the will of God seem good to me. 

Just, as you tell me, 't is in heaven obey'd — 
Ashes to ashes ! — merry let us be ! 

I will cut elf the hands from both their trunks. 

And carry them unto the holy monks, 

LIV. 

" So that all persons may be sure and certain 
That they are dead, and have no further fear 
j To wander solitary this desert in, 
I And that they may perceive my spirit clear 
' By the Lord's gracej who hath w'ithdrawn the curtain 

'Of darkness, making his bright realm appear." 
He cut his brethren's hands ofi" at these words, 
I And left them to the savage beasts and birds. 

I LV. 

j Then to the abbey they went on together, 
i Where waited them the abbot in great doubt. 
I The monks, who knew not yet the fact, ran thither 
j To their^uperior, all in breathless rout. 
Saying with tremor, " Please to tell us whether 

You wish to have this person in or out ? " 
The abbot, looking through upon the giant. 
Too greatly fear'd, at first, to be compliant. 

i LVI. 

Orlando seeing him thus agitated, 
' Said quicidy, "Abbot, be tliou of good cheer; 
He Christ believes, as Christian must be rated, 

And hath renounced his Macon false ; " which here 
Morgante with the hands corroborated, 

A proof of both the giants' fate quite clear : 
I Thence with due thanks, the abbot God adored. 
Saying, " Thou hast contented me, oh Lord ! " 

I LVII. 

j He gazed ; Morgante's height he calcul »ted, 

And more than once contemplated his size ; 
I And then he said, " Oh giant celebrated ! 
i Knew, that no more my wonder will arise, 



^^mm 



1 



84 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



Che tu svegliessi e gittassi le piante, 
Quand' io riguardo or le fattezze tue : 
Tu sarai or perfetto e vero amico 
A Cristo, quanto tu gli eri nimico. 

LVIII. 
Un nostra apostal, Saul gia chiamato, 
Persegui molto la fade di Cristo : 
Un giorno poi da lo spirto inflammato, 
Perche pur mi persegui ? disse Cristo : 
E' si ravvide allor del suo peccato 
Ando poi predicando sempre Cristo ; 
E fatto e or de la fede una tromba, 
La qual per tutto risuona e rimbomba. 

LIX. 

Cosi farai tu ancor, Morgante mio : 
E chi s' emenda, e scritto nel Vangelo, 
Che maggior festa fa d' un solo Iddio, 
Che di novantanove altri su in cielo : 
Io ti confer to ch' ogni tuo disio 
Rivolga a quel Signor con giusto zelo, 
Che tu sarai felice in sempiterno, 
Ch' eri perduto, e dannato all' inferno. 

LX. 
E grande onore a Morgante faceva 
L' abate, e molti di si son posti : 
Un giorno, come ad Orlando piaceva, 
A spasso in qua e in la si sono andati : 
L' abate in una camera sua aveva 
Molte armadure e certi archi appiccati : 
Morgante gliene piacque un che ne vede ; 
Onde e' sel cinse bench' oprar nol crede. 

Lxr. 

Avea quel luogo d' acqua carestia : 
Orlando disse come buon fratello : 
Morgante, vo' che di placer ti sia 
Andar per 1' acqua : ond' e' rispose a quelle : 
Comanda cio che vuoi che fatto sia j 
E posesi in ispalla un gran tinello, 
Ed avviossi la verso una fonte 
Dove solea ber sempre appie del monte. 

LXII. 

Giunto a la fonte, sente un gran fracasso 
Di subito venir per la foresta : 
Una saetta cavo del turcasso, 
Posela a P arco, ed alzava la testa ; 
Ecco apparire un gran gregge al passo 
Di porci, e vanno con molta tempesta ; 
E arrivomo alia fontana appunto 
Donde il gigante e da lor sopraggiunto. 

LXIII. 

Morgante a la ventura a un saetta ; 
Appunto ne 1' orecchio lo 'ncarnava : 
Da 1' altro lato passo la verretta ; 
Onde il cinghial giu morto gambettava ; 
Un altro, quasi per fame vendetta, 
Addosso al gran gigante irato andava ; 
E perche e' giunse troppo tosto al varco, 
Non fu Morgante a tempo a trar con 1' arco. 

LXIV. 

Vedendosi venuto il porco adosso, 
Gli dette in su la testa un gran punzone i 
Per modo che gl' infranse insino a P osso, 
E morto allato a quelP altro lo pone : 
Gli altri porci veggendo quel percosst^ 
Si misson tutti in fuga pel vallone ; 
Morgante si levo il tinello in coUo, 
Ch' era pien d' acqua, e non si muove un croUo. 



1 "Gli dette in su la testa un gran punzone." It is 
Btrange that Pulci should have literally anticipated the 
technical terms of my old friend and master, Jackson, and 
the art which he has carried to its highest pitch. " A 



How you could tear and fling the trees you late did, 

When I behold your form with my own eyes. 
You now a true and perfect friend will show 
Yourself to Christ, as once you were a foe. 

LVIII. , 

" And one of our apostles, Saul once named, 
Long persecuted sore the faith of Christ, 

Till, one day, by the Spirit being inflamed, 
' Why dost thou persecute me thus ?' said Christ; 

And then from his off'ence he was reclaim'd. 
And went for ever after preaching Christ, 

And of the faith became a trump, whose sounding 

O'er the whole earth is echoing and rebounding. 

LIX. 

" So, my Morgante, you may do likewise : 
He who repents — thus writes the Evangelist — 

Occasions more rejoicing in the skies 
Than ninety-nine of the celestial list. 

You may be sure, should each desire arise 
With just zeal for the Lord, that you '11 exist 

Among the happy saints for evermore ; 

But you were lost and damn'd to hell before ! " 

LX. 

And thus great honour to Morgante paid 
The abbot : many days they did repose. 

One day, as with Orlando they both stray'd, ' 

And saunter'd here and there, where'er they chose, 

The abbot show'd a chamber, where array'd 
Much armour was, and hung up certain bows ; 

And one of these Morgante for a whim 

Girt on, though useless, he believed, to him. 

LXL 

There being a want of water in the place, 

Orlando, like a worthy brother, said, 
" Morgante, I could wish you in this case 

To go for water." " You shall be obey'd 
In all commands," was the reply, " straightways." 

Upon his shoulder a great tub he laid. 
And went out on his way unto a fountain. 
Where he was wont to drink below the mountain. 

LXII. 

Arrived there, a prodigious noise he hears, 
Which suddenly along the forest spread ; 

Whereat from out his quiver he prepares 
An arrow for his bow, and lifts his head ; 

And lo ! a monstrous herd of swine appears, 
And onward rushes with tempestuous tread, 

And to the fountain's brink precisely pours ; 

So that the giant 's join'd by all the boars. 

LXIII. 

Morgante at a venture shot an arrow, 
Which pierced a pig precisely in the ear, 

And pass'a unto the other side quite thorough ; 
So that the boar, defunct, lay tripp'd up near. 

Another, to revenge his fellow farrow. 
Against the giant rush'd in fierce career, 

And reach'd the passage with so swift a foot, 

Morgante was not now in time to shoot. 

LXIV. 

Perceiving that the pig was on him close, 
He gave him such a punch upon the head, 

As floor'd him so that he no more arose. 
Smashing the very bone ; and he fell dead 

Next to the other. Having seen such blows, 
The other pigs along the valley fled j 

Morgante on his neck the bucket took. 

Full from the spring, which neither swerved nor shook. 

punch on the head," or "a punch in the head," — "nn 
punzone in su la testa," — is the exact and frequent 
phrase of our best pugilists, who little dream that they 
are talking the purest Tuscan. 



H 



...afaiilfli^: — 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



85 



LXV. 

Da 1' una spalla il tinello avea posto, 
Da 1' altra i porci, e spacciava il terreno ; 
E torna a la badia, ch' e pur discosto, 
Ch' una gocciola d' acqua non va in seno. 
Orlando che '1 vedea tornar si tosto 
Co' porci morti, e con quel vaso pieno ; 
Maravigliossi che sia tanto forte : 
Cosi 1' abate ; e spalancan le porta. 

LXVI. 

I monici veggendo 1' acqua fresca 
Si rallegrorno, ma piu de' clnghiali ; 
Ch' ogni animal si rallegra de 1' esca ; 
E posano a dormire i breviali : 
Ognun s' affanna, e non par che gP incresca, 
Accio che questa carne nog s' insali, 
E che poi secca sapesse di victo j 
E la digjune si restorno a drieto. 

LXVII. 

E ferno a scoppia corpo per un tratto, 
E scuffian, che parian de 1' acqua usciti j 
Tanto che '1 cane sen doleva e '1 gatto, 
Che gli ossi rimanean troppo puliti. 
L' abate, poi che moito onoro ha fatto 
A tutti, un di dopo questi conviti 
Dette a Morgante un destrier molto bello, 
Che lungo tempo tenuto avea quello. 

LXVIII. 

Morgante in su 'n un prato il caval mena, 
E vuol che corra, e che facci ogni pruova, 
E pensa che di ferro abbi la schiena, 
O forse non credeva schiacciar 1' uova : 
Questo caval s' accoscia per la pena, 
E scoppia, e 'n su la terra si ritruova. 
Dicca Morgante : lieva su rozzone ; 
E va pur punzecchiando co lo sprone. 

LXIX. 

Ma finalmente convien ch' egli smonte, 
E disse : io son pur leggier come penna, 
Ed e scoppiato ; che ne di' tu, conte ? 
Rispose Orlando ; un arbore d' antenna 
Mi par piuttosto, e la gaggia la fronte : 
Lascialo andar, che la fortuna accenna 
Che meco appiede ne venga, Morgante. 
Ed io cosi verro, disse il gigante. 

LXX. 

Quando sera mestier, tu mi vedrai 
Com' io mi provero ne la battaglia. 
Orlando disse : io credo tu farai 
Come buon cavalier, se Dio mi vagliaj 
Ed anco me dormir non mirerai : 
Di questo tuo caval non te ne caglia : 
Vorrebbesi portarlo in qualche bosco j 
Ma il niodo ne la via non ci conosco. 

LXXI. 

Disse il gigante : io il portero ben io, 
Da poi che porter me non ha voluto, 
Per render ben per mal, come fa Dio ; 
Ma vo' che a porlo addosso mi dia ajuto. 
Orlando gli dicea : Morgante mio, 
S' al mio consiglio ti sarai attenutOj 
Questo caval tu non ve '1 porteresti, 
Che ti fara come tu a lui facesti. 

LXXII. 

Guarda che non facesse la vendetta, 
Come fece gia Nesso cosi morto : 
Non so se la sua istoria hai inteso o letta; 
E' ti fara scoppiar; datti conforto. 
Disse Morgante : ajufa ch' io me '1 metta 
Addosso, e poi vedrai s' io ve lo porto : 
Io porterei, Orlando mio gentile, 
Con le campane la quel campanile. 



LXV. 

The ton was on one shoulder, and there were 
The hogs on t' other, and he brush'd apace 

On to the abbey, though by no means near, 
Nor spilt one drop of water in his race. 

Orlando, seeing him so soon appear 
With the dead boars, and with that brimful vase, 

Marvell'd to see his strength so very great j 

So did the abbot, and set wide the gate. 

LXVI. 

The monks, who saw the wafer fresh and good. 
Rejoiced, but much more to perceive the pork } — 

All animals are glad at sight of food : 

They lay their breviaries to sleep, and work 

With greedy pleasure, and in such a mood. 
That the flesh needs no salt beneath their fork. 

Of rankness and of rot there is no fear, 

For all the fasts are now left in arrear. 

Lxvn. 

As though they wish'd to burst at once, they ate j 
And gorged so that, as if the bones had been 

In water, sorely grieved the dog and cat. 

Perceiving that they all were pick'd too clean. 

The abbot, who to all did honour great, 
A few days after this convivial scene, 

Gave to Morgante a fine horse, well train'd, 

Which he long time had for himself maintain'd. 

LXVIII. 

The horse Morgante to a meadow led, 
To gallop, and to put him to the proof. 

Thinking that he a back of iron had. 

Or to skim eggs unbroke was light enough ; 

But the horse, sinking with the pain, fell dead, 
And burst, while cold on earth lay head and hoof. 

Morgante said, " Get up, thou sulky cur ! " 

And still continued pricking with the spur. 

LXIX. 

But finally he thought fit to dismount, 
And said, " I am as light as any feather, 

And he has burst ; — to this what say you, count ? » 
Orlando answer'd, " Like a ship's mast rather 

You seem to me, and with the truck for front : — 
Let him go ! Fortune wills that we together 

Should march, but you on foot Morgante still." 

To which the giant answer'd, " So I will. 

LXX. 

" When there shall be occasion, you will see 
How I approve mv courage in the fight." 

Orlando said, " I really think you '11 be. 
If it should prove God's will, a goodly knight; 

Nor will you napping there discover me. 
But never mind your horse, though out of sight 

'T were best to carry him into some wood. 

If but the means or way I understood." 

LXXI. 

The giant said, " Then carry him I will, 
Since that to carry me he was so slack — 

To render, as the gods do, good for ill ; 
But lend a hand to place him on my back." 

Orlando answer'd, " If my counsel still 
May weigh, Morgante, do not undertake 

To lift or carry this dead courser, who, 

As you have done to him, will do to you. 

LXXII. 

"Take care he don't revenge himself, though dead, 
As Nessus did of old beyond all cure. 

I don't know if the fact you 've heard or read ; 
But he will make you burst, you may be sure." 

*' But help him on my b:\ck," Morgante said, 
" And you shall see what weight I can endure. 

In place, my gentle Roland, of this palfrey. 

With all the bells, I 'd carry yonder belfry." 



-i 



8 



86 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



LXXIII. 
Disse 1' abate : il campanil v' e bene j 
Ma le campane voi V avete rotte. 
Dicea Morgante, e' ne porton le pene 
Color che morti son la in quelle grottej 
E levossi il cavallo in su le schiene, 
E disse : guarda s' io seuto di gotte, 
Orlando, nelle gambe, e s' io lo posso ; 
E fe' duo salti col cavallo addosso. 

LXXIV. 

Era Morgante come una montagna : 
Se facea questo, non e maraviglia; 
Ma pure Orlando con seco si lagna ; 
Perche pur era omai di sua famiglia 
Temenza avea non pigliasse niagagna, 
Un' altra volta costui riconsiglia : 
Posalo ancor, nol portare al deserto. 
Disse Morgante : il portero per certo. 

LXXV. 

E portollo, e gittollo in luogo strano, 
E torno a la badia subitaniente. 
Diceva Orlando : or che piu dimoriano ? 
Morgante, qui non facciam noi niente ; 
E prese un gioruo 1' abate per mano, 
E disse a quel molto discretamente, 
Che vuol partir de la sua reverenzia, 
E domandava e perdono e licenzia. 

LXX\I. 

E de gli onor ricevuti da questi, 
Qualche volta portendo, ara buon merito j 
E dice : io intendo ristorare e presto 
I persi giorni del tempo preterito ; 
E' son piu di che licenzia arei chiesto, 
Benigno padre, se non ch' io mi perito ; 
Non so mostrarvi quel che drento sento ; 
Tanto vi veggo del mio star contento. 

LXXVII. 

Io me ne porto per sempre nel core 
L' abate, la badia, questo deserto ; 
Tanto v' ho posto in picciol tempo amore : 
Rendavi su nel ciel per me buon merto : 
Quel vero Dio, quello eterno Signore 
Che vi serba il suo regno al f.ue aperto : 
Noi aspettiam vostro benedizione, 
Raccomandiamci a le vostre orazione. 

LXXVIU. 

Quando 1' abate il conte Orlando intese, 
Rinteneri nel cor per la dolcezza, 
Tanto fervor nel petto se gli accese ; 
E disse : cavalier, se a tua prodezza 
Non sono state benigno e cortese, 
Come convienii a la gran gentillezza ; 
Che so che cio ch' i' ho fatto e stato poco, 
Incolpa la ignorauzia nostra e il loco. 

LXXIX. 

Noi ti potremo di messe onorare, 
Di prediche di laude e paternostri, 
Piuttosto che da cena o desinare, 
d' altri convenevol che da chiostri : 
Tu m' hai di te si fatto innnmorare 
Per mille alte eccellenzie che tu mostri j 
Ch' io me ne vengo ove tu andrai teco. 
E d' altra parte tu resti qui meco. 

LXXX. 

Tanto ch' a questo par contraddizione ; 
Ma so che tu se' savio, e 'nteudi e gusti, 
E intendi il mio parlar per discrizione j 
De' beneficj tuoi pietosi e giusti 
Renda il Signore a te munerazione, 
Da cui mandato in ques'c selve fusti ; 
Per le virtu del qual liberi siamo, 
E grazie a lui e a te noi ne rendiamo. 



LXXIII. 

The abbot said, " The steeple may do well, 
But, for the bells, you 've broken them, I wot." 

Morgante ansuer"d, '" Let them pay in hell 
The penalty who lie dead in yon grot ; " 

And hoisting up the horse from where he fell, 
He said, " Now look if I the gout have got, 

Orlando, in the legs — or if I have force j " — 

And then he made two gambols with the horse. 

LXXIV. 

Morgante was like any mountain framed ; 

So if he did this, 't is rio prodigy ; 
But secretly himself Orlando blamed, 

Because he was one of his family ; 
And fearing that he might be hurt or maim'd, 

Once moie he bade him lay his burden by : 
" Put down, nor bear him further the desert in." 
Morgante said, " I '11 carry him for certain." 

LXXV. 

He did ; and stow'd him in some nook away, 
And to the abbey then return'd with speed. 

Orlando said, " Why longer do we stay ? 
Morgante, here is nought to do indeed." 

The abbot by the hand he took one day. 
And said, with great respect, he had agreed 

To leave his reverence ; but for this decision 

He wish'd to have his pardon and permission. 

LXX\T. 

The honours they continued to receive 
Perhaps exceeded what his merits claim'd : 

He said, '• I mean, and quickly, to retrieve 
The lost days of time past, w hich may be blamed j 

Some days ago I should have ask'd your leave, 
Kind father, but I really was ashamed. 

And know not how to show my sentiment, 

So much I see you with our stay content. 

LXXVTI. 

"But in my heart I bear through every clime 
The abbot, abbey, and this solitude — 

So much I love you in so short a time ; 
For me, from heaven reward you with all good 

The God so true, the eternal Lord sublime ! 
Whose kingdom at the last hath open stood. 

Meantime we stand expectant of your blessing, 

And recommend us to your prayers with pressing." 

LXXVIII. 

Now %vhen the abbot Count Orlando heard, 
His heart grew soft with inner tenderness, 

Such fervour in his bosom bred each word ; 
And, " Cavalier,"' he said, " if I have less 

Courteous and kind to your great worth appear'd, 
Than fits me for such gentle blood to express, 

I know I have done too little in this case ; 

But blame our ignorance, and this poor place. 

LXXIX. 

" We can indeed but honour you with masses, 
And sermons, thanksgivings, and pater-nosters, 

Hot suppers, dinners (fitting other places 
In verity much rather than the cloisters) ; 

But such a love for you my heart embraces, 
For thousand virtues wliich your bosom fosters, 

That wheresoe'er you go I too shall be, 

And, on the other part, you rest with me. 

LXXX. 

" This may involve a seeming contradiction ; 

But you I know are sage, and feel, and taste, 
And understand my speech with full conviction. 

For your just pious deeds may you be graced 
With the Lord's great reward and benediction, 

B.v whom you were directed to this waste : 
To his high mercy is our freedom due, 
For which we render thanks to him and you. 



] 



T? 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



87 



LXXXI. 
Tu ci hai salvato 1' anima e la vita : 
Tanta perturbazion gii que giganti 
Ci detton, che la strada era sniarrita 
Da ritrovar Gesu con gli altri santi: 
Pero troppo ci duol la tua partita, 
E sconsolati restiam tutti quanti ; 
Ne ritener possiamti i mesi e gli anni : 
Che tu noa se' da vestir questi panni, 

LXXXII. 

Ma da portar la lancia e P armadura : 
E puossi merilar con essa, come 
Con quest I cappa ; e leggi la scrittura : 
Questo gigante al ciel drizzo le some 
Per tua virtu ; va in pace a tua ventura 
Chi 1u ti sia, ch' io non ricerco il nome j 
Ma diro sempre, s' io son domandato, 
Ch' un angiol qui da Dio tusii mandate. 

LXXXIII. 

Se c' e armadura o cosa che tu voglia, 
Vattene in zambra e pigliane tu stessi, 
E cuopri a questo gigante le scoglia, 
Rispose Orlando : se armadura avessi 
Prima che noi uscissim de la soglia, 
Che questo mio compagno difendessi : 
Questo accetto io, e sarammi piacere. 
Disse P abate : venite a vedere, 

LXXXIV. 

E in certa cameretta entrati. sono, 
Che d' armadure vecchie "era copiosa : 
Dice 1' abate : tutte ve le dono. 
Morgante va rovistando ogni cosa ; 
Ma solo un certo sbergo gli fu buono, 
Ch' avea tutta la maglia rugginosa : 
Maravigliossi che Io cuopra appunto : 
Che mai piu gnun forse glien' era aggiunto. 

LXXXV. 

Questo fu d' un gigante smisurata, 
Ch' a la badia fu morto per autico 
Da] gran Milon d' Angrante, ch' arrivato j 
V era, s' appunto questa istoria dico ; 
Ed era ne le mura istoriato, 
Come e' fu morto questo grari nimico 
Che fece a la badia gia lunga guerra : 
E Milon v' e com' e' P abbatte in terra. 

LXXXVI. 

Veggendo questa istoria il conte Orlando, 
Fra suo cor disse : o Dio, che sai sol tutto, 
Come venne Milon qui capitando, 
Che ha questo gigante qui distrutto ? 
E lesse certe lettre lacrimando, 
Che non pote tenir piu il viso asciutto, 
Com' io diro ne la seguente istoria: 
Di mal vi guardi il Re de P alta gloria. 



LXXXI. 

" You saved at once our life and soul : such fear 
The giants cau:ed us, that the way was lost 

By which we coukl pursue a lit career 
In search of Jesus and the saintly host; 

And your departure breeds such sorrow here, 
That comfortless we all are to our cost ; 

But months and years you would not stay in sloth, 

Nor are you form'd to wear our sober cloth j 

LXXXII. 

" But to bear arms, and wield the lance ; indeed, 
With these as much is done as with this cowl j 

In proof of which the Scriptures you may read. 
This giant up to heaven may bear his soul 

By your compassion : now in peace proceed. 
Your state and name I seek not to unroll ; 

But, if 1 'm asli'd, this answer shall be given. 

That here an angel was sent down from heaven. 

LXXXIII. 

" If you want armour or aught else, go in, 
Look o'er the wardrobe, and take what you choose, 

And cover with it o'er this giant's skin." 
Orlando answer'd, '-If there should lie loose 

Some armour, ere our journey we begin. 

Which might be turned to my companion's use, 

The gift would be acceptable to me." 

The abbot said to him, " Come in and see." 

LXXXIV. 

And in a certain closet, where the wall 
Was cover'd with old armour like a crust, 

The abbot said to them, " I give you all." 
Morgante rummaged piecemeal from the dust 

The whole, which, save one cuir-iss, was too small, 
And that too had the mail inlaid with rust. 

They wonder'd how it fitted him exactly, 

Which ne'er has suited others so compactly. 

LXXXV. 

'T was an immeasurable giant's, who 

By the great Milo of Agrante fell 
Before the abbey many years ago. 

The story on the wall was figured wellj 
In the last moment of (he abbey s foe. 

Who long had waged a war implacable : 
Precisely as the war occurr'd they drew him, 
And there was Milo as he overthrev? him. 

LXXXVI. 

Seeing this history. Count Orlando said 
In his own heart, '< Oh God, who in the sky 

Know'st all things ! how was Milo hither led ? 
Who caused the giant in this place to die ? " 

And certain letters, weeping, then he read. 
So that he could not keep his visage dry, — 

As I will tell in the ensuing story. 
1 From evil keep you the high King of glory ! 



THE GIAOUR: 

A FRAGMENT OF A TURKISH TALE 



"One fatal remembrance — one sorrow that throws 
Its bleak sh^de alike o'er our joys and our woes — 
To which Life nothing darker nor brighter can bring, 
For which joy hath no balm — and affliction no stinc." 

MOORE. 



TO 

SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ., 

AS A SLIGHT BUT MOST SINCERE TOKEN 

OF ADMIRATION FOR HIS GENIUS, 

RESPECT FOR HIS CHARACTER, 



AND GRATITUDE FOR HIS FRIENDSHIP, 

THIS PRODUCTION IS INSCRIBED 

BY HIS OBLIGED 

AND AFFECTIONATE SERVANT, 

London, May, 1818. BYRON. 



88 



THE GIAOUR. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The tale which these disjointed fragments present, is 
founded upon circumstances now less common in the 
East than formerly ; either because the ladies are more 
circumspect than in the "olden time," or because the 
Christians have better fortune, or less enterprise. The 
story, when entire, contained the adventures of a female 
slave, who was thrown, in the Mussulman manner, into 
the sea for infidelity, and avenged by a young Vene- 
tian, her lover, at the time the Seven Islands were pos- 
sessed by the Republic of Venice, and soon after the 
Amauts'were beaten back from the Morea, which they 
had ravaged for some time subsequent to the Russian 
invasion. The desertion of the Mainotes, on being re- 
fused the plunder of Misitra, led to the abandonment 
of that enterprise, and to the desolation of the Morea, 
during which the cruelty exercised on all sides was 
unparalleled even in the annals of the faithful, i 



THE GIAOUR. 



No breath of air to break the wave 
That rolls below the Athenian's grave, 
That tomb 2. which, gleaming o'er the cliff, 
First greets the homeward-veering skiff, 
High o'er the land he saved in vain ; 
When shall such hero live again ? 



Fair clime ! where every season smiles 
Benignant o'er those blessed isles, 
W^hich, seen from far Colonna's height, 
Make glad the heart that hails the sight, 
And lend to loneliness delight. 
There mildly dimpling, Ocean's cheek 
Reflects the tints of many a peak 
Caught by the laughing tides that lave 
These Edens of the eastern wave : 
And if at times a transient breeze 
Break the blue crystal of the seas, 
Or sweep one blossom from the trees, 
How welcome is each gentle air 
That wakes and wafts the odours there ! 
For there — the Rose o'er crag or vale, 
Sultana of the Nightingale,3 
The maid for whom his melody. 
His thousand songs are heard on high, 
Blooms blushing to" her lover's tale : 
His queen, the garden queen, his Rose, 
Unbent by winds, unchilTd by snows, 
Far from the winters of the west, 
By every breeze and season blest, 
Returns the sweets by nature given 
In softest incense back to heaven j 



1 An event, in which Lord Byrnn was personally con- 
cerned, undoubtedly supplied the groundwork of this tale ; 
but for the story, so circumstantially put forth, of his 
having himself been the lover of this female slave, there 
is no foundation. The girl whose life the poet saved at 
Athens was not, we are assured by Sir John Hobhouse, 
an object of his Lordship's attachment, but that of his 
Turkish servant.— E. 

2 A tomb above the rocks on the promontory, by some 
supposed the sepulchre of Themistocles. — ["There are," 
says Cumberland, in his Observer, " a few lines by Plato, 
upon the tomb of Themistocles, which have a turn of ele- 
gant and pathetic simplicity in them, that deserves a bet- 
ter translation than I can give : — 

'By the sea's margin, on the watery strand, 
Thy monument, Themistocles, shall stand : 
By this directed, to thy native shore 
The merchant shall convey his freighted store ; 
And when our fleets are summoned to the light, 
Athens shall conquer with thy tomb in sight.'" — E.] 

3 The attachment of the nightingale to the rose is a 
well-known Persian fable. If I mistake not, the "Bulbul 
of a thousand tales" is one of his appellations. 



And grateful yields that smiling sky 

Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh. 

And many a summer flower is there, 

And many a shade thnt love might share. 

And many a grotto, meant for rest, 

That holds the pirate for a guest ; 

Whose bark in shel ering cove below 

Lurks for the passing peaceful prow, 

Till the gay mariner's gui'.ar 4 

Is heard, and seen the evening star'j 

Then stealing with the muffled oar. 

Far shaded by the rocky shore. 

Rush the night-prowlers on the prey, 

And turn to groans his roundelay. 

Strange — that where Nature loved to trace, 

As if for Gods, a dwelling place. 

And every charm and grace hath mix'd 

Within the paradise she tix'd, 

There man, enamour'd of distress. 

Should mar it into wilderness. 

And trample, brute like, o'er each flower 

That tasks not one laborious hour ; 

Nor claims the culture of his hand 

To bloom along the fairy land. 

But springs as to preclude his care, 

And sweetly woos him — but to spare ! 

Strange — that where all is peace beside. 

There passion riots in her pride. 

And lust and rapine wildly reign 

To darken o'er the fair domain. 

It is as though the fiends prevail'd 

Against the Seraphs they assaii'd. 

And, fix'd on heavenly thrones, should dwell 

The freed inheritors of hell ; 

So soft the scene, so form'd for joy, 

So curst the tyrants that destroy ! " 

He who hath bent him o'er the dead 
Ere the first day of death is fled, 
The first dark day of nothingness, • 

The last of danger and distress, 
(Before Decay's effacing fingers 
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,) 
And mark'd the mild angelic air. 
The rapture of repose that 's there, 
The fix'd yet tender traits that streak 
The languor of the placid cheek, 
And — but for that sad shrouded eye, 
That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now, 
And but for that chill, changeless brow. 
Where cold Obstruction's apathy s 
Appals the gazing mourner's heart, 
As if to him it could imparl 
The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ; 
Yes, but for these and these alone. 
Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, 
He still might doubt the tyrant's power j 
So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd, 
The first, last look by death reveal'd ! « 
Such is the aspect of this shore ; 
'T is Greece, but living Greece no more ! 
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, 
We start, for soul is wanting there. 



4 The guitar is the constant amusement of the Greek 
sailor by night: with a steady fair wind, and duiing a 
calm, it is accompanied always by the voice, and often by 
dancing. 

5 " Ay, but to die and go we know not where. 

To lye in cold obstruction 7 " 

Measure for Measure, Act ii. sc. 2. 

6 I trust that few of my readers have ever had an op- 
portunity of witnessing what is here attempted in de- 
scription; but those who have will probably retain a pain- 
ful remembrance of that singular beauty which pervades, 
with few exceptions, the features of the dead, a few hours, 
and but for a few hours, after "the spirit is not there." 
It is to be remarked in cases of violent death by gun- 
shot wounds, the expression is always that of languor, 
whatever the natural energy of the sufferer's character; 
but in death from a slab the countenance preserves its 
traits of feeling or ferocity, and the mind its bias, to the 



THE GIAOUR. 



89 



Hers is the loveliness in death, 

That parts not qui e with parting breath; 

But beauty with that fearful bloom, 

That hue which haunts it to the tomb, 

Expression's last receding ray, 

A gilded hUo hovering round decay, 

The farewell beam of Feeling past away ! 
Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, 
Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish'd earth ! 

Clime of the unforgotten brave ! 
Whose land from plain to mountain-cave 
Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave I 
Shrine of the mighty ! can i' be. 
That this is all remains of thee? 
Approach, thou craven crouching slave : 

Say, is not this Thermopylae ? 
These waters blue that round you lave, 

Oh servile offspring of the free — 
Pronounce what sea, what shore is this ? 
The gulf, the rock of Salamis ! 
These scenes, their story not unknown, 
Arise, and make again your own ; 
Snatch from the ashes of your sires 
The embers of their former fires ; 
And he who in the strife expires 
Will add to theirs a name of fear, 
That Tyranny shall quake to hear, 
And leave his sons a hope, a f ime. 
They too will raiher die than shame : 
For Freedom's battle once begun, 
Bequeath'd by bleeding Sire to Son, 
Though baffled of( is ever won. 
Bear witness, Greece, ihy living page, 
Attest it many a deathless age ! 
While kings, in dusty darkoess hid, 
Have left a nameless pyramid. 
Thy heroes, though the general doom 
Hath swept the column from their tomb, 
A mightier monument command. 
The mountains of their native land ! 
There points thy Muse to s'ranger's eye 
The graves of those that cannot die ! 
'T were long to tell, r^nd sad to trace. 
Each step from splendour to disgrace j 
Enough — no foreign foe could quell 
Thy soul, till from itself it fell j 
Yes ! Self-abasement paved the way 
To villain-bonds and despot sway. 

What can he tell who treads thy shore ? 

No legend of thine olden time, 
No theme on which the Muse might soar 
High as thine own in days of yore. 

When man was worthy of thy clime. 
The hearts within thy valleys bred, 
The fiery souls that might have led 

Thy sons to deeds sublime. 
Now crawl from cradle to the grave, 
Slaves — nay, the bondsmen of a slave, l 

And callous, save to crime ; 
Stain'd with each evil that pollutes 
Mankind, where least above the brutes; 
Without even savage virtue blest. 
Without one free or valiant breast. 
Still to the neighbouring ports they waft 
Proverbial wiles, nnd ancient craft; 
In this the subtle Greek is found, 
For this, and this alone, renown'd. 
In vain might Lit)erty invoke 
The spirit to its bondage broke, 
Or raise the neck that courts the yoke : 
No more her sorrows I bewail, 
Yet this will be a mournful tale, 
And they who listen may believe. 
Who heard it first had cause to grieve. 



1 Athens is the property of ttie Kislar Aga (the elave of 
the seraglio and guardian of the women), who appoints the 
Waywode. A pander and eunuch— these are not polite, 
yet true appellations— now governs the governor of 
Athens ! 



Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing, 
The shadows of the rocks advancing 
Start on the fisher's eye like boat 
Of island pirate or Mainote ; 
And fearful for his light caique, 
He shuns the near but doubtful creek : 
Though worn and weary with his toil, 
And cumber'd with his scaly spoil, 
Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar. 
Till Port Leone's safer shore 
Receives him by the lovely light 
That best becomes an Eastern night. 

****** 

Who thundering comes on blackest steed, 
With slacken'd bit and hoof of speed ? 
Beneath the clattering iron's sound 
The cavern'd echoes wake around 
In lash for lash, and bound for bound ; 
The foam that streaks the comser's side 
Seems gathered from the ocean-tide : 
Though weary waves are sunk to rest, 
There 's none within his rider's breast; 
And though to-moi row's tempest lower, 
'T is calmer than thy heart, young Giaour 1 3 
I know thee not, I loahe thy race, 
But in thy lineamen s I trace 
What time shall strengthen, not eff'ace : 
Though young and pale, that sallow front 
Is scathed by fiery passion's brunt ; 
Though bent on earth thine evil eye, 
As meteor-like thou glidest by. 
Right well I view and deem thee one 
Whom Othman's sons should slay or shun. 

On — on he hasten'd, and he drew 
My gaze of wonder as he flew : 
Though like a demon of the night 
He pass'd, and vanish'd from my sight, 
His aspect and his air impress'd 
A troubled memory on my breast, 
And long upon my s'artled ear 
Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear. 
He spurs his steed ; he nears the steep, 
That, jutting, shadows o'er the deep ; 
He winds around ; he hurries by ; 
The rock relieves him from mine eye; 
For well I ween unwelcome he 
Whose glance is fix'd on those that flee ; 
And not a star but shines too bright 
On him who takes such timeless flight. 
He wound along ; but ere he pass'd 
One glance he snatch'd, as if his last, 
A moment check'd his wheeling steed, 
A moment breathed him from his speed, 
A moment on his stirrup stood — 
Why looks he o'er the olive wood? 
The crescent glimmers on the hill. 
The Mosque's high lamps are quivering still ; 
Though too remote for sound to wake 
In echoes of the far tophaike,3 
The flashes of each joyous peal 
Are seen to prove the Moslem's zeal. 
Tonight, set Rhamazani's sun ; 
To-night, the Bairam feast's begun ; 
To-night — but who and what art thou 
Of foreign garb and fearful brow ? 
And what are these to thine or thee. 
That thou should'st either pause or flee ? 

He stood — some dread was on his face, 
Soon Hatred settled in its place : 
It rose not with the reddening flush, 
Of transient Anger's hasty blush. 



2 In Dr. Clarke's Travels, this word, whirh means Infi- 
del, is always written according to its English pronuncia- 
tion, Djour. Lord Byron adopted the Italian spelling usual 
among the Franks of the Levant. — E. 

3"Tophaike," musket. The Bairam is cnnounced by 
the cannon at sunset: the illumination of the mofiqiies, 
and the firing of all kinds of small arms, loaded with ball, 
proclaim It during the night. 



8* 



T Itiliiiiihfcrm ■ An-'flV 



90 



THE GIAOUR 



~1 



But pale as marble o'er the tomb, 

Whose ghastly uhiteness aids its gloom. 

His brow was beut, his eye was glazed ; 

He raised his arm, and fiercely raised, 

And sternly shook his hands on high, 

As doubting to leturn or fly : 

Impatient of his flight delay'd, 

Here loud his raveu charger neigh'd — 

Down glanced that hand, and grasp'd his blade; 

That sound had burst his waking dream, 

As Slumber starts at owlet's scream. 

The spur hath lanced his courser's sides j 

Away, away, for life he rides : 

Swift as the" huri'd on high jerreed i 

Springs to the touch his startled steed ; 

The rock is doubled, and the shore 

Shakes with the clattering tramp no more : 

The crag is won, no more is seen 

His Christian crest and haughty mien.^ 

'T was but an ins' ant he restrain'd 
That fiery barb so sternly rein'd ; 
'T was but a moment that he stood, 
Then sped as if by death pursued j 
But in that instant o'er his soul 
Winters of Memory seem'd to roll, 
And gather in that drop of time 
A life of pain, an age of crime. 
O'er him who loves, or hates, or fears, 
Such moment pours the grief of years : 
What felt he then, at once opprest 
By all that most distracts the breast ? 
That pause, which ponder'd o'er his fate, 
Oh, who its dreary length shall date ! 
Though in Time's record nearly nought, 
It was Eternity to Thought ! 
For infinite as boundless space 
The thought that Conscience must embrace, 
Which in itself can comprehend 
Woe without name, or hope, or end. 

The hour is past, the Giaour is gone ; 
And did he fly or fall alone ? 
Woe to that hour he came or went ! 
The curse for Hassan's sin was sent 
To turn a palace to a tomb j 
He came, he went, like the simoom.s 
That harbinger of fate and gloom. 



1 Jerreed, or Djerrid, a blunted Turkish javelin, whirh is 
darted from horseback with great force and precision. It 
is a favourite exercise of the Mussulmans; but I know not 
if it cau be called a manly one. since the most expert in 
the art are the Black Eunuchs of Constantinople. I think, 
next to these, a Mamlouk at Smyrna was the most skilful 
that came within my observation. 

2 Every gesture of the impetuous horseman is full of 
anxiety and passion. In the midst of his career, whilst in 
full view of the astonished spectator, he suddenly checks 
his steed, and rising on his stirrup, surveys, with a look I 
of agonising Impatience, the distant city illuminated for the 
feast of Bairam; then pale with anger, raises his arm as 
if in menace of an invisible enemy; but awakened from I 
his trance of passion by the neighing of his charger, again I 
hurries forward, and disappears. — GEORGE ELLIS. j 

3 The blast of the desert, fatal to every thing living, and i 
often alluded to in eastern poetry. [Abyssinian Bruce gives, 
perhaps, the liveliest account of the appearance and effects I 
of the suffocating blast of the Desert: — "At eleven I 

o'clock," he says, "while we contemplated with great I The guest flies the haF^'and the vassal from labour 
pleasure the rugged top of Ch.ggre, to wh.ch we were fast Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre ! s 
approaching, and where we were to solace ourselves with ^ ly, >. ^j mw lu .u«,i o oawit 

plenty of good water, Idris, our guide, cried out with a loud i * 

I - 



Beneath whose widely-wasting breath 
The very cypress droops to death — 
Dark tree, still sad when others' grief is fled, 
The only constant mourner o'er the dead ! 

The steed is vanish'd from the stall : 
No serf is seen in Hassan's hall ; 
The lonely spider's thin grey pall 
Waves slov\ly widening o'er the wall : 
The bat builds in his harem bower, 
And in the fortress of his power 
The owl usurps the beacon-tower ; 

^^■?,^^'''l;^°o ^°"'^^ ^'^^ 'Jie fountain's brim 

With baffled thirst, and famine, grim ; 

For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed, 

V\ here the \veeds and the desolate dust are spread. 

'T was sweet of yore to see it play 

And chase the sultriness of day, 

As springing high the silver dew 

In whirls fantastically flew. 

And flung luxurious coolness round 

The air, and verdure o'er the ground. 

|T was sweet, when cloudless s'.ars were bright, 

To view the wave of waterv light. 

And hear its nielody by night. 

And oft had Hassan's Childhood play'd 

Around the verge of that cascade : 

And oft upon his mother's bre ist 

That sound had harmonized his rest: 

And oft had Hassan's Youth ilong 

Its bank been soothed by Beauty's song : 

And sofier scem'd each melting tone 

Of Music mingled with i s own. 

But ne'er shall Hassan's Age repose 

Along the brink at twiliorht's close : 

The stream that fill'd that font is fled — 

The blood that warnfd his heart is shed ! 

And here no more shall human voice 

Be heard to rage, regret, rejoice. 

The last sad note that s weird the gale 

Was woman's wildest funeral wail : 

That quench'd in silence, all is still, 

But the lattice that flaps when the wind is shrill : 

Though raves the gust and floods the rain, 

No hand shall close its clasp again. 

On desert sands "t were joy to scan 

The rudest steps of fellow man. 

So here the verv voice of Grief 

Might wake an'Echo like relief— 

At least 't would s ly, '> All are not gone : 

There lingers Life, though but in one"— 

For many a gilded chamber 's there. 

Which Solitude might well forbear: 

Within that dome ns yet Decay 

Hath slowly work'd Ker canki'Ving way — 

But gloom is gather'd o'er the ?ate. 

Nor there the Fakir's self wilfwait ; 

Nor there will wanderinz Dervise stay, 

For bounty cheers not his delay ; 

Nor there will weary stranger halt 

To bless the sacred '"' bread and salt." 4 

Alike must Wealth and Poverty 

Pass heedless and unheeded by. 

For Courtesy and Pity died 

With Hassan on the mountain side. 

His roof, thit refuge unto men. 

Is Desolation's hungry den. 



Toiee, ' Fall upon your faces, for here is the simoom." I I ^ 

saw from the south-east a haze come, in colour like the ' „„rt r f«„r,H A■.^t■,^„,^„ ■ ^ 

purple part of the rainbow, but not so compressed or thick. 1 ^l' ,\ f.TL'Tsllll 7a 
It did not occupy twenty yards in breadth, and was about 
twelve feet high from the ground. It was a kind of blush 
upon the air, and it moved very rapidly; for J. scarce could 
turn to fall upon the ground, with my head to the north- 
ward, when I felt the heat of its current plainly upon my 



breast that I had imbibed a 
_ an asthmatic Eiensation till I 

had been some months in Italy, at the baths of Poretta, 
near two years afterwards." — See Bruce's Life and Tra- 
vels, p. 470. edit. 1630. — E.] 

„^^ ^ 4 To partake of food, to break bread and salt with your 

fare. WeaH lay flat onthe ground as if dead, tilF Idris ^°-"''' ensures the safety of the guest : even though an ene- 
told us it was blown over. The meteor, or purple haze, "^y< ^'^ person from that moment is sacred. 
I which I saw was, indeed, passed, but the light air, which i 5 I need hardly observe, that Charity and Hospitality are 
I still blew, was of a heat to threaten suffocation. For my , the first duties enjoined by Mahomet ; and to say truth, 



THE GIAOUR. 



91 



I hear the sound of coming feet, 
But not a voice mine ear to greet; 
More near — eich turban I can scan, 
And silver-sheathed a aglian ; i 
The foremost of the band is seen 
An Emir by his garb of green : ^ 
*' Ho ! who art thou ? "— " This low salam 3 
Replies of Moslem fiith I am." — 
" The burthen ye so gently bear, 
Seems one that claims your utmost care, 
And, doubtless, holds some precious freight, 
My humble baik would gladly wait." 

'' Thou spealiest sooth : thy skifl' unmoor, 
And waft us from the silent shore ; 
Nay, leave the sail still furl'd, and ply 
The nearest oar that 's scattered by. 
And midway to those rocks where sleep 
The channelled waters dark and deep. 
Rest from your task — so — bravely done, 
Our course has been right swiftly run^ 
Yet 't is the longest voyage, I trow, 
That one of— * * * 

* * * * * *'> 

Sullen it plunged, and slowly sank, 
The calm was rippled to the bank ; 
I watch'd it as it sank, methought 
Some motion from the current caught 
Bestirr'd it more, — 't was but the beam 
That checker'd o'er the living stream : 
I gazed, till vanishing from view. 
Like lessening pebble it withdrew ; 
Still less and less, a speck of white 
That gemm'd the tide, then mock'd the sight; 
And all its hidden secrets sleep. 
Known but to Genii of the deep, 
Which, trembling in their coral caves. 
They dare not whisper to the waves. 

****** 

As rising on its purple wing 
The insect-queen ■* of eastern spring. 
O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer 
Invites the young pursuer near. 
And leads him on from flower to flower 
A weary chase and wasted hour, 
Then leaves him, as it soars on high, 
With panting heart and tearful eye : 
So Beauty lures the full-grown child, 
' With hue as bright, and wing as wild ; 
A chase of idle hopes and fears, 
Begun in folly, closed in tears. 
If won, to equal ills betray'd. 
Woe waits the insect and the maid ; 
A life of pain, the loss of peace. 
From infant's play, and man's caprice : 
The lovely toy so fiercely sought 
Hath lost its charm by being ciught, 
For every touch that woo'd its stay 
Hath brush'd its brightest hues away. 
Till charm, and hue, and beauty gone, 
'T is left to fly or fall alone. 



very generally practised by his disciples. The first praise 
that can be bestowed on a chief, is a panegyric on hia 
bounty; the next, on his valour. 

1 The ataghan, a long dapger worn with pistols in the 
belt, in a metal scabbard, generally of silver; and, among 
the wealthier, gilt, or of gold. 

2 Green is the privileged colonrof the prophet's numer- 
ous pretended descendants ; with them, as here, faith (the 
family inheritance) is supposed to tiuperscde the necessity 
of good works : they are the worst of a very indifferent 
brood. 

3 " Salam aleikoum ! aleikoum salam ! " peace be with 
you; be with you peace — the salutation reseived for the 
faithful ; — to a Christian, " Urlarula," a good journey ; or 
"saban hiresem, saban serula;" good morn, good even; 
and sometimes, " may your end be happy ; " are the usual 
■alutes. 

4 The blue-winged butterfly of Kashmeer, the most rare 
BDd beautiful of the species. 



With wounded wing, or bleeding breast, 
Ah ! where shall either victim rest h 
Can this with faded pinion soar 
From rose to tulip as before ? 
Or Beauty, blighted in an hour. 
Find joy within her broken bower? 
No : gayer insects fluttering by 
Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die, 
And lovelier things have mercy shown 
To every failing but their own. 
And every woe a tear can claim 
Except an erring sister's shame, 

****** 

The Mind, that broods o'er guilty woes, 

Is like the Scorpion girt by fire, 
In circle narrowing as it glows. 
The tiames around their captive close, 
Till inly search'd by thousand throes, 

And maddening in her ire, 
One sad and sole relief she knows, 
The sting she nourish'd for her foes, 
Whose venom never yet was vain. 
Gives but one pang, and cures all pain. 
And darts into her desperate brain : 
So do the dark in soul expire. 
Or live like Scorpion girt by fire ; 
So writhes the mind Remorse hath riven. 
Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven, 
Darkness above, despair beneath. 
Around it flame, within it death ! s 



Black Hassan from the Harem flies, 
Nor bends on vvoman's form his eyes ; 
The unwonted chase each hour ernploys, 
Yet sliares he not the hunter's joys. 
Not thus was Hassan wont to fly 
When Leila dwelt in his Serai. 
Doth Leila there no longer dwell? 
That tale cm only Hassan tell : 
Strange rumours in our city say 
Upon that eve she fled away 
When Rhamazan's 6 last sun was set. 
And flashing from each minaret 
Millions of lamps proclaim'd the feast 
Of Bairam through the boundless East. 
'T was then-she went as to the bath. 
Which Hassan vainly search'd in wrath; 
Fot she was flown her master's rage 
In likeness of a Georgian page, 
And far beyond the Moslem's power 
Had wrong'd him with the faithless Giaour. 
Somewhat of this had Hassan deem'd ; 
But still so fond, so fair she seem'd, 
Too well he trusted to the slave 
Whose treachery deerved a grave : 
And on that eve had gone to mosque, 
And thence to feast in his kiosk. 
Such is the tale his Nubians tell, 
Who did not watch their charge too well j 
But others say, that on that night. 
By pale Phingari's i trembling light, 
The Giaour upon his jet-black steed 
Was seen, but seen alone to speed 
With bloody spur along the shore, 
Nor maid nor page behind him bore. 

****** 



5 Alluding to the dubious suicide of the scorpion, so 
placed for experiment by gentle philosophers. Some main- 

! tain that the position of the sting, when turned towards 
I the head, is merely a convulsive movement; but others 
have actually brought in the verdict " Felo de se." The 
scorpions are surely interested in a speedy decision of the 
question; as, if once fairly established ns insect Catos, 
I they will probably be allowed to live as long as they think 
proper, without being martyred for the sake of au hypo- 
thesis. 

6 The cannon at sunset close the Rhamazan. 

7 Phingari, the moon. 



liiM^ilMli 



92 



THE GIAOUR. 



Her eye's dark charm 't were vain to tell, 
But gaze on that of the Gazelle, 
It will assist thy fancy well ; 
As large, as languishingly dark, 
But Soul beam'd forth in every spark 
That darted from beneath the lid, 
Bright as the jewel of Giamschid.i 
Yea, Soul, and should our prophet say 
That form was nought but breathing clay, 
By Alia ! I would answer nay ; 
Though on Al-Sirafs 2 arch I stood, 
Which totters o'er the fiery flood, 
With Paradise within my view. 
And all his Houris beckoning through. 
Oh ! who young Leila's glance could read 
And keep that portion of his creed, 
Which saith that woman is but dust, 
A soulless toy for tyrant's lust ? 3 
On her might Muftis gaze, and own 
That through her eye the Immortal shone ; 
On her fair cheek's unfading hue 
The young pomegranate's 4 blossoms strew 
Their bloom in blushes ever new j 
Her hair in hyacinthine -^ flow, 
When left to roll its folds below, 
As midst her handmaids in the hall 
She stood superior to them all, 
Hath swept the marble where her feet 
Gleam'd whiter than the mountain sleet 
Ere from the cloud that give it birth 
It fell, and caught one stain of earth. 
The cygnet nobly walks the water ; 
So moved on earth Circassia's daughter, 
The loveliest bird of Franguestan ! 6 
As rears her crest the ruflSed Swan, 

And spurns the wave with wings of pride, 
When pass the steps of stranger man 

Along the banks that bound her tide ; 
Thus rose fair Leila's whiter neck : — 
Thus arm'd with beauty would she check 
Intrusion's glance, fill Folly's gaze 
Shrunk from the charms it meant to praise. 
Thus high and graceful was her gait j 
Her heart as tender to her mate ; 
Her mate — stern Hassan, who was he? 
Alas ! that naune was not for thee ! 



Stem Hassan hath a journey ta'en 
With twenty vassals in his train, 
Each arm'd, as best becomes a man. 
With arquebuss and ataghan ; 



1 The celebrated fabulous ruby of Sultan Giamschid, the 
embellisher of Istakhar; from its splendour, named Scheb- 
gerag, "the torch of night: " also "the cup of the sun," 
&c. In the first edition, "Giamschid " was written as a 
word of three syllables; so D'Herbelot has it; but I am 
told Richardson reduces ii to a dissyllable, and writes 
"Jamshid." I have left in the text the orthography of 
the one with the pronunciation of the other. 

2 Al-Sirat, the bridge of death, narrower than the 
thread of a famished spider, and sharper than the edge of 
a sword, over which the Mussulmans must s^ate into 
Paradise, to which it is the only entr&nce; bnt this is not 
the worst, the river beneath being hell itself, into which, 
as may be expected, the unskilful and tender of foot con- 
trive to tumble with a " facilis descensus Averni," not 
very pleasin? in prospect to the next passenger. There is 
a shorter cut downwards for the Jews and Christians. 

3 A vulgar error: the Koran allots at least a third cf 
Paradise to well-behaved women; but by far the greater 
number of Mussulmans interpret the text their own way, 
and exclude their moieties from heaven. Being enemies 
to Platonics, they cannot discern '• any fitness of things " 
in the souls of the other sex, conceiving them to be super- 
seded by the Houris. 

4 An oriental simile, which may, perhaps, though fairly 
stolen, be deemed " plus Arabe qu'en Arable." 

5 Hyacinthine, in Arabic " Sunbul ; " as common a 
thought in the eastern poets as it was among the Greeks. 

6 "Franguestan," Circassia. 



The chief before, as deck'd for war, 

Bears in his belt the scimitar 

Stain'd with the best of Arnaut blood, 

When in the pass the rebels stood, 

And few return'd to tell the tale 

Of what befell in Fame's vale. 

The pistols which his girdle bore 

Were those that once a pasha wore, 

Which still, though gemm'd and boss'd with gold, 

Even robbers tremble to behold. 

'T is said he goes to woo a bride 

More true than her who left his side; 

The faithless slave that broke her bower, 

And, worse than faithless, for a Giaour ! 



The sun's last rays are on the hill, 
And sparkle in the fountain rill. 
Whose welcome waters, cool and clear. 
Draw blessings from the mountaineer: 
Here may the loitering merchant Greek 
Find that repose 't were vain to seek 
In cities lodged too near his lord, 
And trembling for his secret hoard — 
Here may he rest where none can see, 
In crowds a slave, in deserts free ; 
And with forbidden wine may stain 
The bowl a Moslem must not drain. 



The foremost Tartar 's in the gap 
Conspicuous by his yellow cap ; 
The rest in lengthening line the while 
Wind slowly through the long defile : 
Above, the mountain rears a peak, 
Where vultures whet the thirsty beak, 
And theirs may be a feast to-night, 
Shall tempt them down ere morrow's light J 
Beneath, a river's wintry stream 
Has shrunk before the summer beam. 
And left a channel bleak and bare, 
Save shrubs that spring to perish there : 
Each side the midway path there lay 
Small broken crags of granite grey, 
By time, or mountain lightning, riven 
From summits clad in rnists of heaven; 
For where is he that hath beheld 
The peak of Liakura unveil'd ? 

****** 

The}^ reach the grove of pine at last j 
" Bismillah ! t now the peril 's past ; 
For yonder view the opening plain, 
And there we '11 prick our steeds amain :" 
The Chiaus spake, and as he said, 
A bullet whistled o'er his head ; 
The foremost Tartar bites the ground ! 

Scarce had they time to check the rein. 
Swift from their steeds the riders bound ; 
^ But three shall never mount again : 
Unseen the foes that gave the wound, 

The dying ask revenge in vain. 
With steel unsheath'd, and carbine bent, 
Some o'er their courser's harness leant, 

Half shelter'd by the steed ; 
Some fly beneath the nearest rock, 
And there await the coming shock, 

Nor tamely stand to bleed 
Beneath the shaft of foes unseen, 
Who dare not quit their craggy screen. 
Stern Hassan only from his horse 
Disdains to light, and keeps his course, 
Till fiery flashes in the van 
Proclaim too sure the robber-clan 
Have well secured the only way 
Could now avail the promised prey ; 



7 "In the name of God;" the commencement of all 
the chapters of the Koran but one, and of prayer and 
thanksgiving. 



^?^^ 



THE GIAOUR. 



93 



Then curl'd his very beard i with ire, 
And glared his eye "with fiercer fire ; 
" Though far and near the bullets hiss, 
I 've scaped a bloodier hour than this." 
And now the foe their covert quit, 
And call his vassals to submit ; 
But Hassan's frown and furious word 
Are dreaded more than hostile sword, 
Nor of his little band a man 
Resign'd carbine or ataghan, 
Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun ! 2 
In fuller sight, more near and near, 
The lately ambush 'd foes appear, 
And, issuing from the grove, advance 
Some who on battle- charger prance. 
Who leads them on with foreign brand 
Far flashing in his red right hand? 
" 'T is he ! 't is he ! I know him now ; 
I know him by his pallid brow ; 
I know him by the evil eye 3 
That aids his envious treachery ; 
I know him by his jet-black barb ; 
Though now array'd in Arnaut garb, 
Apostate from his own vile faith, 
It shall not save him from the death : 
'T is he I well met in any hour, 
Lost Leila's love, accursed Giaour I " 

As rolls the river into ocean. 
In sable torrent wildly streaming ; 

As the sea-tide's opposing motion, 
In azure column proudly gleaming. 
Beats back the current many a rood, 
In curling foam and mingling flood, 
While eddying whirl, and breaking wave, 
Roused by the blast of winter, rave ; 
Through sparkling spray, in thundering clash, 
The lightnings of the waters flash 
In awful whiteness o'er the shore. 
That shines and shakes beneath the roar ; 
Thus — as the stream and ocean greet, 
With waves that madden as they meet — 
Thus join the bands, whom mutual wrong, 
And fate, and fury, drive along. 
The bickering sabres' shivering jar ; 

And pealing wide or ringing near 

Its echoes on the throbbing ear, 
The deathshot hissing from afar ; 
The shock, the shout, the groan of war, 

Reverberate along that vale, 

More suited to the shepherd's tale : 
Though few the numbers — theirs the strife, 
That neither spares nor speaks for life ! 
Ah ! fondly youthful hearts can press, 
To seize and share the dear caress ; 
But Love itself could never pant 
For all that Beauty sighs to grant 
With half the fervour Hate bestows 
Upon the last embrace of foes, 
When grappling in the fight they fold 
Those arms that ne'er shall lose their hold : 
Friends meet to part ; Love laughs at faith ; 
True foes, once met, are join'd till death ! 

****** j( 

With sabre shiver'd to the hilt, 
Yet dripping with the blood he spilt ; 
Yet strain'd within the sever'd hand 
Which quivers round that faithless brand ; 



1 A phenomenon not uncommon with an angry Mussul- 
man. In 1609, the Captain Pacha's whiskers at a diplo- 
matic audience were no less lively with indignation than 
a tiger cat's, to the horror of all the dragomans; the por- 
tentous mustachios twisted, they stood erect of their own 
accord, and were expected every moment to change their 
colour, but at last condescended to subside, which, proba- 
bly, saved more heads than they contained hairs. 

2 "Amaun," quarter, pardon. 

3 The "evil eye," a common superstition in the Levant, 
and of which the imaginary effects are yet very singular 
on those who conceive themselves affected. 



His turban far behind him roll'd. 
And cleft in twain its firmest fold j 
His flowing robe by falchion torn. 
And crimson as those clouds of mom 
That, streak'd wilh dusky red, portend 
The day shall have a stormy end ; 
A stain on every bush that bore 
A fragment of his palampore,* 
His breast with wounds unnumber'd riven. 
His back to earth, his face to heaven, 
Fall'n Hassan lies — his unclosed eye 
Yet lowering on his enemy, 
As if the hour that seal'd his fate 
Surviving left his quenchless hate ; 
And o'er him bends that foe with brow 
As dark as his that bled below. — 
****** 

" Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave, 
But his shall be a redder grave; 
Her spirit pointed well the steel 
Which taught that felon heart to feel. 
He call'd the Prophet, but his power 
Was vain against the vengeful Giaour: 
He call'd on Alia — but the word 
Arose unheeded or unheard. 
Thou Paynim fool ! could Leila's prayer 
Be pass'd, and thine accorded there ? 
I watch'd my time, I leagued with these, 
The traitor in his turn to seiie ; 
My wrath is wreckd, the deed is done, 
And now I go — but go alone." 

****** 

****** 

The browsing camels' bells are tinkling: 
His mother look'd from her lattice high — 

She saw the dews of eve besprinkling 
The pasture green beneath her eye. 

She saw the planets faintly twinkling: 
" 'T is twilight — sure his train is nigh." 
She could not rest in the garden. bower, 
But gazed through the grate of his steepest tower : 
" Why comes he not ? his steeds are fleet. 
Nor shrink they from the summer heat ; 
Why sends not the Bridegroom his promised gift? 
Is his heart more cold, or his barb less swift ? 
Oh, false reproach ! yon Tartar now 
Has gain'd our nearest mountain's brow, 
And warily the steep descends. 
And now within the valley bends ; 
And he bears the gift at his saddle bow — 
How could I deem his courser slow ? 
Right well my largess shall repay 
His welcome speed, and weary way." 
The Tartar lighted at the gate. 
But scarce upheld his fainting weight: 
His swarthy visage spake distress, 
But this might be from weariness ; 
His garb with sanguine spots was dyed. 
But these might be from his courser's side J 
He drew the token from his vest — 
Angel of Death I 't is Hassan's cloven crest ! 
His calpac 5 rent— his caftan red — 
" Lady, a fearful bride thy son hath wed : 
Me, not from mercy, did they spare, 
But this empurpled pledge to bear. 
Peace to the brave ! whose blood is spilt : 
Woe to the Giaour ! for his the guilt. ' 

******* 

A turban 6 carved in coarsest stone, 
A pillar with rank weeds o'ergrown. 



4 The flowered shawls generally worn by persons of rank. 

5 The calpac is the solid cap or centre part of the head- 
dress; the shawl is wound round it, and forms the turban. 

6 The turban, pillar, and inscriptive verse, decornte the 
tombs of the Osmanlies, whether in the cemetery or the 
wilderness. In the mountains you frequently pass similar 
mementos; and on inquiry you are informed that they 
record some victim of rebellion, plunder, or revenge. 



94 



THE GIAOUR. 



Whereon can now be scarcely read 

The Koran verse that mourns the dead, 

Point out the spot where Hassan fell 

A victim in that lonely dell. 

There sleeps as true an Osmanlie 

As e'er at Mecca bent the knee ; 

As ever scorn'd forbidden wine, 

Or pray'd with face towards the shrine, 

In orisons resumed anew 

At solemn sound of " Alia Hu ! " 1 

Yet died he by a stranger's hand. 

And stranger in his native land ; 

Yet died he as in arms he stood, 

And unavenged, at least in blood. 

But him the maids of Paradise 

Impatient to their halls invite, 
And the dark heaven of Houris' eyes 

On him shall glance for ever bright ; 
They come — their kerchiefs green they wavej'-i 
And welcome with a kiss the brave ! 
Who falls in battle 'gainst a Giaour 
Is worthiest an immortal bower. 



But thou, false Infidel ! shall writhe 
Beneath avenging Monkir's 3 scythe ; 
And from its torment 'scipe alone 
To wander round lost Eblis' ^ throne j 
And fire unquench'd, unquenchable, 
Around, within, thy heart shall dwell j 
Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell 
The tortures of that inward hell ! 
But first, on earth as Vampire 5 sent. 
Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent : 
Then ghastly haunt thy native place. 
And suck the blood of all thy race ; 
There from thy daughter, sister, wife. 
At midnight drain the stream of life ; 
Yet loathe the banquet which perforce 
Must feed thy livid living corse : 
Thy victims ere they yet expire 
Shall know the demon for their sire, 



l"Alla Hu!" the concluding words of the Muezzin's 
call to prayer from the highest gallery on the exterior of 
the Minaret. On a still evening, when the Muezzin has a 
fine voice, which is frequently the case, the effect is solemn 
and beautiful beyond all the bells in Christendom. 

2 The following is part of a battle song of the Turks : — 
" I see — I see a dark-eyed girl of Paradise, and she waves 
a handkerchief, a kerchief of green; and cries aloud, 'Come, 
kiss me, for I love thee,' " &;c. 

3 Monkir and Nekir, are the inqui.'sitors of the dead, be- 
fore whom the corpse undergoes a slight noviciate and pre- 
paratory training for damnation. If the answers are none 
of the clearest, he is hauled up with a scythe and thumped 
down with a red-hot mace till properly seasoned, with a 
variety of subsidiary probations. The office of these angels 
is no sinecure ; there are but two, and the number of or- 
thodox deceased being in a small proportion to the remain- 
der, their hands are always full. See Relig. Ceremon. and 
Sale's Koran. 

4 Eblis, the Oriental Prince of Darkness. —[D'Herbelot 
supposes this title to have been a corruption of the Greek 
AiafioXoS. It was the appellation conferred by the Ara- 
bians upon the prince of the apostate angels. According 
to Arabian mythology, Eblis had suffered a degradation from 
his primeval rank for having refused to worship Adam, in 
conformity to the supreme command; alleging, in justifica- 
tion of his refusal, that himself had been formed of ethe- 
real fire, whilst Adam was only a creature of clay. See 
Koran. — E.] 

5 The Vampire superstition is still general in the Le- 
vant. Honest Tournefort tells a long story, which Mr. 
Southey, in the notes on Thalaba, quotes, about these 
" Vroucolorhas," ES he calls them. The Romaic term is 
" Vardoulacha." I recollect a whole family being terrified 
by the scream of a child, which they imagined must pro- j 
ceed from such a visitation. The Greeks never mention i 
the word without horror. I find that " Broucolokas" is an | 
old legitimate Hellenic appellation — at least is so applied 
to Arsenius, who, according to the Greeks, was after his 
death animated by the Devil. The moderns, however, use ! 
the word I mention. I 



As cursing thee, thou cursing them. 
Thy flowers are wither'd on the stem. 
But one that for thy crime must fall, 
The youngest, most beloved of all, 
Shall'bless thee with a father^s name — 
That word shall wrap thy heart in flame ! 
Yet must thou end thy task, and mark 
Her cheek's last tinge, her eye's last spark, 
And the last glassy glance must view 
Which freezes o er its lifeless blue ; 
Then with unhallow'd hand shalt tear 
The tresses of her yellow hair. 
Of which in life a "lock when shorn 
Affection's fondest pledge was worn, 
But now is borne away by thee. 
Memorial of thine agony ! 
Wet with thine own best blood shall dripS 
Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip j 
Then stalking to thy sullen grave, 
Go — and with Gouls and Afrits rave j 
Till these in horror shrink away 
From spectre more accursed than they ! 
****** 

' How name ye yon lone Caloyer ? 

His features! have scann'd belore 
In mine own land : 't is many a year, 

Since, dashing by the lonely shore, 
I saw him urge as fleet a steed 
As ever served a horseman's need. 
But once I saw that face, yet then 
It was so mark'd with inward pain, 
I could not pass it by again ; 
It breathes the same' dark spirit now, 
As death were stamp 'd upon his brow. 

' 'T is twice three years at summer tide 
Since first among our freres he camej 
And here it soothes him to abide 

For some dark deed he will not name. 
But never at our vesper prayer. 
Nor e'er before confession chair 
Kneels he, nor recks he when arise 
Incense or anthem to the skies. 
But broods within his cell alone. 
His faith and race alike unknown. 
The sea from Paynim land he crost, 
And here ascended from the coast ; 
Yet seems he not of Othman race. 
But only Christian in his face : 
I'd judge him some stray renegade, 
Repentant of the change he made. 
Save that he shuns our holy shrine, 
Nor tastes the sacred bread and wine. 
Great largess to these walls he brought, 
And thus our abbot's favour bought j 
But were I prior, not a day 
Should brook such stranger's further stay, 
Or pent within our penance cell 
Should doom him there for aye to dwell. 
Much in his visions mutters he 
Of maiden whelm'd beneath the sea ; 
Of sabres clashing, foemen flying, 
Wronffs avenged.^and Moslem dying. 
On cliflf he hath been known to stand, 
And rave as to some bloody hand 
Fresh sever'd from its parent limb. 
Invisible to all but him, 
Which beckons onward to his grave, 
And lures to leap into the wave." 



Dark and unearthly is the scowl 
That glares beneath his dusky cowl : 
The flash of that dilating eye 
Reveals too much of times gone by ; 



6 The freshness of the face, and the wetness of the lip 
with blood, are the never-failing signs of a Vampire. The 
stories told in Hungary and Greece of these foul feeden 
are singular, and some of them most incredibly attested. 



^^^ 



THE GIAOUR. 



95 



Though varying, indistinct its hue, 

Oft will his glance the gazer rue, 

For in it lurks that nameless spell, 

Which speaks, itself unspeakable, 

A spirit yet unquell'd and high, 

That claims and keeps ascendency ; 

And like the bird whose pinions quake, 

But cannot tiy the gazing snake. 

Will others quail beneath his look, 

Nor 'scape the glance ihey scarce can brook. 

From him the half-affrighted Friar 

When met alone would fain retire. 

As if that eye and bit'er smile 

Transferr'd to others fear and guile: 

Not oft to smile descendeth he, 

And when he doth 't is sad to see 

That he but mocks at Misery. 

How that pale lip will curl and quiver! 

Then fix once more as if for ever j 

As if his sorrow or disdain 

Forbade him e'er to smile again. 

Well were it so — such ghastly mirth 

From joyaunce ne'er de.ived its birth. 

But sadder still it were to trace 

What once were feelings in that face : 

Time haih not yet the features fix'd, 

But brighter trai's with evil mix'd ; 

And there are hues not always faded, 

Which speak a mind not all degraded 

Even by the crimes through which it waded : 

The common crowd but see the gloom 

Of wayward deeds, and fitting doom ', 

The close observer can espy 

A noble soul, and lineage high : 

Alas ! though both bestow'd in vain. 

Which Grief could change, and Guilt could stain. 

It was no vulgar tenement 

To which such lofty gifts were lent, 

And still with little less than dread 

On such the sight is riveted. 

The roofless cot, decay'd and rent, 

Will scarce delay the passer by ; 
The tower by Avar or tempest bent, 
While yet may frown one battlement, 

Demands and daunts the stranger's eye j 
Each ivied arch, nnd pillar lone. 
Pleads haughtily for glories gone ! 

" His floating robe around him folding, 

Slow swee|)s he through the column'd aisle j 

With dread beheld, with gloom beholding 
The rites that sanctify the pile. 

But when the anthem shakes the choir, 

And kneel the monks, his steps retire j 

By yonder lone and wavering torch 

His aspect glares within the porch ; 

There will he pause till all is done — 

And hear the prayer, but utter none. 

See — by the half'illumined wall 

His hood fly back, his dark hair fall, 

That pale brow wildly wreathing round, 

As if the Gorgon there had bound 

The sablest of the serpent-braid 

That o'er her fearful forehead stray'd : 

For he declines the convent oath. 

And leaves those locks unhallow'd growth, 

But wears our garb in all beside j 

And, not from piety but pride. 

Gives wealth to walls that never heard 

Of his one holy vow nor word. 

Lo ! — mark ye, as the harmony 

Peals louder praises to the sky. 

That livid cheek, that stony air 

Of mix'd defiance and despair ! 

Saint Francis, keep him from the shrine ! 

Else may we dread the wrath divine 

Made manifest by awful sign. 

If ever evil angel bore 

The form of mortal, such he wore ; 

By all my hope of sins forgiven. 

Such looks are not of earth nor heaven! " 



To love the softest hearts are prone, 
But such can ne'er be all his own ; 
Too timid in his woes to share, 
Too meek to meet, or brave despair j 
And sterner hearts alone may feel 
The wound that time can never heal. 
The rugged metal of the mine 
Must burn before its surface shine, 
But plunged within the furnace-flame. 
It bends and melts — though still the same : 
Then temper'd to thy want, or will, 
'T will serve thee to defend or kill ; 
A breast-plate for thine hour of need, 
Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed j 
But if a dagger's form it bear, 
Let those who shape its edge, beware ! 
Thus passion's fire, and woman's art, 
Can turn and tame the sterner heart j 
From these its form and tone are ta'en, 
And what they make it, must remain, 
But break — before it bend again. 



If solitude succeed to grief, 
Release from pain is slight relief; 
The vacant bosom's wilderness 
Might thank the pang that made it less. 
We loathe what none are left to share : 
Even bliss — 't were woe alone to bear; 
The heart once left thus desolate 
Must fly at last for ease — to hate. 
It is as if the dead could feel 
The icy worm around them steal, 
And shudder, as the reptiles creep 
To revel o'er their rotting sleep. 
Without the power to scare away 
The cold' consumers of their clay ! 
It is as if the desert bird,i 

Whose beak unlocks her bosom's stream 

To still her famish'd nestlings' scream, 
Nor mourns a life to them transferr'd, 
Should rend her rash devoted breast. 
And find them flown her empty nest. 
The keenest pangs the wretched find 

Are rapture to the dreary void, 
The leafless desert of the mind, 

The waste of feelings unemploy'd. 
Who would be doom'd to gaze upon 
A sky without a cloud or sun ? 
Less hideous far the tempest's roar 
Than ne'er to brave the billows more — 
Thrown, when the war of winds is o'er, 
A lonely wreck on fortune's shore, 
'Mid sullen calm, and silent bay, 
Unseen to drop by dull decay ; — 
Better to sink beneath the shock 
Than moulder piecemeal on the rock ! 

****** 

" Father ! thy days have pass'd in peace, 

'Mid counted beads, and countless prayer ; 
To bid the sins of others cease, 

Thyself without a crime or care, 
Save transient ills that all must bear, 
Has been thy lot from youth to age ; 
And thou wilt bless thee from the rage 
Of passions fierce and uncontroll'd. 
Such as thy penitents unfold. 
Whose secret sins and sorrows rest 
Within thy pure and pitying breast. 
My days, though few, have pass'd below 
In much of joy, but more of woe ; 
Yet still in hours of love or strife, 
I 've 'scaped the weariness of life: 
Now leagued with fi lends, now girt by foes, 
I loathed the languor of repose. 



1 The pelican is, I believe, the bird so libelled, by the 
imputation of feeding her chickens with her blood. 



96 



THE GIAOUR. 



Now nothing left to love or hate, 
No more with hope or pride elate, 
I 'd rather be the thing that crawls 
Most noxious o'er a dungeon's walls, 
Than pass my dull, unvarying days, 
Condemn'd to meditate and gaze. 
Yet, lurks a wish vviihin my breast 
For rest — but not to feel 't is rest. 
Soon shall my fate that wish fulfil ; 

And I shall sleep without the dream 
Of what I was, and would be still, 

Dark as to thee my deeds may seem: 
My memory now is but the tomb 
Of joys long dead ; my hope, their doom : 
Though better to have died with those 
Than bear a life of lingering woes. 
My spirit shrunk not to sustain 
The searching throes of ceaseless pain j 
Nor sought the self-accorded grave 
Of ancient fool and modern knave : 
Yet death I have not fear'd to meet ; 
And in the field it had been sweet. 
Had danger woo'd me on to move 
The slave of glory, not of love. 
I 've braved it — not for honour's boast j 
I smile at laurels won or lost ; 
To such let others carve their way, 
For high renown, or hireling pay : 
But place again before my eyes 
Aught that I deem a worthy prize j 
The maid I love, the man I hate. 
And I will hunt the steps of fate. 
To save or slay, as these require. 
Through rending steel, and rolling fire : 
Nor need'st thou doubt this speech from one 
"Who would but do — what he hath done. 
Death is but what the haughty brave. 
The weak must bear, the wretch must crave ; 
Then let life go to Him who gave : 
I have not quail'd to danger's brow 
When high and happy — need I now ? 
****** 

" I loved her, Friar ! nay, adored — 

But these are words that all can use — 
I proved it more in deed than word ; 
There 's blood upon that dinted sword, 

A stain its steel can never lose : 
'T was shed for her, who died for me. 
It warm'd the heart of one abborr'd : 

Nay, start not — no — nor bend thy knee, 
Nor 'midst my sins such act record ; 

Thou wilt absolve me from the deed, 

For he was hostile to thy creed ! 

The very name of Naza'rene 

Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen. 

Ungrateful fool ! since but for brands 

Well wielded in some hardy hands. 

And wounds by Galileans given. 

The surest pass to Turkish heaven. 

For him his Houris still might wait 

Impatient at the Prophet's gate. 

I loved her — love will find its way 

Through paths where wolves would fear to prey ; 

And if it dares enough, t were hard 

If passion met not some reward — 

No matter how, or where, or why, 

I did not vainly seek, nor sigh : 

Yet sometimes, with remorse, in vain 

I wish she had not loved again. 

She died — I dare not tell thee how ; 

But look — 't is written on my brow ! 

There read of Cain the curse and crime. 

In characters unworn by time : 

Still, ere thou dost condemn me, pause j 

Not mine the act, though I the cause. 

Yet did he but what I had done 

Had she been false to more than one. 

Faithless to him, he gave the blow ; 

But true to me, I laid him low : 

Howe'er deserved her doom might be, 

Her treachery was truth to me ; 



To me she gave her heart, that all 

Which tyrarmy can ne'er enthrall j 

And I, alas ! too late to save ! 

Yet all I then cDuld give, I gave, 

'T was some relief, our foe a grave. 

His death sits lightly ; but her fate 

Has made me — what thou well mayst hate. 

His doom was seal'd — he knew it well, 
Warn'd by the voice of stern Taheer, 
Deep in whose darkly boding ear i 
The deathshot peal'd of murder near 

As filed the troop to where they fell ! 
He died too in the battle broil, 
A time that heeds nor pain nor toil j 
One cry to Mahomet for aid, 
One prayer to Alia all he made : 
He knew and cross'd me in the fray — 
I gazed upon him where he lay, 
And watch'd his spirit ebb away : 
Though pierced like pard bv hunters' steel, 
He felt not half that now I feel. 
I search'd, but vainly seirch'd, to find 
The workings of a wounded mind j 
Each feature of that sullen corse 
Betray'd his rage, but no remorse. 
Oh, what had Vengeance given to trace 
Despair upon his dying face ! 
The late repentance of that hour. 
When Penitence hath lost her power 



1 This superstition of a second-hearing (for I never met 
with downright second-sight in the East) fell once under 
my own observation. On my third journey to Cape 
Colonna, early in 1811, as we passed through the defile 
that leads from the hamlet between Keratia and Colonna, 
I observed Dervish Tahiri riding rather out of the path, 
and leaning his head upon his hand, as if in pain. I rode 
up and inquired. ♦•We are in peril," he answered. 
"What peril? we are not now in Albania, nor in the 
passes to Ephesus, Messalunghi, or Lepanto; there are 
plenty of us, well armed, and the Choriates have not cour- 
age to be thieves." — "True, Affendi, but nevertheless 
the shot is ringing in my ears." — "The shot! not a 
tophaike has been fired this morning." — "I hear it not- 
withstanding—Bom — Bom — as plainly as I hear your 
voice." — "Psha!" — "As you please, Affendi; if it is 
written, 80 will it be." — I left this quick-eared predesti- 
narian, and rode up to Basili, his Christian compatriot, 
whose ears, though not at all prophetic, by no means rel- 
ished the intelligence. We all arrived at Colonna, re- 
mained some hours, and returned leisurely, saying a 
variety of brilliant things, in more languages than spoiled 
the building of Babel, upon the mistaken seer. Romaic, 
Arnaout, Turkish, Italian, and English were all exercised, 
in various conceits, upon the unfortunate Mussulman. 
While we were contemplating the beautiful prospect. Der- 
vish was occupied about the columns. I thought he was 
deranged into an antiquarian, and asked him if he had 
become a " Po/ao-casfro " man ? "No," said he, "but 
these pillars will be useful in making a stand;" and 
added other remarks, which at least evinced his own belief 
in his troublesome faculty oi forehearing. On our return 
to Athens we heard from Leone (a prisoner set ashore 
some days after) of the intended attack of the Mainotes, 
mentioned, with the cause of its not taking place, in the 
notes to Childe Harold, Canto 2d. I was at some pains to 
question the man, and he described the dresses, arms, and 
marks of the horses of our party so accurately, that, with 
other circumstances, we could not doubt of hit having 
been in "villanous company," and ourselves in a bad 
neighbourhood. Dervish became a soothsayer for life, and 
I dare say is now hearing more musketry than ever will 
be fired, to the great refreshment of the Arnaouts of 
Berat, and his native mountains. — I shall mention one 
trait more of this singular race. In March, 1811, a re- 
markably stout and active Arnaout came (I believe the 
fiftieth on the same errand) to offer himself as an atten- 
dant, which was declined: "Well, Affendi," quoth he, 
" may you live I — you would have found me useful. I 
shall leave the town for the hills to-morrow ; in the win- 
ter I return, perhaps you will then receive me." — Der- 
vish, who was present, remarked as a thing of course, 
and of no consequence, "in the mean time he will join 
the Klephtes " (robbers), which was true to the letter. 
If not cut off, they come down in the winter, and pass it 
unmolested in some town, where they are often as well 
known as their exploits. 



^^^ 



THE GIAOUR. 



97 



To tear one terror from the grave, 
Aud will not soothe, and cannot save. 



" The cold in clime are cold in blood, 
Their love can scarce deserve the name j 

But mine was like the lava flood 
That boils in Etna's breast of flame. 

I cannot prate in puling strain 

Of ladye-love, and beauty's chain : 

If changing cheek, and scorching vein, 

Lips taught to writhe, but not complain, 

If bursting heart, and madd'ning brain, 

And daring deed, and vengeful steel, 

And all that 1 have felt, and feel, 

Betoken love — that love was mine, 

And shown by many a bitter sign. 

'T is true, I could not whine nor sigh, 

I knew but to obtain or die. 

I die — but first I have possess'd, 

And come what may, I have been bless'd. 

Shall I the doom I sought upbraid? 

No — reft of all, yet undismay'd 

But for the thought of Leila slain, 

Give me the pleasure with the pain, 

So would I live and love again. 

I grieve, but not, my holy guide ! 

For him who dies, but her who died : 

She sleeps beneath the wandering wave — 

Ah ! had she but an earthly grave, 

This breaking heart and throbbing head 

Should seek and share her narrow bed. 

She was a form of life and light, 

That, seen, became a part of sight ; 

And rose, where'er I turn'd mine eye, 

The Morning-star of Memory ! 

*' Yes, Love indeed is light from heaven ; 

A spark of that immortal fire 
With angels shared, by Alia given, 
To lift from earth our low desire. 
Devotion wafts the mind above, 
But Heaven itself descends in love; 
A feeling from the Godhead caught. 
To wean from self each sordid thought ; 
A Ray of him who form'd the whole ; 
A Glory circling round the soul ! 
I grant my love imperfect, all 
That mortals by the name miscall ; 
Then deem it evil, what thou wilt ; 
But say, oh say, hers was not guilt ! 
She was my life's unerring light : 
That quench'd, what beam shall hreak my night ? 
Oh ! would it shone to lead me still, 
Although to death, or deadliest ill 1 
Why marvel ye, if they who lose 
This present joy, this future hope, 
No more with sorrow meekly cope; 
In phrenzy then their fate accuse : 
In madness do those fearful deeds 

That seem to add but guilt to woe ? 
Alas ! the breast that inly bleeds 

Hath nought to dreid from outward blow : 
Who falls from all he knows of bliss, 

Cares little into what abyss. 

Fierce as the gloomy vulture's now 
To thee, old man, my deeds appear : 

I read abhorrence on thy brow, 
And this too was I born to bear ! 

'T is true, that, like that bird of prey, 

With havoc have I mark'd my way : 

But this was taught me by the dove, 

To die — and know no second love. 

This lesson yet hath man to learn. 

Taught bv the thing he dares to spurn : 

The birdthat sings within the brake, 

The swan that swims upon the lake. 

One mate, and one alone, will take. 

And let the fool still prone to range, 

And sneer on all who cannot change. 

Partake his jest with boasting boys ; 

I envy not his varied joys. 



But deem such feeble, heartless man, 
Less than yon solitary swan ; 
Far, far beneath the shallow maid 
He left believing and betray'd. 
Such shame at least was never mine — 
Leila ! each thought was only thine ! 
My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe. 
My hope on high — my all below. 
Earth holds no other like to thee, 
Or, if it doth, in vain for me : 
For worlds 1 dare not view the dame 
Resembling thee, yet not the same. 
The very ci imes that mar my youth, 
This bed of death — attest my truth ! 
'T is all too late — thou wert, thou art 
The cherish'd madness of my heart ! 

" And she was lost — and yet I breathed. 
But not the breath of human life : 

A serpent round my heart was wreathed. 
And stung my every thought to strife. 

Alike all time, abhorr'd all place, 

Shuddering I shrunk from Nature's face. 

Where every hue that charm'd before 

The blackness of my bosom wore. 

The rest thou dost already know, 

And all my sins, and half my woe. 

But talk no more of penitence ; 

Thou seest I soon shall part from hence: 

And if thy holy tale were true. 

The deed that 's done canst thou undo ? 

Think me not thankless — but this grief 

Looks not to priesthood for relief.! 

My soul's estate in secret guess : 

But wouldst thou pity more, say less. 

When thou canst bid my Leila live, 

Then will I sue thee to forgive ; 

Then plead my cause in that high place 

Where purchased masses iToffer grace. 

Go, when the hunter's hand hath wrung 

From forest-cave her shrieking young. 

And calm the lonely lioness : 

But soothe not — mock not my distress ! 

" In earlier days, and calmer hours. 

When heart with heart delights to blend, 
Where bloom my native valley's bowers, 

I had — Ah ! have I now ? — a friend ! 
To him this pledge I charge thee send, 

Memorial of a youthful vow ; 
I would remind him of my end : 

Though souls absorb'd like mine allow 
Brief thought to distant friendship's claim. 
Yet dear to'him my blighted name. 
'T is strange — he prophesied my doom. 

And I have smiled — I then could smile — 
When Prudence would his voice assume. 

And warn — I reck'd not what — the while ; 
But now remembrance whispers o'er 
Those accents scarcely mark'd before. 
Say — that his bodings came to pass, 

And he will start to hear their truth, 

And wish his words had not been sooth : 
Tell him, unheeding as I was. 

Through many a busy bitter scene 

Of all our golden youth had been. 
In pain, my faltering tongue had tried 
To bless his memory ere I died ; 
But Heaven in wrath would turn away. 
If Guilt should for the guiltless pray. 
I do not ask him not to blame, 
Too gentle he to wound my name ; 
And what have I to do with fame? 
I do not ask him not to mourn. 
Such cold request might sound like scorn ; 



1 The monk's sermon is omitted. It seems to have had 
80 little effect upon the patient, that it could have no hopes 
from the reader. It may be suflirient to say, that it was 
of n customary length (as may be perceived from the inter- 
ruptions and uneasiness of the patient), and was delivered 
in the usual tone of nil orthodox preachers. 



% 



til 



98 



THE GIAOUR. 



And what than friendship's manly tear 
May better grace a brother's bier ? 
But bear this ring, his own of old, 
And tell him — what thou dost behold I 
The wither'd frame, the ruin'd mind, 
The wrack by passion left behind, 
A shrivell'd scroll, a scatter'd leaf, 
Sear'd by the autumn blast of grief! 
* * * * * ♦ 

" Tell me no more of fancy's gleam, 
No, father, no, 't was not a'dream ; 
Alas ! the dreamer first must sleep, 
I only watch'd, and wish'd to weep j 
But could not, for my burning brow 
Throbb'd to the very brain as now : 
I wish'd but for a single tear. 
As something welcome, new, and dear : 
I wish'd it then, 1 wish it still ; 
Despair is stronger than my will. 
Waste not thine orison, despair 
Is mightier than thy pious prayer : 
I would not, if I might, be blest ; 
I want no paradise, but rest. 
'T was then, I tell thee, father ! then 
I saw her ; yes, she lived again ; 
And shining in her white symar,i 
As through yon pale grey cloud the star 
Which now I gaze on, as on her, 
Who look'd and looks far lovelier j 
Dimly I view its trembling spark ; 
To-morrow's night shall be more dark j 
And I, before its rays appear. 
That lifeless thing the living fear. 
I wander, father ! for my soul 
Is fleeting towards the final goal. 
I saw her, friar ! and I rose 
Forgetful of our former woes ; 
And rushing from my couch, I dart, 
And clasp her to my desperate heart j 
I clasp — what is it that I clasp ? 
No breathing form within my grasp, 
No heart that beats reply to mine, 
Yet, Leila ! yet the form is thine ! 
And art thou, dearest, changed so much, 
As meet my eye, yet mock my touch ? 
Ah ! were thy beauties e'er so cold, 
I care not ; so my arms enfold 
The all they ever wish'd to hold. 
Alas ! around a shadow prest. 
They shrink upon my lonely breast ; 
Yet still 't is there ! In silence stands. 
And beckons with beseeching hands ! 
With braided hair, and bright-black eye - 
I knew 't was false — she could not die 1 
But he is dead ! within the dell 
I saw him buried where he fell ; 
He comes not, for he cannot break 
From earth ; why then art thou awake? 



J " Symar," a shroud. 



They told me wild waves rolled above 
The face I view, the form I love j 
They told me — 't was a hideous tale ! 
I 'd tell it, but my tongue would fail : 
If true, and from thine ocean-cave 
Thou com'st to claim a calmer grave, 
Oh ! pass thy dewy fingers o'er 
This brow that then will burn no more j 
Or place them on my hopeless heart : 
But, shape or shade ! whate'er thou art, 
In mercy ne'er again depart ! 
Or farther with thee bear my soul 
Than winds can waft or waters roll ! 

* * * * * 4c 

" Such is my name, and such my tale. 

Confessor ! to thy secret ear 
I breathe the sorrows I bewail, 

And thank thee for the generous tear 
This glazing eye could never shed. 
Then lay me with the humblest dead. 
And, save the cross above my head. 
Be neither name nor emblem spread. 
By prying stranger to be read, 
Or stay the passing pilgrim's tread." a 

He pass'd — nor of his name and race 
Hath left a token or a trace. 
Save what the father must not say 
Who shrived him on his dying day i 
This broken tale was all w'e knew 
Of her he loved, or him he slew. 



2 The circumstance to which the above story relates 
was not very uncommon in Turkey. A few years ago the 
wife of Muchtar Pacha complained to his father of his son's 
supposed infidelity : he asked with whom, and she had the 
barbarity to give in a list of the twelve handsomest women 
in Yanina, They were seized, fastened up in sacks, and 
drowned in the lake the same night ! One of the guards 
who was present informed me, that not one of the victims 
uttered a cry, or showed a symptom of terror at so sudden 
a "wrench from all we know, from all we love." The 
fate of Phrosine, the fairest of this sacrifice, is the sub- 
ject of many a Romaic and Arnaout ditty. The story in 
the text is one told of a young Venetian many years ago, 
and now nearly forgotten. I heard it by accident recited 
by one of the coffee-house story-tellers who abound in the 
Levant, and sing or recite their narratives. The addi- 
tions and interpolations by the translator will be easily 
distinguished from the rest, by the want of Eastern ima- 
gery; and I regret that my memory has retained so few 
fragments of the original. For the contents of some of 
the notes I am indebted partly to D'Herbelot, and partly 
to that most Eastern, and, as Mr. Weber justly entitles it, 
"sublime tale," the "Caliph Vathek." I do not know 
from what source the author of that singular volume may 
have drawn his materials; some of his incidents are to be 
found in the " Bibliotheque Orientale;" but for correct- 
ness of costume, beauty of description, and power of 
imagination, it far surpasses all European imitations; and 
bears such marks of originality, that those who have 
visited the East will find some difiiculty in believing it to 
be more than a translation. As an Eastern tale, even 
Rasselas must bow before it; his " Happy Valley " will 
not bear a comparison with the " Hall of Eblis." 



^^ 



Canto I.] 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



99 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS 

A TURKISH TALE.* 



" Had we never loved bo kindly, 
Had we never loved so blindly. 
Never met or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted." 

BURNS. 



TO 

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 

LORD HOLLAND, 

THIS TALE 

IS INSCRIBED, 

WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OP REGARD 

AND RESPECT, 

BY HIS GRATEFULLY OBLIGED 

AND SINCERE FRIEND, 

BYRON. 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



CANTO THE FIRST, 



Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle 

Are emblems of deeds that are done in tlieir clime ? 
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, 

Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime? 
Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, 
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine ; 
Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with per- 
fume. 
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul 3 in her bloom i. 
Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit. 
And the voice of the nightingale never is mute : 
Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, 
In colour though varied, in beauty may vie. 
And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye j 
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, 
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 
'T is the clime of the East ; 't is the land of the Sun — 
Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done ? a 
Oh ! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell 
Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which 

they tell.. 

IL 

Begirt with many a gallant slave, 

Apparell'd as becomes the brave, 

Awaiting each his lord's behest 

To guide his steps, or guard his rest, 

Old Giaffir sate in his Divan : 
Deep thought was in his aged eye j 

And though the face of Mussulman 
Not oft betrays to stand ers by 

The mind within, well skill'd to hid& 

All but unconquerable pride. 



1 " The Bride of Abydos " was published in the begin- 
ftlBg of December, 1813.— E; 

2 " Gul," the rose. 

3 " Souls made of fire, and children of tho Sun, 

With whom, revenge is virtue." — 

YOUNG'S Revenge. 



His pensive cheek and pondering brow 
Did more than he was wont avow. 

IIL 

"Let the chamber be clear'd." — The train disap- 
peared — 

'* Now call me the chief of the Harem guard." 
With Giaffir is none but his only son. 

And the Nubian awaiting the sire's award. 

" Haroun — when all the crowd that wait 

Are pass'd beyond the outer gate, 

(Woe to the head whose eye beheld 

My child Zuleika's face unveil'd !) 

Hence, lead my daughter from her tower j 

Her fate is fix'd this very hour : 

Yet not to her repeat my thought ; 

By me alone be duty taught I " 

" Pacha ! to hear is to obey." 
No more must slave to despot say — 
Then to the tower had ta'en his way. 
But here young Selim silence brake. 

First lowly rendering reverence meet ;. 
And downcast look'd, and gently spake,. 

Still standing at the Pacha's feet : 
For son of Moslem must expire, 
Ere dare to sit before his sire ! 

« Father ! for fear that thou should'st chide 
My sister, or her sable guide. 
Know — for the fault, if fault there be, 
Was mine, then fall thy frowns on me — 
So lovelily the morning shone. 

That t- let the old and weary sleep — 
I could not ; and to view alone 

The fairest scenes of land and deep,. 
With none to listen and reply 
To thoughts, with which my heart beat high, 
Were irksome — for whatever my mood, 
In sooth I love not solitude ; 
I on Zuleika's slumber broke, 

And, as thou knowest that for me 

Soon turns the Harem's grating key, 
Before the guardian slaves awoke 
We to the cypress groves had tlovm, 
And made earth, main, and heaven our own ! 
There linger'd we, beguiled too long 
With Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's song ; * 
Till I, who heard the deep tambour 5 
Beat thy Divan's approaching hour. 
To thee, and to my duty true, 
Warn'd by the sound, to greet theofIew^ 
But there Zuleika wanders yet — 
Nay, Father, rage not -^- nor forget 
That none can pierce that secret bower 
But those who watcb the women's tower^"" 

ly. 

" Son of a slave "•— the Pacha said—* 
" From unbelieving mother bred, 
Vain were a father's hope to see 
Aught that beseems a man in thee. 

4 Mejnoun and Leila, the Romeo and Juliet of the East. 
Sadi, the moral poet of Persia. 

6 Tambour. Turkish drum, which sounds at sunrise, 
noon, and twilight. 






Hi 

4 



100 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



[Canto I. 



Thou, when thine arm should bend the bow, 
And hurl the dart, and curb the steed, 
Thou, Greek in soul if not in creed, 
Must pore where babbling waters flow, 
And watch unfolding roses blow. 
Would that yon orb, whose matin glow 
Thy listless eyes so much admire, 
Would lend thee something of his fire ! 
Thou, who would'st see this battlement 
By Christian canuon piecemeal rent ; 
Nay, tamely view old Stambol's wall 
Before the dogs of Moscow fall, 
Nor strike one stroke for life and death 
Against the curs of Nazareth ! 
Go — let thy less than woman's hand 
Assume the distaff — not the brand. 
But, Haroun ! — to my daughter speed : 
And hark — of thine own head take heed — 
If thus Zuleika oft takes wing — 
Thou see'st yon bow — it hath a string ! " 

V. 

No sound from Selim's lip was heard, 

At least that met old Giaffir's ear, 
But every frown and every word 
Pierced keener than a Christian's sword. 

" Son of a slave ! — reproach'd with fear ! 
Those gibes had cost another dear. 
Son of a slave ! — and who my sire ? " 

Thus held his thoughts their dark career ; 
And glances ev'n of mere than ire 
Flash forth, then faintly disappear. 
Old Giaffir gazed upon his son 

And started ; for within his eye 
He read how much his wrath had done ; 
He saw rebellion there begun : 

" Come hither, boy — what, no reply ? 
I mark thee — and I know thee too ; 
But there be deeds thou dar'st not do : 
But if thy beard had manlier length, 
And if thy hand had skill and strength, 
I 'd joy to see thee break a lance, 
Albeit against my own perchance." 

As sneeringly these accents fell, 
On Selim's eye he fiercely gazed : 

That eye returned him glance for glance. 
And proudly to his sire's was raised. 

Till Giaffir's quail 'd and shrunk askance — 
And why — he felt, but durst not tell. 
" Much I misdoubt this wayward boy 
Will one day work me more annoy : 
I never loveS him from his birth, 
And — but his arm is little worth, 
And scarcely in the chase could cope 
With timid fawn or antelope, 
Far less \\-ould venture into strife 
Where man contends for fame and life — 
I would not trust that look or tone : 
No — nor the blood so near my own. 
That blood — he hath not heard — no more — 
I '11 watch him closer than before. 
He is an Arab i to my sight, 
Or Christian crouching in the fight — 
But hark 1 — I hear Zuleika's voice ; 

Like Houris' hymn it meets mine ear : 
She is the offspring of my choice ; 

Oh ! more than ev'n her mother dear, 
With all to hope, and nought to fear — 
My Peri ! ever welcome here ! 
Sweet, as the desert fountain's wave 
To lips just cool'd in time to save — 

Such to my lonsing sight art thou ; 
Nor can they waft to Mecca's shrine 
More thanks for life, than I for thine, 

Who blest thy birth and bless thee now." 



1 The Turks abhor the Arabs (who return the compli- 
ment a hundred fold) even more than thevhate the Chris- 



VI. 

Fair, as the first that fell of womankind, 

When on that dread yet lovely serpent smiling. 
Whose image then was stamp'd upon her mind — 

But once beguiled — and evermore beguiling j 
Dazzling, as that, oh ! too transcendant vTsion 

To Sorrow's phantom-peopled slumber given. 
When heart meets heart again in dreams Elysian, 

And paints the lost on Earth revived in Heaven; 
Soft, as the memory of buried love; 
Pure, as the prayer which Childhood wafts above; 
Was she — the daughter of that rude old Chief, 
Who met the maid with tears — but not of grief. 
Who hath not proved how feebly words essay 
To fix one spark of Beauty's heavenly ray ? 
Who doth not feel, until his failing sight 
Faints into dimness with its own delight, 
His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess 
The might — the majesty of Loveliness ? 
Such was Zuleika — such around her shone 
The nameless charms unmark'd by her alone ; 
The light of love, the purity of grace, 
The mind, the Music 2 breathing from her face, 
The heart whose softness harmonized the whole — 
And oh ! that eye was in itself a Soul ! 
Her graceful arms in meekness bending 

Across her gently-budding breast; 
At one kind word those arms extending 

To clasp the neck of him who blest 

His child caressing and carest, 

Zuleika came — and Giaffir felt 

His purpose half within him melt: 

Not that against her fancied weal 

His heart though stern could ever feel ; 

Affection chain'd her to that heart ; 

Ambition tore the links apart. 

VII. 

"Zuleika ! child of gentleness ! 

How dear this very day must tell, 
When 1 forget my own distress. 

In losing what I love so well, 

To bid thee with another dwell : 

Another ! and a braver man 

Was never seen in battle's van. 
We Moslem reck not much of blood ; 

But yet the line of Carasman 3 
Unchanged, unchangeable hath stood 

First of the bold Timariot bands 
That won and well can keep their lands. 
Enough that he who comes to woo 
Is kinsman of the Bey Oglou : 
His years need scarce a thought employ ; 
I would not have thee wed a' boy. 
And thou shalt have a noble dower : 
And his and my united power 



2 This expression has met with objections. I will not 
refer to " Him who hath not Music in his soul," bat 
merely request the reader to recollect, for ten seconds, the 
features of the woman whom he believes to be the most 
beautiful; and, if he then does not comprehend fully what 
is feebly expressed in the above line, I shall be sorry for ua 
both. For an eloquent passage in the latest work of the 
first female writer of this, perhaps of any, age, on the anal- 
ogy (and the immediate comparison excited by that analogy) 
between "painting and music," see vol. iii. cap- 10. De 
I'AUemagne. And is not this connection still stronger with 
the ori<:inal than the copy? with the colouring of Nature 
than of Art? After all, this is rather to be felt than de- 
scribed; still I think there are some who will un.ierstand 
it, at least they would have done -had they beheld the coun- 
tenance whose speaking harmony suggested the idea ; for 
this passage is not drawn from imagination but memory, 
that mirror which Affliction dashes to the earth, and look- 
ing down upon the fragments, only beholds the reflection 
multiplied ! 

3 Carasman Oglou, or Kara Osman Oglou, is the prin- 
cipal landholder in Turkey; he governs Magnesia: those 
who, by a kind of feudal tenure, possess land on condition 
of service, are called Timariots : they serve as Spahis, ac- 
cording to the extent of territory, and bring a certain num- 
ber into the field, generally cavalry. 



Ganto I.] 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



101 



Will laugh to scorn the vieath-firman, 
Which others tremble but to scan, 
And teach the messenger i what fate 
The bearer of such boon may wait. 
And now thou know'st thy father's will ; 

All that thy sex hath need to know : 
'T was mine to teach obedience still — 

The way to love, thy lord may show." 
VIII. 
In silence bow'd the virgin's head ; 

And if her eye was filTd with tears 
That stifled feeling dare not shed, 
And changed her cheek from pale to red, 

And red to pale, as through her ears 
Those winged words like arrows sped. 

What could such be but maiden fears ? 
So bright the tear in Beauty's eye, 
Love half regrets to kiss it dry ; 
So sweet the blush of Bashfulness, 
Even Pity scarce can wish it less ! 

Whate'er it was the sire forgot ; 

Or if remember'd, mark'd it not ; 

Thrice clapp'd his hands,^ and call'd his steed, 

Resign'd his gem-adorn"d chibouque,3 
And mounting featly for the mead, 

With Maugrabee4 and Mamaluke, 

His way amid his Delis took, 5 
To witness many an active deed 
With sabre keen, or blunt jerreed. 
The Kislar only and his Moors 
Watch well the Harem's massy doors. 

IX. 
His head was leant upon his hand, 

His eye look'd o'er the dark blue water 
That swiftly glides and gently swells 
Between the winding Dardanelles ; 
But yet he saw nor sea nor strand, 
Nor even his Pacha's turban'd band 

Mix in the game of mimic slaughter, 
Careering cleave the folded felt 6 
With sabre stroke right sharply dealt ; 
Normask'd the javelin-darting crowd. 
Nor heard their Ollahs i wild and loud — 

He thought but of old Giaffir's daughter ! 
X. 
No word from Selim's bosom broke ; 
One sigh Zuleika's thought bespoke : 



1 When a Pacha is sufficiently strong to resist, the sin- 
gle messenger, who is always the first bearer of the order 
for his death, is strangled instead, and sometimes five or 
six» one after the other, on the same errand, by command 
of the refractory patient; if, on the contrary, he is weak 
or loyal, he bows, kisses the Sultan's respectable signature, 
and is bowstrung with great complacency. In 1810, seve- 
ral of these presents were exhibited in the niche of the 
Seraglio gate; among others, the head of the Pacha of Bag- 
dat, a brave young man, cut off by treachery, after a des- 
perate resistance. 

2 Clapping of the hands calls the servants. The Turks 
hate a superfluous expenditure of voice, and they have no 
bells. 

3 " Chibouque," the Turkish pipe, of which the amber 
mouthpiece, and sometimes the ball which contains the 
leaf, is adorned with precious stones, if in possession of the 
wealthier orders. 

4 •' Maugrabee," Moorish mercenaries. 

5 "Delis," bravos who form the forlorn hope of the cav- 
alry, and always begin the action. 

6 A twisted fold of felt is used for scimitar practice by 
the Turks, and few but Mussulman arms can cut through 
it at a single stroke ; sometimes a tough turban is used for 
the same purpose. The jerreed is a game of blunt jave- 
lins, animated and graceful. 

7 " Ollahs," Alia il Allah, the " Leilies," as the Spanish 
poets call them, the sound is Ollati ; a cry of which the 
Turks, for a silent people, are somewhat profuse, particu- 
larly during the jerreed, or in the chase, but mostly in 
battle. Their animation in the field, and gravity in the 
chamber, with their pipes and comboloios, form an amus- 
ing contrast. 



Still gazed he through the lattice grate, 
Pale, mute, and mournfully sedate. 
To him Zuleika's eye was turn'd, 
But little from his aspect learn'd: 
Equal her grief, yet not the same ; 
Her heart confess'd a gentler flame : 
But yet that heart, alarm'd or weak. 
She knew not why, forbade to speak. 
Yet speak she must — but when essay ? 
" How strange he thus should turn away ! 
Not thus we e'er before have met j 
Not thus shall be our parting yet." 
Thrice paced she slowly through the room, 

And watch'd his eye — it still was fix'd : 

She snatch'd the urn wherein was mix'd 
The Persian Atar-gul's s perfume. 
And sprinkled all its odours o'er 
The pictured roof 9 and marble floor ; 
The drops, that through his glittering vest 
The playful girl's appeal address'd. 
Unheeded o'er his bosom flew, 
As if that breast were marble too. 
" What, sullen yet ? it must not be — 
Oh ! gentle Selim, this from thee ! " 
She saw in curious order set 

The fairest flowers of eastern land — 
" He loved them once ; may touch them yet, 

If offer'd by Zuleika's hand." 
The childish thought was hardly breathed 
Before the rose was pluck'd and wreathed j 
The next fond moment saw her seat 
Her fairy form at Selim's feet : 
*' This rose to calm my brother's cares 
A message from the Bulbul lo bears } 
It says to-night he will prolong 
For Selim's ear his sweetest song ; 
And though his note is somewhat sad, 
He'll try for once a strain more glad, 
With some faint hope his alter'd lay 
May sing these gloomy thoughts away. 

XI. 

" What ! not receive my foolish flower ? 

Nay then I am indeed unblest : 
On me can thus thy forehead lower ? 

And know"st thou not who loves thee best ? 
Oh, Selim dear! oh, more than dearest ! 
Say, is it me thou hat'st or fearest ? 
Come, lay thy head upon my breast, 
And I will kiss thee into rest. 
Since words of mine, and songs must fail, 
Ev'n from my fabled nightingale. 
I knew our sire at times was stern, 
But this from thee had yet to learn j 
Too well I know he loves thee not j 
But is Zuleika's love forgot ? 
Ah ! deem I right ? the Pacha's plan — 
This kinsman Bey of Carasman 
Perhaps may prove some foe of thine. 
If so, I sweir by Mecca's shrine. 
If shrines that ne'er approach allow 
To woman's step admit her vow, 
Without thy free consent, command. 
The Sultan should not have my hand ! 
Think'st thou that I could bear to part 
With thee, and learn to halve my heart? 
Ah ! were I sever'd from thy side. 
Where were thy friend — and who my guide ? 



8 " Atar-gul," ottar of roses. The Persian is the finest. 

9 The ceiling and wainscots, or rather walls, of the Mus- 
sulman apartments are generally painted, in great houses, 
with one eternal and highly coloured view of Constanti- 
nople, wherein the principal feature is a noble contempt of 
perspective; below, arms, scimitars, <fec. are in general 
fancifully and not inelegantly disposed. 

10 It has been much doubted whether the notes of this 
"Lover of the rose" are sad or merry; and Mr. Fox's re- 
marks on the subject have provoked some lenrned contro- 
versy as to the opinions of the ancients on the suliject. I 
dare not venture a conjecture on the point, though a little 
inclined to the "errare mallem," Sec, if Mr. Fox was mis- 
taken. 



9* 



102 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



[Canto I. 



Tears have not seen, Time shall not see, 
The hour that tears my soul from thee : 
Ev'n Azrael,! from his deadly quiver 

When flies that shaft, and fly it must, 
That parts all else, shall doom for ever 

Our hearts to undivided dust 1 " 

XII. 
He lived — he breathed — he moved — he felt J 
He raised the maid from where she knelt ; 
His trance was gone — his keen eye shone 
With thoughts that long in darkness dwelt ; 
With thoughts that burn — in rays that melt. 
As the stream late conceal'd 

By the fringe of its willows, 
When it rushes reveal'd 

In the light of its billows; 
As the bolt bursts on high 

From the black cloud that bound it, 
riash'd the soul of that eye 

Through the long lashes round it. 
A war-horse at the trumpet's sound, 
A lion roused by heedless hound, 
A tyrant waked to sudden strife 
By graze of ill-directed knife. 
Starts not to more convulsive life 
Than he, who heard that vow, dlsplay'd, 
And all, before repress'd, betray'd : 
" Now thou art mine, for ever mine, 
With life to keep, and scarce with life resign j 
Now thou art mine, that sacred oath, 
Though sworn by one, hath bound us both. 
Yes, fondly, wisely hast thou done ; 
That vow hath saved more heads than one : 
But blench not thou — thy simplest tress 
Claims more from nie than tenderness j 
I would not wrong the slenderest hair 
That clusters round thy forehead fair, 
For all the treasures buried far 
Within the caves of Istakar.2 
This morning clouds upon me lower'd. 
Reproaches on my head were shower'd, 
And Giaffir almost call'd me coward ! 
Now I have motive to be brave j 
The son of his neglected slave. 
Nay, start not, 't was the term he gave, 
May show, though little apt to vaunt, 
A heart his words nor deeds can daunt. 
His son, indeed ! — yet, thanks to thee. 
Perchance I am, at least shall be ; 
But let our plighted secret vow 
Be only known to us as now. 
I know the wretch who dares demand 
From Giaffir thy reluctant hand ; 
More ill-got wealth, a meaner soul 
Holds not a Musselim's 3 control : 
Was he not bred in Egripo ? 4 
A viler race let Israel show ! 
But let that pass — to none be told 
Our oath ; the rest shall time unfold. 
To me and mine leave Osman Bey j 
I 've partisans for peril's day : 
Think not I am what I appear ; 
I 've arms, and friends, and vengeance near." 

XIII. 

" Think not fhou art what thou appearest ! 

My Selim, thou art sadly changed : 
This morn I saw thee gentlest, dearest ; 

But now thou 'rt from thyself estranged. 



1 "Azrael," the angel of death. 

2 The treasures of the Pre-Adamite Sultans. See 
D'Herbelot, article Istakar. 

S " Musselim," a governor, the next in rank after a 
Pacha; a Waywode is the third; and then come the 
Agas. 

4 "Egripo," the Negropont. According to the proverb, 
the Turks of Egripo, the Jews of Salonica, and the Greeks 
of Athens, are the worst of their respective races. 



My love thou surely knew'st before, 
It ne'er was less, nor can be more. 
To see thee, hear thee, near thee stay, 
And hate the night I know not why, 
Save that we meet not but by day; 
With thee to live, with thee to die, 

I dare not to my hope deny : 
Thy cheek, thine eyes, thy lips to kiss, 
Like this — and this — no" more than this; 
For, Allah ! sure thy lips are flame : 

What fever in thy veins is flushing ? 
My own have nearly caught the same. 

At least I feel my cheek too blushing. 
To soothe thy sickness, watch thy health, 
Partake, but never waste thy wealth, 
Or stand with smiles unmurmuring by, 
And lighten half thy poverty ; 
Do all but close thy dying eye, 
For that I could not live to try ; 
To these alone my thoughts aspire : 
More can I do ? or thou" require ? 
But. Selim, thou must answer why 
We need so much of mystery ? 
The cause I cannot dream nor tell, 
But be it, since thou say'st 't is well ; 
Yet what thou mean'st by ' arms ' and ' friends,' 
Beyond my weaker sense extends. 
I meant that Giaffir should have heard 

The very vow I plighted thee; 
His wrath would not revoke my word : 

But surely he would leave me free. 

Can this fond wish seem strange in me, 
To be what I have ever been ? 
What other hath Zuleika seen 
From simple childhood's earliest hour ? 

What other can she seek to see 
Than thee, companion of her bower. 

The partner of her infancy ? 
These cherish'd thoughts with life begun, 

Say, why must I no more avow ? 
What change is wrought to make me shun 

The truth ; my pride, and thine till now ? 
To meet the gaze of stranger's eyes 
Our law, our creed, our God denies ; 
Nor shall one wandering thought of mine 
At such, our Prophet's will, repine : 
No ! happier made by that decree, 
He left me all in leaving thee. 
Deep were my anguish." thus compell'd 
To %ved with one I ne'er beheld : 
This wherefore should I not reveal ? 
Why wilt thou urge me to conceal ? 
I know the Pacha's haughty mood 
To thee hath never boded good ; 
And he so often storms at nought, 
Allah ! forbid that e'er he ought ! 
And why I know not, but within 
My heart concealment weighs like sin. 
If then such secrecy be crime. 

And such it feels while lurking here; 
Oh, Selim ! tell me yet in time, 

Nor leave me thus to thoughts of fear. 
Ah ! yonder see the Tchocadar,5 
My father leaves the mimic war ; 
I tremble now to meet his eye — 
Say, Selim, canst thou tell me why ? " 

XIV. 

" Zuleika — to thy tower's retreat 

Betake thee — Giaflir I can greet : 

And now with him I fain must prate 

Of firmans, imposts, levies, state. 

There 's fearful news from Danube's banks. 

Our Vizier nobly thins his ranks. 

For which the Giaour may give him thanks ! 

Our Sultan hath a shorter "way 

Such costly triumph to repay. 



6 " Tchocadar " 
man of authority. 



- one of the attendants who precedes ■ 



Canto II.] 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



103 



But, mark me, when the twilight drum 

Hath warn'd the troops to food and sleep, 
Unto thy cell will Selim come: 
Then softly from the Harem creep 
Where we may wander by the deep : 
Our garden-battlements are steep; 
Nor these will rash intruder climb 
To list our words, or stint our time ; 
And if he doth, I want not steel 
Which some have felt, and more may feel. 
Then shall thou learn of Selim more 
Than thou hast heard or thought before : 
Trust me, Zuleika — fear not me ! 
Thou know'st I hold a Harem key." 

" Fear thee, my Selim ! ne'er till now 

Did word like this " 

<' Delay not thou ; 
I keep the key — and Haroun's guard 
Have some, and hope of more reward. 
To-night, Zuleika, thou shall hear 
My tale, my purpose, and my fear : 
I am not, love ! what I appear." 



CANTO THE SECOND. 
I. 

The winds are high on Helle's wave. 

As on that night of stormy water 
When Love, who sent, forgot to save 
The young, the beautiful, the brave, 

The lonely hope of Sestos' daughter. 
Oh ! when alone along the sky 
Her turret-torch was blizing high, 
Though rising gale, and breaking foam, 
And shrieking sea-birds warn'd him home ; 
And clouds aloft and tides below, 
With signs and sounds, forbade to go. 
He courd not see, he would not hear, 
Or sound or sign foreboding fear ; 
His eye but saw that light of love. 
The only star it hail'd above ; 
His ear but rang with Hero's song, 
"Ye waves, divide not lovers long!" — 
That tale is old, but love anew 
May nerve young hearts to prove as true. 

n. 

The winds are high, and Helle's tide 

Rolls darkly heaving to the main ; 

And Night's descending shadows hide 

That field with blood bedew'd in vain. 
The desert of old Priam's pride ; 
The tombs, sole relics of his reign. 
All — save immortal dreams that could beguile 
The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle ! 

HI. 

Oh ! yet — for there my steps have been ; 

These feet have press'd the sacred shore, 
These limbs that buoyant wave hath borne — 
Minstrel ! with thee to muse, to mourn, 

To trace again those fields of yore. 
Believing every hillock green 

Contains no fabled hero's ashes, 
And that around the undoubted scene 

Thine own ''broad Hellespont" » still dashes, 



Be long my lot ! and cold were he 
Who there could gaze denying thee ! 

IV. 

The night hath closed on Helle's stream, 

Nor yet hath risen on Ida's hill 
That moon, which shone on his high theme: 
No warrior chides her peaceful beam. 

But conscious shepherds bless it still. 
Their flocks are grazing on the mound 

Of him who felt the Dardan's arrow t 
That mighty heap of gather'd ground 
Which Ammon's son ran proudly round,3 
By nations raised, by monarchs crown'd, 

Is now a lone and nameless barrow ! 

Within — thy dwelling-place how narrow ! 
Without — can only strangers breathe 
The name of him that was beneath : 
Dust long outlasts the storied stone; 
But Thou — thy very dust is gone ! 

V. 

Late, late to-night will Dian cheer 

The swain, and chase the boatman's fear j 

Till then — no beacon on the cliff 

May shape the course of struggling skiff; 

The scatter'd lights that skirt the bay, 

All, one by one, have died away ; 

The only lamp of this lone hour 

Is glimmering in Zuleika's tower. 

Yes ! there is light in that lone chamber, 

And o'er her silken ottoman 
Are thrown the fragrant beads of amber, 

O'er which her fairy fingers ran ; 3 
Near these, with emerald rays beset, 
(How could she thus that gem forget ?) 
Her mother's sainted amulet,* 
Whereon engraved the Koorsee text. 
Could smooth this life, and win the next J 
And by her combotoio 6 lies 
A Koran of illumined dyes; 
And many a bright emblazon'd rhyme 
By Persian scribes redeem'd from"time ; 
And o'er those scrolls, not oft so mute, 
Reclines her now neglected lute ; 
And round her lamp of fretted gold 
Bloom flowers in urns of China's mould; 
The richest work of Iran's loom. 
And Sheeraz' tribute of perfume ; 
All that can eye or sense delight 

Are gather'd in that gorgeous room : 

But yet it hath an air of gloom. 
She, of this Peri cell the sprite, 
What doth she hence, and on so rude a night ? 

VI. 

Wrapt in the darkest sable vest, 
Which none save noblest Moslem wear, 



1 The wrangling about this epithet, " the broad Helles- 
pont" or the "boundless Hellespont," whether it means ; 
one or the other, or what it means at all, has been beyond 
all possibility of detail. I have even heard it disputed on 
the spot; and not foreseeing a speedy conclusion to the 
controversy, amused myself with swimming across it in 
the mean time; and probably may again, before the point ; 
is settled. Indeed, the question as to the truth of "the j 
tnle of Troy divine " etill continues, murh of it resting \ 
upon the talismanic word " £7r£ipos : " probably Homer ] 
had the same notion of distance that a coquette has of | 
time; and when he talks of boundless, means half a mile; ; 
as the latter, by a like figure, when she says eternal at- i 
tachment, simply specifies three weeks. | 



2 Before his Persian invasion, and crowned the altar 
with laurel, &c. He was afterwards imitated by Cara- 
calla in his race. It is believed that the last also poisoned 
a friend, named Festus, for the sake of new Patroclan 
games. I have seen the sheep feeding on the tombs of 
Aesietes and Antilochus : the first is in the centre of the 
plain. 

3 When rubbed, the amber is susceptible of a perfume, 
which is slight but not disagreeable. 

4 The belief in amulets engraved on perns, or enclosed 
in gold boxes, containing scraps from the Koran, worn 
round the neck, wrist, or arm, is still universal in the 
East. The Koorsee (throne) verse in the second cap. of 
the Koran describes the attributes of the Most High, and 
is engraved in this manner, and worn by the pious, as the 
most esteemed and sublime of all sentences. 

5 "Comboloio" — a Turkish rosary. The MSS., par- 
ticularly those of the Persians, are richly adorned and 
illuminated. The Greek females are kept in utter igno- 
rance; but many of the Turkish girls are highly accom- 
plished, though not actually qualified for a Christian 
coterie. Perhaps some of our own " hluti " might net be 
the worse for bleaching. 



104 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



[Canto II. 



To guard from winds of heaven the breast 

As heaven itself to Selim dear, 
With cautious steps the thicket threading, 

And starting oft, as through the glade 

The gust its hollow moanings made, 
Till on the smoother pathway treading, 
More free her timid bosom beat, 

The maid pursued her silent guide ; 
And though her terror urged retreat, 

How could she quit her Selim's side? 

How teach her tender lips to chide ? 

vn. 

They reach'd at length a grotto, hewn 

By nature, but enlarged by art. 
Where oft her lute she won't to tune, - 

And oft her Koran conn'd apart j 
And oft in youthful reverie 
She dream'd what Paradise might be : 
Where woman's parted soul shall go 
Her Prophet had disdained to show; 
But Selim's mansion was secure. 
Nor deem'd she, could he long endure 
His bower in other worlds of bliss 
Without her, most beloved in this ! 
Oh ! who so dear with him could dwell? 
What Houri soothe him half so well ? 

vni. 

Since last she visited the spot 

Some change seem'd wrought within the grot : 

It might be only that the night 

Disguised things seen by better light : 

That brazen lamp but din.«y threw 

A ray of no celestial hue; 

But in a nook within the cell 

Her eye on stranger objects fell. 

There arms were jjiled, not such as wield 

The turban'd Delis in the field ; 

But brands of foreign blade and hilt, 

And one was red — perchance with guilt ! 

Ah ! how without can blood be spilt ? 

A cup too on the board was set 

That did not seem to hold sherbet. 

What may this mean ? she turn'd to see 

Her Selim — " Oh ! can this be he ? •' 

IX. 

His robe of pride was thrown aside, 

His brow no high crown'd turban bore, 
But in its stead a shawl of red, 

Wreathed lightly round, his temples wore: 
That dagger, on whose hilt the gem 
Were worthy of a diadem. 
No longer giitter'd at his waist, 
Where pistols unadorn'd we.e braced; 
And from his belt a sabre swung, 
And from his shoulder lonsely hung 
The cloak of whi'e. the thin capote 
That decks the wandering Candiote; 
Beneath — his golden plated vest 
Clung like a cuirass to his breast ; 
The greaves below his knee that wound 
With silvery scales were sheathed and bound. 
But were it not that high command 
Spake in his eye, and tone, and hand. 
All that a careless eye could see 
In him was some young Galiongee.1 

X. 

" I said I was not what I seem'd ; 
And now thou see'st my words were true : 



I have a tale thou hast not dream'd, 

If sooth — its truth must others rue. 
My story now 't were vain to hide, 
I must not see thee Osman's bride : 
But had not thine own lips declared 
How much of that young heart I shared, 
I could not, must not, yet have shown 
The darker secret of my own. 
In this 1 speak not now of love ; 
That, let time, truth, and peril prove: 
But first — Oh ! never wed another — 
Zuleika ! I am not thy brother 1 ^ 

XI. 
" Oh ! not my brother ! — yet unsay — 

God ! am I left alone on earth 
To mourn — I dare not curse — the day 

That saw my solitary birth ? 
Oh ! thou wilt love nie now no more ! 

My sinking heart foreboded ill; 
But know TTie all I was before, 

Thy sister — friend — Zuleika still. 
Thou led'st me here perchance to kill ; 

If thou hast cause for vengeance, see ! 
My breast is offer'd — take thy fill ! 

Far better with the dead to be 

Than live thus nothing now to thee : 
Perhaps far worse, for now 1 know 
Why Giaffir always seem'd thy foe; 
And I, alas ! am Giaffir's child. 
For whom thou wert contenm'd, reviled. 
If not thy sister — would'st thou save 
My life. Oh ! bid me be thy slave ! » 

XII. 

" My slave, Zuleika ! — nay, I 'm thine : 

But, gentle love, this transport calm, 
Thy lot shall yet be link'd with mine ; 
I swear it by our Prophet's shrine. 

And be that thought thy soriow's balm. 
So may the Koran 2 verse display 'd 
Upon its steel direct my blade, 
In danger's hour to guard us both, 
As I preserve that awful oath ! 
The name in which thy heart hath prided 

Must change ; but, my Zuleika, know, 
That tie is widen'd, not divided, 

Although thy Sire 's my deadliest foe. 
My father was to Gip.ffirall 

That Selim late was deem'd to thee; 
That brother wrought a brother's fall, 

But spired, at least, my infancy ; 
And luH'd me with a vain deceit 
That yet a like return may meet. 
He rear'd me, not with tender help, 

But like the nephew of a Cain ; o 
He watch'd me like a lion's whelp. 

That gniws and yet may break his chain. 

My father's blood in every vein 



2 The characters on all Turkish scimitars contain some- 
times the name of the place of their manufacture, but more 
generally a text from the Koran, in letters of gold. Amongst 
those in my possession is one with a blade of singularcon- 
struction; it is very broad, and the edge notched into ser- 
pentine curves like the ripple of water, or the wavering (,f 
fliime. I asked the Armenian who sold it, what possible 
use such a figure could add: he said, in Italian, that he did 
not know; but the Mussulmans had an idea that those of 
this form gave a severer wound ; and liked it because it 
was " piu feroce." 1 did not much admire the reason, but 
bought it for its peculiarity. 

3 It is to be observed, that every allusion to any thinner 
personage in the 0)d Testament, such as the Ark, or Cai 



1 "Galiongee" — orGalicngi.a sailor, that is, a Turkish 
sailor; the Greeks navigate, the Turks work the guns. 
Their dress is picturesque; and I have seen the Captain 
Pacha more than once wearing it as a kind of incog. Their 
lege, however, are generally naked. The buskins described 
in the text as sheathed behind with silver are those of an 
Arnaut robber, who was my host (he had quitted the pro- 
fession) at his Pyrgo, near Gastouni in the Morea; they 
were plated in scales one over the other, like the back of 
an armadillo. 



I is equally the privilege of Mussulman and Jew: indeed, 
the former profess to be much better acquainted with the 
I lives, true and fabulous, of thi- patriarchs, tha>. is warranted 
I in our own sarred writ ; and not content with Adam, they 
have a biography of Pre-Adamites. Solomon is the mon- 
I arch of all necromancy, and Moses a prophet inferior only 
I to Christ and Mahomet. Zuleika is the Persian name of 
' Potiphar's wife; and her amour with Joseph constitutes 
one of the finest poems in their language. It is, there- 
fore, no violation of costume to put the name of Cain, or 
I Noah, into the mouth of a Moslem. 



Canto II.] 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



105 



Is boiling ; but for thy dear sake 
No present vengeance will I take ; 

I'hough here 1 must no more remain. 
But first, beloved Zuleika ! hear 
How Giaffir wrought this deed of fear. 

XIII. 
"How first their strife to rancour grew, 

If love or envy made them foes, 
It matters little if I knew ; 
In fiery spirits, slights, though few 

And thoughtless, will disturb repose. 
In war Abdallah's arm was strong, 
Remember'd yet in Bosniic song. 
And Paswan's i rebel hordes attest 
How little love they bore such guest: 
His dsath is all 1 need relate, 
The stern etfect of Giaffir's hate ; 
And how my birth disclosed to me, 
Whate'er beside it makes, hath made me free. 

XIV. 

" When Paswan, after years of strife, 
At last for power, but first for life. 
In Widin's walls too proudly sate, 
Our Pachas rallied round the state; 
Nor last nor least in his^h command, 
Each brother led a separate band ; 
They gave their hoj^e-tails^ to the wind. 

And mustering in Sophia's plain 
Their tents were pifch'd, their post assign'd; 

To one, alas ! assign'd in vain ! 
What need of words ? the deadly bowl. 

By Giaffir's order dru^g'd and given, 
With venom subtle as his soul. 

Dismissed Abdallah's hence to heaven. 
Reclined and feverish in the bath, 

H?, when the hunter's sport was up. 
But little deem'd a brother's wrath 

To quench his thirst had such a cup : 
The bowl a bribed attendant bore ; 
He drank one draught,^ nor needed more! 
If thou my tale, Zuleika, d ubt. 
Call Haroun — he can tell it out. 

XV. 

" The deed once done, and Paswan's feud 
In part suppress'd, though ne'er subdued, 

Abdallah's Pachalick was gain'd : — 
Thou know'st not what in our Divan 
Can wealth procure for worse than man — 

Abdallah's honours were obtain'd 
By him a brother's murder stain'd : 
'T is true, the purchase nearly drain'd 
His ill-2ot treasure, soon replaced. 
Would'st question whence ? Survey the waste, 
And ask the squalid peasant how 
His gains repay his broiling brow ! — 
Why me the stern usurper spared. 
Why thus with me his ])alace shared, 
I know not. Shame, regret, remorse, 
And little fear from infant's force ; 
Besides, ado{)tion as a son 
By him whom Heiven accorded none, 
Or some unknown cabal, caprice. 
Preserved me thus ; — but not in peace : 
He cannot curb his haughty mood, 
Nor I forgive a father's blood. 



1 Paswan Oglou, the rebel of Widin ; wtio, for the last 
yeara of his life, set the whole power of the Porte at defi- 
ance. < 

2 "Horse-tail," the standard of a Pacha. 

3 Giafflr, Pacha of Argyro Castro, or Scutari, I am not 
sure which, was actually taken off by the Albanian Ali.in 
the manner described in the text. Ali Pacha, while I was 
in the country, married th« dauphter of his victim, some 
years after the event hnd taken place at a hath in Sophia, 
or Adriaiiople. The poison was mixed in the cup of cotTce, 
which is presented before the sherbet by the bath keeper, 
after dressing. 



XVI. 

" Within thy father's house are foes ; 

Not all who break his bread are true : 
To these should I my birth disclose, 

His days, his very hours were few : 
They only want a heart to lead, 
A hand to point them to the deed. 
But Haroun only knows, or knew 

This tale, whose close is almost nigh : 
He in Abdallah's palace grew. 

And held that post in his Serai 

Which holds he here — he saw him die : 
But what could single slavery do ? 
Avenge his lord ? alas ! too late ; 
Or save his son from such a fate ? 
He chose the last, and when elate 

With foes subdued, or friends betray'd, 
Proud Giaffir in high triumph sate. 
He led me helpless to his gate, 

And not in vain it seems essay 'd 

To save the life for which he pray'd. 
The knowledge of my birlh secured 

From all and each, but most from me j 
Thus Giaffir's safety was ensured. 

Removed he too from Roumelie 
To this our Asiatic side, 
Far from our seats by Danube's tide, 

With none but Haroun, who retains 
Such knowledge — and that Nubian feels 

A tyrant's secrets are but chains. 
From which the captive gladly steals, 
And this and more to me reveals : 
Such still to guilt just Alia sends — 
Slaves, tools, accomplices — no friends ! 

XVII. 
" All this, Zuleika, harshly sounds ; 

But harsher still my taie must be : 
Howe'er my tongue thy softness wounds, 

Yet I must prove all truth to thee. 

I saw thee start this garb to see, 
Yet is it one I oft have worn, 

And long must wear : this Galiongee, 
To whom thy plighted vow is sworn. 

Is leader of those pirate hordes. 

Whose laws and lives are on their swords ; 
To hear whose desolating tale 
Would make thy waning cheek more pale : 
Those arms thou see'st my band have brought, 
The hands that wield are not remote; 
This cup too for the rugged knaves 

Is fiU'd — once quatf' d, they ne'er repine: 
Our Prophet might forgive the slaves ; 

They 're only infidels in wine. 

XVIII. 

" What could I be ? Proscribed at home, 

And taunted to a wish to roam ; 

And listless left — for Giaffir's fear 

Denied the courser and the spear — 

Thoug;h oft — Oh, Mahomet ! how oft ! — 

In full divan the despot scoff 'd, 

As if my weak unwilling hand 

Refused the bridle or ihf. brand : 

He ever went to war alone. 

And pent me here untried — unknown j 

To Haroun's care with women left, 

By hope unblest, of fame bereft. 

While thou — whose sof ness long endear'd, 

Though it unmann'd me, still had cheer'd — 

To Brusa's walls for safety sent, 

Awaitedst there the field's event. 

Haroun, who saw my spirit pining 

Beneath inaction's slusrgish yoke, 
IIi^ captive, though with dread resigning, 

My thraldom for a season broke, 
On promise to return before 
The day when Giaffir's charge was o'er. 
'T is vain — my tongue can not impart 
My almost drunkenness of heart. 



i 



106 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



[Canto II. 



When first this liberated eye 
Survey'd Earth, Ocean, Sun, and Sky, 
As if my spirit pierced them through, 
And all their inmost wonders knew ! 
One word alone can paint to thee 
That more than feeling — I was Free ! 
E'en for thy presence ceased to pine ; 
The World — nay, Heaven itself was mine I 

XIX. 

" The shallop of a trusty Moor 
Convey'd me from this idle shore j 
I long'd to see the isles that gem 
Old Ocean's purple diadem : 
I sought by turns, and saw them all ; * 

But when and where I join'd the crew, 
With whom I 'm pledged to rise or fall, 

When all that we design to do 
Is done, 't will then be time more meet 
To tell thee, when the tale 's complete. 

XX. 

" 'T is true, they are a lawless brood. 
But rough in form, nor mild in mood ; 
And every creed, and every race. 
With them hath found — may find a place : 
But open speech, and ready hand. 
Obedience to their chief's command; 
A soul for every enterprise. 
That never sees with Terror's eyes ; 
Friendship for each, and faith to all, 
And vengeance vovv'd for those who fall, 
Have made them fitting instruments 
For more than e'en my own intents. 
And some — and I have studied all 

Distinguish'd from the vulgar rank, 
But chiefly to my council call 

The wisdom of the cautious Frank — 
And some to higher thoughts aspire, 

The last of Lambro's 2 patriots there 

Anticipated freedom share ; 
And oft around the cavern fire 
On visionary schemes debate, 
To snatch the Rayahs 3 from their fate. 
So let them ease their hearts with prate 
Of equal rights, which man ne'er knew ; 
I have a love for freedom too. 
Ay ! let me like the ocean-Patriarch * roam, 
Or only know on land the Tartar's home ! 5 
My tent on shore, my galley on the sea, 
Are more than cities and Serais to me : 
Borne by my steed, or wafted by my sail, 
Across the desert, or before the gale. 
Bound where thou wilt, my barb ! or glide, my prow ! 
But be the star that guides the wanderer, Thou ! 
Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my bark ; 
The Dove of peace and promise to mine ark ! 
Or, since that hope denied in worlds of strife, 
Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life ! 
The evening beam that smiles the clouds away. 
And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray! 



1 Tlie Turkish notions of almost all islands are confined 
to the Archipelago, the sea alluded to. 

2 Lambro Cauzani, a Greek, famous for his efforts, in 
1789-90, for the independence of his country. Abandoned 
by the Russians, he became a pirate, and the Archipelago 
was the scene of his enterprises. He is said to be still 
alive at Petersburg. He and Riga are the two most cele- 
brated of the Greek revolutionists. 

3 "Rayahs," — all who pay the capitation tax, called 
the "Haratch." 

4 The first of voyages is one of the few with which the 
Mussulmans profess much acquaintance. 

5 The wandering life of the Arabs, Tartars, and Turko- 
mans, will be found well detailed in any book of Eastern 
travels. That it possesses a charm peculiar to itself, can- 
not be denied. A young French renegado confessed to 
Chateaubriand, that he never found himself alone, gallop- 
ing in the desert, without a sensation approaching to rap- 
ture which was indescribable. 



Blest — as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's wall 

To pilgrims pure and prostrate at his call j 

Soft — as the melody of youthful days, 

That steals the trembling tear of speechless praise ; 

Dear — as his native song to Exile's ears, 

Shall sound each tone thy long-loved voice endears. 

For thee in those bright isles is built a bower 

Blooming as Aden 6 in its earliest hour, 

A thousand swords, with Selim's heart and hand, 

Wait — wave — defend — destroy — at thy command ! 

Girt by my band, Zuleika at my side. 

The spoil of nations shall bedeck my bride. 

The Harem's languid years of listless ease 

Are well resign'd for cares — for joys like these: 

Not blind to fate, I see, where'er I rove. 

Unnumbered perils, — but one only love I 

Yet well my toils shiU that fond breast repay, 

Though fortune frown, or falser friends betray. 

How dear the dream in darkest hours of ill. 

Should all be changed, to find thee faithful still ! 

Be but thy soul, like Selim's, firmly shown j 

To thee be Selim's tender as thine own ; 

To soothe each sorrow, share in each delight, 

Blend every thought, do all — but disunite ! 

Once free, 't is mine our horde again to guide ; 

Friends to each other, foes to aught beside : 

Yet there we follow but the bent assign'd 

By fatal Nature to man's warring kind : 

Mark ! where his carnage and his conquests cease ! 

He makes a solitude, and calls it — peace I 

I like the rest must use my skill or strength, 

But ask no land beyond my sabre's length : 

Power sways but by division — her resource 

The blest alternative of fraud or force ! 

Ours be the last ; in time deceit may come 

When cities cage us in a social home: 

There ev'n thy soul might err — how oft the heart 

Corruption shakes which peril could not part ! 

And woman, more than man, when death or woe, 

Or even Disgrace, would lay her lover low, 

Sunk in the lap of Luxury will shame — 

Away suspicion ! — not Zuleika 's name ! 

But life is hazard at the best ; and here 

No more remains to win, and much to fear : 

Yes, fear ! — the doubt, the dread of losing thee, 

By Osman's power, and Giaffir's stern decree. , 

That dread shall vanish with the favouring gale. 

Which Love tonight hath promised to my sail : 

No danger daunts the pair his smile hath blest, 

Their steps still roving, but their hearts at rest. 

With thee all toils are sweet, each clime hath charms] 

Earth — sea alike — our world within our arms! 

Ay — let the loud winds whistle o'er the deck. 

So that those arms cling closer round my neck : 

The deepest murmur of this lip shall be, 

No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee ! 

The war of elernents no fears impart 

To Love, whose deadliest bane is human Art: 

There lie the only rocks our course can check ; 

Here moments menace — there are years of wreck ! 

But hence ye thoughts that rise in Horror's shape ! 

This hour bestows, or ever bars escape. 

Few words remain of mine my tale to close ; 

Of thine but one to waft us from our foes ; 

Yea — foes — to me will Giaffir's hate decline? 

And is not Osman, who would part us, thine ? 

XXI. 

" His head and faith from doubt and death 
Returned in time my guard to savej 
Few heard, none told, that o'er the wave 

From isle to isle I roved the while : 

And since, though parted from my band 

Too seldom now I leave the land. 

No deed they 've done, nor deed shall do, 

Ere I have heard and doom'd it too : 



6 " Jannat nl Aden," the perpetual abode, the Mtusnl- 
man paradise. 



Canto IL] 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



107 



I form the plan, decree the spoil, 
'T is fit I oftener share the toil. 
But now too long I 've held thine ear ; 
Time presses, floats my bark, and here 
We leave behind but hate and fear. 
To-morrow Osman with his train 
Arrives — to-night must break thy chain : 
And would'st thou save that haughty Bey, 

Perchance, his life who gave thee thine, 
With me this hour away — away 1 

But yet, though thou art plighted mine, 
Would'st thou recall thy willing vow, 
Appall'd by truths imparted now, 
Here rest I — not to see thee wed : 
But be that peril on my head ! " 

XXII. 

Zuleika, mute and motionless, 
'Stood like that statue of distress, 
When, her last hope for ever gone, 
The mother harden'd into stone ; 
All in the maid that eye could see 
Was but a younger Niobe. 
But ere her lip, or even her eye, 
Essay'd to speak, or look reply. 
Beneath the garden's wicket porch 
Far flash'd on high a blazing torch ! 
Another — and another — and another — 
"Oh! fly — no more — vet now my more than bro- 
ther ! " 
Far, wide, through every thicket spread, 
The fearful lights are gleaming redj 
Nor these alone — for each right hand 
Is ready with a sheathless brand. 
They part, pursue, return, and wheel 
With searching flambeau, shining steel j 
And last of all, his sabre waving. 
Stern Giaffir in his fury raving: 
And now almost they touch the cave — 
Oh ! must that grot be Selim's grave ? 

XXIII. 

Dauntless he stood — " 'T is come — soon past — 
One kiss, Zuleika — 't is my last : 

But yet my band not far from shore 
May hear this signal, see the flash ; 
Yet now too few — the attempt were rash: 

No matter — yet one effort more." 
Forth to the cavern mouth he slept ; 

His pistol's echo rang on high, 
Zuleika started not, nor wept. 

Despair benumb'd her breast and eye ! — 
" They hear me not, or if they ply 
Their oars, 't is but to see me diej 
That sound hath drawn my foes more nigh. 
Then forth my father's scimitar. 
Thou ne'er hast seen less equal war ! 
Farewell, Zuleika ! — Sweet ! retire : 

Yet stay within — here linger safe. 

At thee his rage will only chafe. 
Stir not — lest even to thee perchance 
Some erring blade or ball should glance. 
Fear'st thou for him ?--may I expire 
If in this strife I seek thy sire ! 
No — though by him that poison pour'd ; 
No — though again he call me coward ! 
But tamely shall I meet their steel ? 
No — as each crest save his may feel !" 

XXIV. 

One bound he made, and gain'd the sand : 

Already at his feet hath sunk 
The foremost of the prying band, 

A gasping head, a quivering trunk : 
Another falls — but round him close 
A swarming circle of his foes ; 
From right to left his path he cleft, 

And almost met the meeting wave : 
His boat appears — not five oars' length — 
His comrades strain with desperate strength— 



Oh ! are they yet in time to save ? 

His feet the foremost breakers lave ; 
His band are plunging in the bay, 
Their sabres glitter through the spray ; 
Wet — wild — unwearied to the strand 
They struggle — now they touch the land ! 
They come — 't is but to add to slaughter — 
His heart's best blood is on the water, 

XXV. 

Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel, 

Or scarcely grazed its force to feel. 

Had Selim vvon, betray 'd, beset. 

To where the strand and billows met j 

There as his last step left the land, 

And the last death-blow dealt his hand — 

Ah ! wherefore did he turn to look 

For her his eye but sought in vain? 
That pause, that fatal gaze he took. 

Hath doom'd his death, or fix'd his chain. 
Sad proof, in peril and in pain, 
How late will Lover's hope remain ! 
His back was to the dashing spray; 
Behind, but close, his comrades lay, 
When, at the instant, hiss'd the ball — 
*' So may the foes of Giaffir fall ! " 
Whose voice is heard ? whose carbine rang? 
Whose bullet through the night-air sang, 
Too nearly, deadly aim'd to err? 
'T is thine — Abdallah's murderer! 
The father slowly rued thy hate. 
The son hath found a quicker fate: 
Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling, 
The whiteness of the sea-foam troubling — 
If aught bis lips essay'd to groan, 
The rushing billows choked the tone! 

XXVI. 

Morn slowly rolls the clouds away ; 

Few trophies of the fight are there : 
The shouts that shook the midnight-bay 
Are silent ; but some signs of fray 

That strand of strife may bear, 
And fragments of each shiver'd brand; 
Steps stamp'd ; and dash'd into the sand 
The print of many a struggling hand 

May there be mark'd ; nor far remote 

A broken torch, an earless boat ; 
And tangled on the weeds that heap 
The beach where shelving to the deep 

There lies a white capote ! 
'T is rent in twain — one dark-red stain 
The wave yet ripples o'er in vain: 

But where is he who wore ? 
Ye ! who would o'er his relics weep, 
Go, seek them where the surges sweep 
Their burthen round Sigaeum's steep 

And cast on Lemnos' shore : 
The sea-birds shriek above the prey. 
O'er which their hungry beaks delay. 
As shaken on his restless pillow, 
His head heaves with the heaving billow; 
That hand, whose motion is not life. 
Yet feebly seems to menace strife. 
Flung by the tossing tide on high, 

Then levell'd with the wave — 
What recks it, though that corse shall lie 

Within a living grave ? 
The bird that tears that prostrate form 
Hath only robb'd the meaner worm ; 
The only heart, the only eye 
Had bled or wept to see him die. 
Had seen those scatter'd limbs composed. 

And mourn'd above his turban-stone,* 
That heart hath burst — that eye was closed - 

Yea — closed before his own ! 



1 A turban is carved in stone above the graves of men 

only. 



■-^ 



ri^ 



108 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS, 



[Canto II. 



XXVII. 

By Helle's stream there is a voice of wail ! 

And woman's eye is wet — man's cheek is pale: 

Zuleika '. last of Giafiir's race, 
Thy destin'd lord is come too late : 

He sees not— ne'er sh U see thy face ! 
Can lie not hear 

The loud VVul wulleh i warn his distant ear? 
Thy handmaids weeping at the g)te, 
The Koran chanters of the hymn of fate, 
The silent slaves with folded arms that wait, 

Sighs in ihe hall, and shrieks upon the gale, 
Tell him thy tale ! 

Thou didst not view thy Selim fall ! 
That feaiful moment when he left the cave 
Thy heart grew chill : 

He was thy hope — thy joy — thy love — thine all, 

And that last thouffht on him thou could'st not save 
Sufficed to kill; 

Burst forth in one wild cry —and all was still. 
Peace to thy broken heart, and virgin grave ! 

Ah ! happy ! but of life to lose the worst ! 

That erief— though deep — though fatal — was thy 
first ! 

Thrice happy ! ne'er to feel nor fear the force 

Of absence, shame, pride, hate, revenge, remorse! 

And, oh ! that pang where more than^Madness lies ! 

The worm that will not sleep — and never diesj 

Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly night, 

That dreads the darkness, and yet loathes t'he light, 

That winds around, and tears the quivering heart ! 

Ah I wherefore not consume it — and depart ! 

Woe to thee, rash and unrelenting chief! 
Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head. 
Vainly the sackcloth o'er thy limbs dost spread : 
By that same hand Abdallah — Selim bled. 

Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief: 

Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Osman's bed, 

She, whom thy sultan had but seen to wed, 
Thy Daughter 's dead ! 
Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely beam, 
The Star hath set that shoiieon Helle's stream. 

What quenchd its ray? — the blood that thou hast 
shed! 

Hark i to the hurried question of Despair: 

"Where is my child?" — and Echo answers — 
"Where? "2 

XXVIII. 

Within the place of thousand tombs 

That shine beneath, while dirk above 
The sad but living cypress glooms 

And withers not, th'iush branch and leaf 
Are stamp'd with an eternal grief, 

Like early unrequited Love, 
One spot exists, which ever blooms, 

Ev'n in that deadly grove — 
A single rose is shedding there 

Its lonely lustre, meek and pale : 



1 The death-snng of the Turkish vioTaen. The "silent 
slaves" are the men, whose notions of decorum forbid 
complaint in public. 

2 "I came to the place of my birth, and cried, 'The 
friends of my youth, where are thpy ? ' and an Echo an- 
swered, 'Where are they?'" — From an Arabic MS. 
The above quotation (from whioh the idea in the text is 
taken) must be already familiar to every reader: it is 
given in the first annotation, p. 67., of "The Pleasures 
of Memory; " a ponm so well known as to render a refer- 
ence almost superfluous; but to whose pages all will be 
delighted to recur. 



It looks as planted by Despair — 

So white — so faint — the slightest gale 
Might whirl the leaves on high ; 

And yet, though storms and blight assail, 
And hands more rude than wintry sky 

May wring it from the stem — in vain — 

To-morrow sees it bloom again ! 
The stalk some spirit gently rears, 
And waters with celestial tears ; 

For well may maids of Helle deem 
That this can be no earthly flower, 
Which mocks the tempest's withering hour, 
And buds unshelter'd by a bower ; 
Nor droops, though Spring refuse her showeTi 

Nor woos the summer beam : 
To it the livelong night there sings 

A bird unseen — but not remote : 
Invisible his airy wings, 
But soft as harp that Houri strings 

His long entrancing note ! 
It were the Bulbul ; but his throat, 

Though mournful, pours not such a strain : 
For they who listen cannot leave 
The spot, but linger there and grieve, 

As if they loved in vain ! 
And yet so sweet the tears they shed, 
'T is sorrow so unmix'd with dread, 
They scarce can bear the morn to break 

That melancholy spell. 
And longer yet would weep and wake, 

He sings so wild and well ! 
But when the day-blush bursts from high, 

Expires that magic melody. 
And some have been who could believe, 
(So fondly youthful d;eams deceive, 

Yet harsh be they that blame,) 
That note so piercing and profound 
Will shape and syllable s its sound 

Into Zuleika's name. 
'T is from her cypress summit heard, 
That melts in air the liqnid word : 
'T is from her lowly virgin earth 
That white rose tnkes its tender birth. 
There late was laid a marble stone; 
Eve saw it placed — the Morrow gone! 
It was no mortal arm that bore 
That deep fix'd pillar to the shore; 
For there, as Helle's legends tell, 
Next morn 't was found where Selim fell j 
Lash'd by the tumblinz tide, whose wave 
Denied his bones a holier grave : 
And there by night, reclined, 't is said, 
Is seen a ghastly turban'd head : 

And hence extended by the billow, 

'T is named the " Pirate-phantom's pillow ! " 

Where first it lay that mourning flower 

Hath flourish'd;'fiourisheth this hour, 

Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale ; 

As weeping Beauty's cheek at Sorrow's tale ! 



3 "And airy tongues that syllable men's names." — 

MILTON. 

For a belief that the souls of the dead inhabit the form 
of birds, w^e need not travel to the East. Lord Lyttletcn's 
ghost story, the belief of the Duchess of Kendal, that 
George 1. flew into her window in the shape of a raven 
(see Orford's Reminiscences), and many other instances, 
bring this superstition nearer home. The most singular 
was the whim of a Worcester lady, who, believing her 
daughter to exist in the shape of a singing bird, literally 
furnished her pew in the cathedral with cages full of the 
kind; and as she was rich, and a benefactress in beautify- 
ing the church, no objection was made to her harmless 
folly. For this anecdote, see Orford's Letters. 



I 



I! 



mk 



Canto L] 



THE CORSAIR. 



109 



THE CORSAIR 

A TALE.^ 



suoi pensieri in lui dormir non ponno." 

TASSO, Gerusalemme Liberata, canto X. 



TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. i 

My dear Moore, — I dedicate to you the last produc- 
tion with which I shall trespass on public patience, 
and your indulgence, for some years ; and I own that I 
feel anxious to avail myself of this latest and only op- 
portunity of adorning my pages with a name, conse- 
crated by unshaken public principle, and the most 
undoubted and various talents. While Ireland ranks 
you among the firmest of her patriots ; while you 
stand alone the first of her bards in her estimation, and 
Britain repeats and ratifies the decree, permit one, 
whose only regret, since our first acquaintance, has 
been the years he had lost before it commenced, to add 
the humble but sincere suffrage of friendship, to the 
voice of more than one nation. It will at least prove 
to you, that I have neither forgotten the gratification 
derived from your society, nor abandoned the prospect 
of its renewal, whenever your leisure or inclination 
allows you to atone to your friends for too long an 
absence. It is said among those friends, I trust truly, 
that you are engaged in the composition of a poem 
whose scene will be laid in the East; none can do 
those scenes so much justice. The wrongs of your 
own country, the magnificent and fiery spirit of her 
sons, the beauty and feeling of her daughters, may 
there be found j and Collins, when he denominated 
his Oriental his Irish Eclogues, was not aware how 
true, at least, was a part of his parallel. Your imagi- 
nation will create a warmer sun, and less clouded sky ; 
but wildness, tenderness, and originality, are part of 
your national claim of oriental descent, to which you 
have already thus far proved your title more clearly 
than the most zealous of your country's antiquarians. 

May I add a few words on a subject on which all 
men are supposed to be fluent, and none agreeable? — 
Self. I have written much, and published more than 
enough to demand a longer silence than I now medi- 
tate ; but, for some years to come, it is my intention 
to tempt no further the award of "Gods, men, nor 
columns." In the present composition I have attempt- 
ed not the most difficult, but, perhaps, the best adapted 
measure to our language, the good old and now neglect- 
ed heroic couplet. The stanza of Spenser is perhaps 
too slow and dignified for narrative; though, I confess, 
it is the measure »most after my own heart : Scott 
alone, of the present generation, has hitherto com- 
pletely triumphed over the fatal facility of the octo- 
syllabic verse ; and this is not the least victory of his 
fertile and mighty genius : in blank verse, Milton, 
Thomson, and our dramatists, are the beacons that 
shine along the deep, but warn us from the rough and 
barren rock on which they are kindled. The heroic 
couplet is not the most popular measure certainly ; but 
as I did not deviate into the other from a wish to flatter 
what is called public opinion, I shall quit it without 
further apology, and take my chance once more with 
that versification, in which I have hitherto published 
nothing but compositions whose former cireulatinn is 
part of my present, and will be of my future regret. 

With regard to my story, and stories in general, I 
should have been glad to have rendered my personages 
more perfect and amiable, if possible, inasmuch as I 
have been sometimes criticised, and considered no less 



responsible for their deeds and qualities than if all had 
been personal. Be it so — if I have deviated into the 
gloomy vanity of "drawing from self," the pictures are 
probably like, since they are unfavourable; and if not, 
those who know me are undeceived, and those who do 
not, I have little interest in undeceiving. I have no 
particular desire that any but my acquaintance should 
think the author better than the beings of his imagin- 
ing ; but I cannot help a little surprise, and perhaps 
amusement, at some odd critical exceptions in the pre- 
sent instance, when I see several bards (far more de- 
serving, 1 allow) in very reputable plight, and quite 
exempted from all participation in the faults of those 
heroes, who, nevertheless, might be found with little 
more morality than " The Giaour," and perhaps — but 
no — I must admit Childe Harold to be a very repulsive 
personage ; and as to his identity, those who like it 
must give him whatever " alias" they please. 

If, however, it were worth while to remove the im- 
pression, it might be of some service to me, that the 
man who is alike the delight of his readers and his 
friends, the poet of all circles, and the idol of his own, 
permits me here and elsewhere to subscribe myself, 
Most truly. 

And affectionately, 

His obedient servant, 

BYRON. 

January 2, 1814. 



THE CORSAIR. 2 



CANTO THE FIRST. 



nessun maggioT dolore, 



Che ricordarsi del tempo felice 
Kella miseria, 



DANTE. 



1 "The Corsair" was begun on the 18th, and finished 
on the 31st, of December, 1813; a rapidity of composition 
which, taking into consideration the extraordinary beauty 
of the poem, is, perhaps, unparalleled in the literary his- 
tory of the country. — E. 



10 



" O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, 
Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free, 
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, 
Survey our empire, and behold our home ! 
These are our realms, no limits to their sway— 
Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey. 
Ours the wild life in tumult still to range 
From toil to rest, and joy in every change. 
Oh, who can tell ? not thou, luxurious slave ! 
Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave; 
Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease ! 
Whom slumber soothes not — pleasure cannot please — 
Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried, 
And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide. 
The exulting sense — the pulse's maddening play, 
That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way ? 
That for itself can woo the approaching fight, 
And turn wh:\t some deem danger to delight ; 
That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal, 
And where the feebler faint — can only feel — 
Feel — to the rising bosom's inmost core, 
Its hope awaken and its spirit soar ? 

2 The time in this poem may seem too short for the 
occurrences, but the whole of the Egean isles are within 
a few hours' sail of the continent, and the reader must be 
kind enough to take the wind as I have often found it. 



no 



THE CORSAIR. 



[Canto I. 



No dread of death — if with us die our foes — 
Save that it seems even duller than repose : 
Come when it will — we snatch the life of life — 
When lost— what recks it — by disease or strife ? 
Let him who crawls enamour'd of decay, 
Cling to his couch, and sicken years away j 
Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head j 
Ours — the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed. 
While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul, 
Ours with one pang — one bound — escapes control. 
His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave, 
And they who loathed his life miy gild his grave: 
Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shSl, 
When Ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead. 
For us, even banquets fond regret supply 
In the red cup that crowns our memory j 
And the brief epitaph in danger's day, 
When those who win at length divide the prey, 
And cry, Remembrance saddening o'er each brow, 
How had the brave who fell exulted now ! " 

n. 

Such were the notes that from the Pirate's isle 

Around the kindling watch-fire rang the while : 

Such were the sounds that thrill'd the rocks along, 

And unto ears as rugged seem'd a song ! 

In scatter'd groups upon the golden sand. 

They game — carouse — converse — or whet the brand ; 

Select the arms — to each his blade assign, 

And careless eye the blood that dims its shine ; 

Repair the boat, replace the helm or oar, 

While others straggling muse along the shore ; 

For the wild bird the busy springes set. 

Or spread beneath the sun the dripping net ; 

Gaze where some distant sail a speck supplies, 

With all the thirsting eye of Enterprise ; 

Tell o'er the tales of many a night of toM, 

And marvel where they next shall seize a spoil : 

No matter where — their chief's allotment this ; 

Theirs, to believe no prey nor plan amiss. 

But who that Chief? his name on every shore 

Is famed and fear'd — they ask and know no more. 

With these he mingles not but to command ; 

Few are his words, but keen his eye and hand. 

Ne'er seasons he with mirth their jovial mess, 

But they forgive his silence for success. 

Ne'er for his lip the purpling cup they fill, 

That goblet passes him untasted still — 

And for his fare — the rudest of his crew 

Would that, in turn, have pass'd untasted too : 

Earth's coarsest bread, the garden's homeliest roots, 

And scarce the summer luxury of fruits, 

His short repast in humbleness supply 

With all a hermit's board would scarce deny. 

But while he shuns the grosser joys of sense, 

His mind seems nourish'd by that abstinence. 

" Steer to that shore ! " — they sail. " Do this ! » 'tis 

done : 
" Now form and follow me ! " — the spoil is won. 
Thus prompt his accents and his actions still. 
And all obey and few inquire his will ; 
To such, brief answer and contemptuous eye 
Convey reproof, nor further deign reply. 

HI. 
" A sail ! — a sail ! " — a promised prize to Hop&! 
Her nation — flag — how speaks the telescope ? 
No prize, alas ! — but yet a welcome sail : 
The blood-red signal glitters in the gale. 
Yes — she is ours — a home-returning bark — 
Blow fair, thou breeze ! — she anchors ere the dark. 
Already doubled is the cape — our bay 
Receives that prow which proudly spurns the spray. 
How gloriously her gallant course she goes ! 
Her white wings flying — never from her foes — 
She walks the waters like a thing of life, 
And seems to dare the elements to strife. 
Who would not brave the battle-fire — the wreck — 
To move the monarch of her peopled deck ? 

IV. 
Hoarse o'er her side the rustling cable rings ; 
The sails are furl'd ; and anchoring round she swings. 



And gathering loiterers on the land discern 
Her boat descending from the latticed stern. 
'T is mann'd — the oars keep concert to the strand, 
Till grates her keel upon the shallow sand. 
Hail to the welcome shout ! — the friendly speech ! 
When hand grasps hand uniting on the beach j 
The smile, the question, and the quick reply, 
And the heart's promise of festivity ! 

V. 

The tidings spread, and gathering grows the crowd : 
The hum of voices, ai.d the laughter loud, 
And woman's gentler anxious tone is heard — 
Friends' — husbands' — lovers' names in each dear 

word: 
" Oh ! are they safe ? we ask not of success — 
But shall we see them ? will their accents bless? 
From where the battle roars — the billows chafe — 
They doubtless boldly did — but who are safe ? 
Here let them haste to gladden and surprise, 
And kiss the doubt from these delighted eyes ! " 

VI. 

" Where is our chief ? for him we bear report — 

And doubt that joy — which hails our coming — short j 

Yet thus sincere — 'tis cheering, though so brief j 

But, Juan ! instant guide us to our chief: 

Our greeting paid, we '11 feast on our return, 

And all shall hear what each may wish to learn." 

Ascending slowly by the rock-hewn way, 

To where his watch-tower beetles o'er the bay. 

By bushy brake, and wild flowers blossoming, 

And freshness breathing from each silver spring, 

Whose scatter'd streams from granite basins burst. 

Leap into life, and sparkling woo your thirst : 

From crag to cliff they mount — Near yonder cave, 

What lonely straggler looks along the wave ? 

In pensivt posture leaning on the brand, 

Not oft a resting-staff to that red hand ? 

" 'T is he — 't is Conrad — here — as wont — alone ; 

On — Juan ! — on — and make our purpose known. 

The bark he views — and tell him we would greet 

His ear with tidings he must quickly meet : 

We dare not yet approach — thou know'st his mood, 

When strange or uninvited steps intrude." 

VII. 

Him Juan sought, and told of their intent ; — 
He spake not — but a sign express'd assent. 
These Juan calls — they come — to their salute 
He bends him slightly, but his lips are mute. 
" These letters, Chief, are from the Greek — the sj^. 
Who still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh : 
Whate'er his tidings, we can well report. 
Much that " — " Peace, peace!" — he cuts their pra- 
ting short. 
Wondering they tunij abash'd, while each to each 
Conjecture whispers in his muttering speech : 
They wateh his glance with many a stealing look, 
To gather how that eye the tidings took ; 
But, this as if heguess'd, with head aside, 
Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or pride, 
He read the scroll — " My tablets, Jaan, hairk — 
Where is Gonsalvo ? " 

"In the anchoT'd bark." 
" There let him stay — to him this order bear — 
Back to your duty — for my course prepare : 
Myself this enterprise to-night will share." 
" To-night, Lord Conrad ?" 

" Ay ! at set of sun : 
The breeze will freshen when the day is done. 
My corslet — cloak — one hour — and we are gone. 
Sling on thy bugle — see that free from rust 
My carbine-lock springs worthy of my trust j 
Be the edge sharpen'd of my boarding-brand. 
And give its guard more room to fit my hand. 
This let the armourer with speed dispose ;. 
Last time it more fatigued my arm than foes : 
Mark that the signal-gun be duly fired. 
To tell us when the hour of stay 's expired." 



Canto I.] 



THE CORSAIR. 



Ill 



VIII. 
They make obeisance, and retire in haste, 
Too soon to seelc again the watery waste : 
Yet they repine not — so that Conrad guides j 
And who dare question aught that he decides ? 
That man of loneliness and mystery, 
Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh ; 
Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew, 
And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower hue ; 
Still sways their souls with that con^manding art 
That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart. 
What is that spell, that thus his lawless train 
Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain ? 
What should it be, that thus their faith can bind ? 
The power of Thought — the magic of the Mind ! 
Link'd with success, assumed and kept with skill, 
That moulds another's weakness to its will ; 
Wields with their hands, but, still to these unknown, 
Makes even their mightiest deeds appear his own. 
Such hath it been — shall be — beneath the sun 
The many still must labour for the one ! 
'T is Nature's doom — but let the wretch who toils, 
Accuse not, hate not him who wears the spoils. 
Oh ! if he knew the weight of splendid chains, 
How light the balance of his humbler pains ! 

IX. 

Unlike the heroes of each ancient race. 

Demons in act, but Gods at least in face, 

In Conrad's form seems little to admire. 

Though his dark eyebrow shades a glance of fire : 

Robust but not Herculean — to the sight 

No giant frame sets forth his common height ; 

Yet, in the whole, who paused to look again, 

Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men j 

They gaze and marvel how — and still confess 

That thus it is, but why they cannot guess. 

Sun-burnt his cheek, his forehead high and pale 

The sable curls in wild profusion veil ; 

And oft perforce his rising lip reveals 

The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceals. 

Though smooth his voice, and calm his general mien, 

Still seems there something he would not have seen : 

His features' deepening lines and varying hue 

At times attracted, yet perplex'd the view, 

As if within that murkiness of mind 

Work'd feelings fearful, and yet undefined ; 

Such might it be — that none could truly tell — 

Too close enquiry his stern glance would quell. 

There breathe but few whose aspect might defy 

The full encounter of his searching eye : 

He had the skill, when Cunning's gaze would seek 

To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek, 

At once the observer's purpose to espy, 

And on himself roll back bis scrutiny, 

Lest he to Conrad rather should betray 

Some secret thought, than drag that chiefs to-day. 

There was a laughing Devil in his sneer. 

That raised emotions both of rage and fear ; 

And where his frown of hatred darkly fell, 

Hope withering fled— and Mercy sigh'd farewell ! i 



1 That Conrad is a character not altogether out of nature, 
I shall attempt to prove by some historical coincidences 
which 1 have met with since writing "The Corsair." 

"Eccelin prisonnier," ciit Rolandini, "a'enfermoit dans 
un silence menacant, il fixoit sur la terre son visage feroce, 
et ne donnoit point d'essor a sa profonde indignation. De 
toutes partes cependaiit les soldats et les peoples accouroi- 
ent; ils vouloient voir cet homme, jadis si puissant, et la 

joie universelle eclatoit de toutes partes 

Eccelin etoit d'une petite tailie; mais tout I'aspect de sa 
personne, tous ses mouvemens, indiquoient un soldat. — 
Son langage etoit amer, son deportement superbe — et par 
son seul egard, il faisoit trembler les plus hardis." — Sis- 
tnondi, tome iii. p. 219. 

Again, "Gizericus (Genseric, king of the Vandals, the 
conqueror of both Carthage and Rome), statura mediocris, 
et equi casu claudicans, animo piofundus, sermone rarus, 
luxuriae contemptor, ira turbidus, habendi cupidus, ad 
solicitandas gentes providentissimus," <kc. &c. Jornan- 
de$ de Rebus Oetiois, c. 33. 

I beg leave to quote these gloomy realities to keep in 
countenance my Giaour and Corsair. 



X. 

Slight are the outward signs of evil thought. 

Within — within — 't was there the spirit wrought! 

Love shows all changes — Hate, Ambition, Guile, 

Betray no further than the bitter smile ; 

The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness thrown 

Along the govern'd aspect, speak alone 

Of deeper passions ; and to judge their mien, 

He, who would see, must be himself unseen. 

Then — with the hurried tread, the upward eye, 

The clenched hand, the pause of agony. 

That listens, starting, lest the step too near 

Approach intrusive on that mood of fear: 

Then — with each feature working from the heart, 

With feelings loosed to strengthen — not depart: 

That rise — convulse — contend — that freeze, or glow, 

Flush in the cheek, or damp upon the brow j 

Then — Stranger ! if thou canst, and tremblest not. 

Behold his soul — the rest that soothes his lot ! 

Mark — how that lone and blighted bosom sears 

The scathing thought of execrated years I 

Behold — but who hath seen, or e'er shall see, 

Man as himself — the secret spirit free ? 

XI. 
Yet was not Conrad thus by Nature sent 
To lead the guilty — guilt's worse instrument — 
His soul was changed, before his deeds had driven 
Him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven. 
Warp'd by the world in Disappointment's school, 
In words too wise, in conduct there a fool ; 
Too firm to yield, and far loo proud to stoop, 
Doom'd by his very virtues for a dupe, 
He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill, 
And not the traitors who betray'd him still ; 
Nor deem'd that gifts bestow'd on better men 
Had left him joy, and means to give again. 
Fear'd — shunn'd — belied — ere youth had lost her 

force. 
He hated man too much to feel remorse, 
And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call, 
To pay the injuries of some on all. 
He knew himself a villain— but he deem'd 
The rest no better than the thing he seem'd j 
And scorn'd the best as hypocrites who hid 
Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did. 
He knew himself detested, but he knew 
The hearts that loath'd him, crouch'd and dreaded too. 
Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt 
From all affection and from all contempt : 
His name could sadden, and his acts surprise ; 
But they that fear'd him dared not to despise : 
Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere he wake 
The slumbering venom of the folded snake : 
The first may turn — but not avenge the blow j 
The last expires — but leaves no living foe ; 
Fast to the doom'd offender's form it clings. 
And he may crush — not conquer — still it stings. 

XII. 
None are all evil — quickening round his heart. 
One softer feeling would not yet depart; 
Oft could he sneer at others as beguiled 
By passions worthy of a fool or child ; 
Yet 'gainst that passion vainly still be strove. 
And even in him it asks the name of Love ! 
Yes, it was love — unchangeable — unchanged. 
Felt but for one from whom he nevtr ranged ; 
Though fairest captives daily met his eye, 
He shunn'd, nor sought, but coldly pass'd them by ; 
Though many a beauty droop'd in prison'd bower, 
None ever soothed his most unguarded hour. 
Yes — it was Love— if thoughts of tenderness, 
Tried in temptation, strengthen'd by distress, 
Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime. 
And yet — Oh more than all ! — uiitired by time j 
Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile, 
Could render sullen were she near to smile, 
Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent 
On her one murmur of his discontent ; 
Which still would meet with joy, with calmness part. 
Lest that his look of grief should reach her heart ; 



112 



THE CORSAIR. 



[Canto I. 



Which nought removed, nor menaced to remove — 
If there be love ia mortals — this was love 1 
He was a villain — ay — reproaches shower 
On him — but not the passion, nor its power, 
Which only proved, all other virtues gone, 
Not guilt itself could quench this loveliest one ! 

XJII. 
He paused a moment — till his hastening men 
Pass'd the first winding downward to the glen. 
*' Strange tidings ! — many a peril have I past, 
Nor know I why this next appears the last ! 
Yet so my heart forebodes, but must not fear, 
Nor shall my followers find me falter here. 
'T is rash to meet, but surer death to wait 
Till here they hunt us to undoubted fate ; 
And, if my plan but hold, and Fortune smile, 
We '11 furnish mourners for our funeral-pile. 
Ay — let them slumber — peaceful be their dreams ! 
Morn ne'er awoke them with such brilliant beams 
As kindle high tonight (but blow, thou breeze i) 
To warm these slow avengers of the seas. 
Now to Medora — Oh I my sinking heart, 
Long may her own be lighter than thou art ! 
Yet was I brave — mean boast where all are brave ! 
Even insects sting for aught they seek to snve. 
This common courage which with brutes we share, 
That owes its deadliest etiorts to despair, 
Small merit claims— but 't was niy nobler hope 
To teach my few with numbers still to copej 
Long have 1 led them — not to vainly bleed; 
No medium now — we perish or succeed '. 
So let it be — it irks not me to die ; 
But thus to urge them whence they cannot fly. 
My lot hath long had little of my care, 
But chafes my pride thus baffled in the snare : 
Is this my skill ? my craft ? to set at last 
Hope, power, and life upon a single cast? 
Oh, Fate ! — accuse thy folly, not thy fate — 
She may redeem thee still — nor yet too late." 

XIV. 
Thus with himself communion held he, till 
He reach'd the summit of his tower -crown'd hill: 
There at the portal paused — for wild and soft 
He heard those accents never heard too oft ; 
Through the high lattice far yet sweet they rung, 
And these the notes his bird of beauty sung: 

1. 
" Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells, 

Lonely and lost to light for evermore, 
Save when to thine my heart responsive swells, 

Then trembles into silence as before. 
2. 
" There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp 

Burns the slow flame, eternal — but unseen j 
Which not the darkness of despair can damp. 

Though vain its ray as it had never been. 
3. 
" Remember me — Oh ! pass not thou my grave 

Without one thought whose relics there recline: 
The only pang my bosom dare not brave 

Must be to find forge tfulness in thine. 

4. 
" My fondest — faintest— latest accents hear — 

Grief for the dead not Virtue can reprove j 
Then give me all I ever ask'd — a tear. 

The first — last — sole reward of so much love ! " 

He pass'd the portal — cross'd the corridor, 
And reach'd the chamber as the strain gave o'er : 
"My own Medora ! sure thy song is sad — " 

" In Conrad's absence would'st thou have it glad ? 

Without thine ear to listen to my lay, 

Still must my song my thoughts, my soul betray : 

Still must each accent to my bosom suit, 

My heart unliush'd — although my lips were mute ! 

Oh ! many a night on this lone couch reclined, 

My dreaming fear with storms hath wing'd the wind. 



And deem'd the breath that faintly fann'd thy sail 
The murmuring prelude of the ruder gale ; 
Though soft, it seem'd the low prophetic dirge, 
That mourn'd thee floating on the savage surge: 
Still would I rise to rouse the beacon fire. 
Lest spies less true should let the blaze expire; 
And many a restless hour outwatch'd each star, 
And morning came — and still thou wertafar. 
Oh ! how the chill blast on my bosom blew. 
And day broke dreary on my troubled view, 
And still 1 gazed and gazed — and not a prow 
Was granted to my tears — my truth — my vow ! 
At length — 't was noon — I hail'd and blest the mast 
That met my sight — it near'd — Alas ! it past ! 
Another came — Oh God ! 't was thine at last ! 
Would that those days were over ! wilt thou ne'er, 
My Conrad ! learn the joys of peace to share ? 
Sure thou hast more than wealth, and many a home 
As bright as this invites us not to roam : 
Thou know'st it is not peril that I fear, 
I only tremble when thou art not here ; 
Then not for mine, but that far dearer life. 
Which flies from love and languishes for strife — 
How strange that heart, to me so tender still, 
Should war with nature and its better will ! " 

"Yea, strange indeed — that heart hath long been 

changed ; 
Worm-like 't was trampled — adder-like avenged. 
Without one hope on earlh beyond thy love, 
And scarce a glimpse of mercy from above. 
Yet the same feeling which thou dost condemn, 
My very love to thee is hate to them, 
So closely mingling here, that disentwined, 
I cease to love thee when I love mankind : 
Yet dread not this — the proof of all the past 
Assures the future that my love will last ; 
But — Oh, Medora ! nerve thy gentler heart ; 
This hour again — but not for long — we part." 
" This hour we part ! — my heart foreboded this : 
Thus ever fade my fairy dreams of bliss. 
This hour — it cannot be — this hour away ! 
Yon bark hath hardly anchor'd in the bay : 
Her consort still is absent, and her crew 
Have need of rest before they toil anew : 
I\Iy love 1 thou mock'st my weakness; and would'st 

steel 
My breast before the time when it must feel ; 
But trifle now no more with my distress, 
Such mirth hath less of play than bitterness. 
Be silent, Conrad I — dearest ! come and share 
The feast these hands delighted to prepare; 
Light toil ! to cull and dress thy frugal fare ! 
See, I have pluck'd the fruit that promised best, 
And where not sure, perplex'd, but pleased, I guess'd 
At such as seem'd the fairest ; thrice the hill 
My steps have wound to try the coolest rill ; 
Yes ! thy sherbet to-night will sweetly flow. 
See how it sparkles in its vase of snow ! 
The grapes' gay juice thy bosom never cheers ; 
Tliou more than Moslem when the cup appears : 
Think not I mean to chide — for I rejoice 
What others deem a penance is thy choice. 
But come, the board js spread ; our silver lamp 
Is trimm'd, and heeds not the sirocco's damp: 
Then shall my handmaids while the time along. 
And join with me the dance, or wake the song; 
Or my guitar, which still thou lov'st to hear, 
ShalTsoothe or lull — or, should it vex thine ear, 
We 'II turn the tale, by Ariosto told, 
Of fair Olympia loved and left of old.i 
Why — thou wert worse than he who broke his vow 
To that lost damsel, shouldst thou leave me now ; 
Or even that traitor chief — I 've seen thee smile. 
When the clear sky show'd Ariadne's Isle, 
Which I have pointed from these cliffs the while: 
And thus half sportive, half in fear, I said. 
Lest Time should raise that doubt to more than dread, 
Thus Conrad, too, will quit me for the main : 
And he deceived me — for — he came again ! " 



1 Orlando Furioso, Canto x. 



Canto L] 



THE CORSAIR. 



113 



" Again — again — and oft again — my love ! 

If there be life below, and hope above, 

He will return — but now, the moments bring 

The time of parting with redoubled wing: 

The why — the where — what boots it now to tell ? 

Since all must end in that wild word — farewell I 

Yet would I fain — did time allow — disclose — 

Fear not — these are no formidable foes ; 

And here shall watch a more than wonted guard, 

For sudden siege and long defence prepared : 

Nor be thou lonely — though thy lord 's away, 

Our matrons and thy handmaids with thee stay ; 

And this thy comfort — that, when next we meet. 

Security shall make repose more sweet. 

List ! — 't is the bugle " — Juan shrilly blew — 

" One kiss — one more — another — Oh ! Adieu ! " 

She rose — she sprung — she clung to his embrace, 
Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden face. 
He dared not raise to his that deep-blue eye. 
Which downcast droop'd in tearless agony. 
Her long fair hair lay floating o'er his arms, 
In all the wildness of dishevell'd charms ; 
Scarce beat that bosom where his image dwelt 
So full — that feeling seem'd almost unfelt ! 
Hark — peals the thunder of the signal-gun ! 
It told 't was sunset — and he cursed that sun. 
Again — again — that form he madly press'd, 
Which mutely clasp'd, imploringly caress'd ! 
And tottering to the couch his bride he bore, 
One moment gazed — as if to gaze no more ; 
Felt — that for him earth held but her alone, 
Kiss'd her cold forehead — turn'd — is Conrad gone ? 

XV. 
" And is he gone ? " — on sudden solitude 
How oft that fearful question will intrude ! 
*"T was but an instant past — and here he stood ! 
And now " — without the portal's porckshe rush'd, 
And then at length her tears in freedom gush'd ; 
Big — bright — and fast, unknown to her they fell j 
But still her lips refused to send — " Farewell ! " 
For in that word —that fatal word — howe'er 
We promise — hope — believe — there breathes des- 
pair. 
O'er every feature of that still, pale face. 
Had sorrow fix'd what time can ne'er erase : 
The tender blue of that large loving eye 
Grew frozen with its gaze on vacancy. 
Till — Oh, how far ! — it caught a glimpse of him. 
And then it flow'd — and phrensied seem'd to swim 
Through those long, dark, and glistening lashes dew'd 
With drops of sadness oft to be renew 'd. 
" He 's gone ! " — against her heart that hand is driven, 
Convulsed and quick — then gently raised to heaven : 
She look'd and saw the heaving of the main ; 
The white sail set — she dared not look again ; 
But turn'd with sickening soul within the gate — 
" It is no dream — and I am desolate ! " 

XVI. 

From crag to crag descending —swiftly sped 

Stern Conrad down, nor once he turn'd his head ; 

But shrunk whene'er the windings of his way 

Forced on his eye what he would not survey, 

His lone, but lovely dwelling on the steep. 

That hail'd him first when homeward from the deep : j 

And she — the dim and melancholy star, 

Whose ray of beauty reach'd him from afar, 

On her he must not gaze, he must not think, 

There he might rest — but on Destruction's brink : 

Yet once almost he stopp'd — and nearly gave 

His fate to chance, his projects to the wave : 

But no — it must not be — a worthy chief 

May melt, but not betray to woman's grief. 

He sees his bark, he notes how fair the wind, 

And sternly gathers all his might of mind : 

Again he hurries on — and as he hears 

The clang of tumult vibrate on his ears, 

The busy sounds, the bustle of the shore, 

The shout, the signal, and the dashing oar ; 



As marks his eye the seaboy on the mast, 
The anchors rise, the sails unfurling fast. 
The waving kerchiefs of the crowd that urge 
That mute adieu to those who stem the surge ; 
And more than all, his blood-red flag aloft, 
He marvell'd how his heart could seem so soft. 
Fire in his glance, and wildness in his breast. 
He feels of all his former self possest ; 
He bounds — he flies — until his footsteps reach 
The verge where ends the cliff, begins the beach, 
There checks his speed ; but pauses less to breathe 
The breezy freshness of the deep beneath, 
Than there his wonted statelier step renew ; 
Nor rush, disturb'd by haste, to vulgar view : 
For well had Conrad learn'd to curb the crowd. 
By arts that veil, and oft preserve the proud } 
His was the lofty port, the distant mien. 
That seems to shun the sight — and awes if seen : 
The solemn aspect, and the high-born eye. 
That checks low mirth, but lacks not courtesy ; 
All these he wielded to command assent : 
But where he wished to win, so well unbent, 
That kindness cancell'd fear in those who heard. 
And others' gifts show'd mean beside his word. 
When echo'd to the heart as from his own 
His deep yet tender melody of tone : 
But such was foreign to his wonted mood. 
He cared not what he soften'd, but subdued : 
The evil passions of his youth had made 
Him value less who loved — than what obey'd. 

XVII. 

Around him mustering ranged his ready guard. 
Before him Juan stands — " Are all prepared?" 
" They are — nay more — embark'd : the latest boat 

Waits but my chief " 

" My sword, and my capote." 
Soon firmly girded on, and lightly slung, 
His belt and cloak were o'er his shoulders flung : 
" Call Pedro here ! " He comes — and Conrad bends. 
With all the courtesy he deign'd his friends ; 
" Receive these tablets, and peruse with care. 
Words of high trust and truth are graven there ; 
Double the guard, and when Anselmo's bark 
Arrives, let him alike these orders mark : 
In three days (serve the breeze) the sun shall shine 
On our return — till then all peace be thine! " 
This said, his brother Pirate's hand he wrung. 
Then to his boat with haughty gesture sprung. 
Flash'd the dipt oars, and sparkling with the stroke, 
Around the waves' phosphoric i brightness broke j 
They gain the vessel — on the deck he stands, — 
Shrieks the shrill whistle — ply the busy hands — 
He marks how well the ship her helm obeys. 
How gallant all her crew — and deigns to praise. 
His eyes of pride to young Gonsalvo turn — 
Why doth he start, and inly seem to mourn ? 
Alas ! those eyes beheld his rocky tower, 
And live a moment o'er the parting hour; 
She — his Medora — did she mark the prow ? 
Ah ! never loved he half so much as now ! 
But much must yet be done ere dawn of day — 
Again he mans himself and turns away ; 
Down to the cabin with Gonsalvo bends. 
And there unfolds his plan — his means — and ends ; 
Before them burns the lamp, and spreads the chart, 
And all that speaks and aids the naval art ; 
They to the midnight watch protract debate; 
To anxious eyes what hour is ever late ? 
Meantime, the steady breeze serenely blew, 
And fast and falcon-like the vessel flew ; 
Pass'd the high headlands of each clustering isle. 
To gain their port — long — long ere morning smile : 
And soon the night-glass through the narrow bay 
Discovers where the Pacha's galleys lay. 
Count they each sail — and mark how'there supine 
The lights in vain o'er heedless Moslem shine. 



1 By night, particularly in a warm latitude, every stroke 
of the oar, every motion of the boat or ship, is followed 
by a slight flash like sheet lightning from the water. 



10* 



8 



114 



THE CORSAIR. 



[Canto II. i 



Secure, unnoted, Conrad's prow pass'd by, 
And anchor'd where his ambush meant to lie ; 
Screen'd from espial by the jutting cape. 
That rears on high its rude fantastic shape. 
Then rose his band to duty — not from sleep — 
Equipp'd for deeds alike on land or deep ; 
While lean'd their leader o'er the fretting flood. 
And calmly talk'd — and yet he talk'd of blood ! 



CANTO THE SECOND. 



' Conosceste i dubiosi desiri 7 ' 



I. 

In Coron's bay floats many a galley light, 
Through Coron's lattices the lamps are bright, 
For Seyd, the Pacha, makes a feast to-night : 
A feast for promised triumph yet to come, 
When he shall drag the fetter'd Rovers home ; 
This hath he sworn by Alia and his sword, 
And faithful to his firman and his word. 
His summnn'd prows collect along the coast. 
And great the gathering crews, and loud the boast; 
Already shared the captives and the prize, 
Though far the distant foe they thus despise ; 
'T is but to sail — no doubt to-morrow's Sun 
Will see the Pirates bound — their haven won ! 
Meantime the watch may slumber, if they will, 
Nor only wake to war, but dreaming kill. 
Though all, who can, disperse on shore and seek 
To flesh their glowing valour on the Greek ; 
How well such deed becomes the turban'd brave — 
To bare the sabre's edge before a slave ! 
Infest his dwelling — but forbear to slay, 
Their arms are strong, yet merciful to-day, 
And do not deign to smite because they may ! 
Unless some gay caprice suggests the blow, 
To keep in practice for the coming foe. 
Revel and rout the evening hours beguile. 
And they who wish to wear a head must smile ; 
For Moslem mouths produce their choicest cheer, 
And hoard their curses, till the coast is clear. 

II. 

High in his hall reclines the turban'd Seyd ; 
Around — the bearded chiefs he came to lead. 
Removed the banquet, and the last pilaff — 
Forbidden draughts, 't is said, he dared to quaff, 
Though to the rest the sober berry's juice i 
The slaves bear round for rigid IVio?lems' use ; 
The long chibouque's 2 dissolving cloud supply, 
While dance the Almas 3 to wild minstrelsy. 
The rising morn will view the chiefs embark ; 
But waves are somewhat treacherous in the dark: 
And revellers may more securely sleep 
On silken couch than o'er the rugged deep : 
Feast there who can — nor combat till they must, 
And less to conquest than to Korans trust ; 
And yet the numbers crowded in his host 
Might warrant more than ev'n the Pacha's boast. 

III. 

With cautious reverence from the outer gate 
Slow stalks the slave, whose office there to wait, 
Bows his bent ftead — his hand salutes the floor, 
Ere yet his tongue the trusted tidings bore : 
" A captive Dervise, from the pirate's nest 
Escaped, is here — himself would tell the rest"* 

1 Coffee. 2 "Chibouque," pipe. 3 Dancing girls. 

4 It has been observed, that Conrad's entering disguised 
as a epy is out of nature. Perhaps so. I find something 
not unlike it in history. — "Anxious to explore with his 
own eyes the state of the Vandals, Majorian ventured, 
after disguising the colour of his hair, to visit Carthage in 
the chararter of his own ambassador; and Genseric was 
afterwards mortified by the disiovery, that he had enter- 
tained and dismissed the Emperor of the Romans. Such 



He took the sign from Seyd's assenting eye. 
And led the holy man in silence nigh. 
His arms were folded on his dark green vest, 
His step was feeble, and his look deprest ; 
Yet worn he seem'd of hardship more than years, 
And pale his cheek with penance, not from fears. 
Vow'd to his God — his sable locks he wore. 
And these his lofty cap rose proudly o'er : 
Around his form his loose long robe was thrown, 
And wrapt a breast bestow'd on heaven alone j 
Submissive, yet with self-possession mann'd. 
He calmly met the curious eyes that scann'd ; 
And question of his coming fain would seek, 
Before the Pacha's will allow'd to speak. 

IV. 

"Whence com'st thou, Dervise ? " 

" From the outlaw's den, 
A fugitive — " 

" Thy capture where and when ? " 
" From Scalanovo's port to Scio's isle, 
The Saick was bound ; but Alia did not smile 
Upon our course — the Moslem merchant's gains 
The Rovers won ; our limbs have worn their chains. 
I had no death to fear, nor wealth to boast. 
Beyond the wandering freedom which I lost ; 
At length a fisher's humble boat by night 
Afforded hope, and ofi'er'd chance of flight; 
I seized the hour, and find my safety here — 
With thee — most mighty Pacha ! who can fear ? " 

" How speed the outlaws ? stand they well prepared, 
Their plundered wealth, and robber's rock, to guard ? 
Dream they of this our preparation, doom'd 
To view with fire their scorpion nest consumed ? " 

" Pacha ! the fetter'd captive's mourning eye. 
That weeps fbr flight, but ill can play the spy ; 
I only heard the reckless waters roar, 
Those waves that would not bear me from the shore ; 
I only mark'd the glorious sun and sky, 
Too bright — too blue — for my captivity ; 
And felt — that all which Freedom's bosom cheers. 
Must break my chain before it dried my tears. 
This may'st thou judge, at least, from my escape, 
They little deem of aught in peril's shape ; 
Else vainly had I pray'd or sought the chance 
That leads me here — if eyed with vigilance : 
The careless guard that did not see me fly. 
May watch is idly when thy power is nigh. 
Pacha ! — my limbs are faint — and nature craves 
Food for my hunger, rest from tossing waves : 
Permit my absence — peace be with thee ! Peace 
With all around ! — now grant repose — release." 

" Stay, Dervise ! I have more to question — stay, 
I do command thee — sit — dost hear ? — obey ! 
More I must ask, and food the slaves shall bring ;/ 
Thou shalt not pine where all are banqueting : 
The supper done — prepare thee to reply, 
Clearly and full — I love not mystery." 
'T were vain to guess what shook the pious man, 
Who look'd not lovingly on that Divan ; 
Nor show'd high relish for the banquet prest, 
And less respect for every fellow guest. 
'T was but a moment's peevish hectic past 
Along his cheek, and tranquillised as fast: 
He sate him down in silence, and his look 
Resumed the calmness which before forsook: 
The feast was usher'd in — but sumptuous fare 
He shunn'd as if some poison mingled there. 
For one so long condemn'd to toil and fast, 
Methinks he strangely spares the rich repast. 
" What ails thee, Dervise ? eat — dost thou suppose 
This feast a Christian's ? or my friends thy foes ? 
Why dost thou shun the salt ?■ "that sacred pledge, 
Which, once partaken, blunts the sabre's edge, 



an anecdote mny be rejected as an improbable Action ; but 
it is a hction which would not have been imagined unless 
in the life of a hero." — See GIBBON'S DecHne and Fall, 
vol. vi. p. ISO. 
n — 



Canto II.] 



THE CORSAIR. 



115 



Makes ev'n contending tribes in peace unite, 
And hated hosts seem brethren to the sight ! " 

" Salt seasons dainties — and my food is still 
The hamblest root, my drink the simplest rill ; 
And my stern vow and order's i laws oppose 
To break or mingle bread with friends or foes ; 
It may seem strange — if there be aught to dread, 
That peril rests upon my single head ; 
But for thy sway — nay more — thy Sultan's throne, 
I taste nor bread nor banquet — save alone ; 
Infringed our order's rule, the Prophefs rage 
To Mecca's dome might bar my pilgrimage." 

" Well — as thou wilt — ascetic as thou art — 
One question answer ; then in peace depart. 
How many ? — Ha ! it cannot sure be day ? 
What star — what sun is bursting on the bay ? 
It shines a lake of fire ! — away — away ! 
Ho ! treachery ! my guards ! my scimitar ! 
The galleys feed the flames — and I afar ! 
Accursed Dervise ! — these thy tidings — thou 
Some villain spy— seize — cleave him — slay him 
now ! " 

Up rose the Dervise with that burst of light. 
Nor less his change of form appall'd the sight: 
Up rose that Dervise— not in saintly garb, 
But like a warrior bounding on his barb, 
Dash'd his high cap, and tore his robe away — 
Shone his mail'd breast, and flash'd his sabre's ray ! 
His close but glittering casque, and sable plume. 
More glittering eye, and black brow's sabler gloom, 
Glared on the Moslems' eyes some Afrit sprite. 
Whose demon death-blow left no hope for fight. 
The wild confusion, and the swarthy glow 
Of flames on high, and torches from below ; 
The shriek of terror, and the mingling yell — 
For swords began to clash, and shouts to swell — 
Flung o'er that spot of earth the air of hell 1 
Distracted, to and fro, the flying slaves 
Behold but bloody shore and fiery waves ; 
Nought heeded they the Pacha's angry cry, 
They seize that Dervise I — seize on Zatanai ! 2 
He saw their terror — check'd the first despair 
That urged him but to stand and perish there, 
Since far too early and too well obey'd. 
The flame was kindled ere the signal made ; 
He saw their terror — from his baldric drew 
His bugle — brief the blast — but shrilly blew ; 
'T is answer'd — " Well ye speed, my gallant crew ! 
Why did I doubt their quickness of career ? 
And deem design had left me single here ? " 
Sweeps his long arm — that sabre's whirling sway. 
Sheds fast atonement for its first delay ; 
Completes his fury, what their fear begun, 
And makes the many basely quail to one. 
The cloven turbans o'er the' chamber spread, 
And scarce an arm dare rise to guard its head : 
Even Seyd, convulsed, o'erwhelm'd, with rage, sur- 
prise. 
Retreats before him, though he still defies. 
No craven he — and yet he dreads the blow, 
So much Confusion magnifies his foe ! 
His blazing galleys still distract his sight, 
He tore his beard, and foaming fled the fight j 3 
For now the pirates pass'd the Harem gate. 
And burst within — and it were death to wait ; 
Where wild Amazement shrieking — kneefing — 

throws 
The sword aside — iu vain — the blood o'erflows ! 
The Corsairs pouring, haste to where within 
Invited Conrad's bugle, and the din 

1 The Dervises are in colleges, and of different orders, 
as the monks. 

2 " Zatanai," Satan. 

3 A common and not very novel effect of Mussulman 
anger. See Prince Eugene's Memoirs, page 24. "Tlie 
Seraakier received a wound in the thigh; he plucked up 
his beard by the roots, because he was obliged to quit the 
field." ,w 



Of groaning victims, and wild cries for life, 
Proclaim'd how well he did the work of strife. 
They shout to find him grim and lonely there, 
A glutted tiger mangling in his lair ! 
But short their greeting — shorter his reply — 
'"T is well — but Seyd escapes — and he must die — 
Much hath been done — but more remains to do — 
Their galleys blaze — why not their city too ?'•' 

V. 

Quick at the word — they seized him each a torch, 

And fire the dome from minaret to porch. 

A stern delight was fix'd in Conrad's eye, 

But sudden sunk — for on his ear the cry 

Of women struck, and like a deadly knell 

Knock'd at that heart unmoved by battle's yell. 

" Oh ! burst the Harem — wrong not on your lives 

One female form — remember — we have wives. 

On them such outrage Vengeance will repay ; 

Man is our foe, and such 't is ours to slay : 

But still we spared — must spare the weaker prey. 

Oh ! I forgot — but Heaven will not forgive 

If at my word the helpless cease to live : 

Follow who will — I^go — we yet have time 

Our souls to lighten of at least a crime." 

He climbs the crackling stair — he bursts the door, 

Nor feels his feet glow scorching with the floor ; 

His breath choked gasping with the volumed smoke, 

But still from room to room his way he broke. 

They search — they find — they save : with lusty arms 

Each bears a prize of unregarded charms j 

Calm their loud fears ; sustain their sinking frames 

With all the care defenceless beauty claims : 

So well could Conrad tame their fiercest mood. 

And check the very hands with gore imbrued. 

But who is she? whom Conrad's arms convey 

From reeking pile and combat's wreck — away — 

Who but the love of him he dooms to bleed ? 

The Harem queen— but still the slave of Seyd ! 

VI. 

Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnare,* 

Few words to re-assure the trembling fair ; 

For in that pause compassion snatch'd from war, 

The foe before retiring, fast and far, 

With wonder saw their footsteps unpursued, 

First slowlier fled — then rallied — then withstood. 

This Seyd perceives, then first perceives how few, 

Compared with his,'the Corsair's roving crew. 

And blushes o'er his error, as he eyes 

The ruin wrought by panic and surprise. 

Alia il Alia ! Vengeance swells the cry — 

Shame mounts to rage that must atone or die ! 

And flame for flame and blood for blood must tell, 

The tide of triumph ebbs that flow'd too well — 

When wrath returns to renovated strife, 

And those who fought for conquest strike for life. 

Conrad beheld tlie danger — he beheld 

His followers faint by freshening foes repell'd : 

" One effort — one — to break the circling host ! " 

They form — unite — charge — waver— all is lost ! 

Within a narrower ring compress'd, beset. 

Hopeless, not heartless, strive and struggle yet — 

Ah ! now they fight in' firmest file no more, 

Hemm'd in — cut off- cleft down — and trampled 

o'er; 
But each strikes singly, silently, and home, 
And sinks outwearied rather than o'ercome, 
His last faint quittance rendering with his breath, 
Till the blade glimmers in the grasp of death ! 

VII. 

But first, ere came the rallying host to blows, 
And rank to rank, and hand to hand oppose, 
Gulnare and all her Harem liandmaids freed, 
Safe in the dome of one who held their creed, 
By Conrad's mandate safely ^^•e^e bestow'd, 
And dried those tears for life and fame that flow'd : 

4 Gulnare, a female name; it means, literally, the flower 
of the pomegranate. 



116 



THE CORSAIR, 



[Canto II. 



And when that dark-eyed lady, young Gulnare, 

Recall'd those thoughts late wandering in despair, 

Much did she marvel o'er the courtesy 

That smooth'd his accents ; soften'd in his eye : 

'T was strange — that robber thus with gore bedew'd, 

Seem'd gentler then than Seyd in fondest mood. 

The Pacha woo'd as if he deem'd the slave 

Must seem delighted with the heart he gave ; 

The Corsair vow'd protection, soothed alfright, 

As if his homage were a woman's right. 

" The wish is wrong — nay, worse for female — yain : 

Yet much I long to view that chief again ; 

If but to thank for, what my fear forgot, 

The life — my loving lord remember'd not ! " 

VIII. 

And him she saw, where thickest carnage spread, 

But gather'd breathing from the happier dead j 

Far from his band, and battling with a host 

That deem right dearly won the field he lost, 

Feird — bleeding— baffled of the death he sought, 

And snatch'd to expiate all the ills he wrought ; 

Preserved to linger and to live in vain. 

While Vengeance ponder'd o'er new plans of pain, 

And stauch'd the blood she saves to shed again — 

But drop for drop, for Seyd's unglutted eye 

Would doom him ever dying — ne'er to die ! 

Can this be he ? triumphant late she saw, 

Wlien his red hand's wild gesture waved, a law ! 

'Tis he indeed— disarm'd but undeprest, 

His sole regret the life he still possest; 

His wounds too slight, though taken with that will. 

Which would have kiss'd the hand that then could kill. 

Oh were there none, of all the many given, 

To send his soul — he scarcely ask'd to heaven ? 

Must he alone of all retain his breath, 

Who more than all had striven and struck for death ? 

He deeply felt — what mortal hearts must feel, 

When thus reversed on faithless fortune's wheel, 

For crimes committed, and the victor's threat 

Of lingering tortures to repay the debt — 

He deeply, darkly felt ; but evil pride 

That led to perpetrate — now serves to hide. 

Still in his stern and self-collected mien 

A conqueror's more than captive's air is seen, 

Though faint with wasting toil and stiffening wound, 

But few that saw — so calmly gazed around : 

Though the far shouting of the distant crowd, 

Their tremors o'er, rose insolently loud, 

The better warriors who beheld him near. 

Insulted not the foe who taught them fear ; 

And the grim guards that to his durance led, 

In silence eyed him with a secret dread. 

IX. 
The Leech was sent — but not in mercy — there. 
To note how much the life yet left could bear ; 
He found enough to load with heaviest chain. 
And promise feeling for the wrench of pain : 
To-morrow — yea — to-morrow's evening sun 
Will sinking see impalement's pangs begun, 
And rising with the wonted blush of morn 
Behold how well or ill those pangs are borne. 
Of torments this the longest and the worst. 
Which adds all other agony to thirst. 
That day by day death still' forbears to slake. 
While famish'd vultures flit around the stake. 
" Oh ! water — water ! " — smiling Hate denies 
The victim's prayer — for if he drinks — he dies. 
This was his doom ; — the Leech, the guard, were 

gone. 
And left proud Conrad fetter'd and alone. 



'T were vain to paint to what his feelings grew— 
It even were doubtful if their victim knew. 
There is a war, a chaos of the mind. 
When all its elements convulsed — combined — 
Lie dark and jarring with perturbed force. 
And gnashing with impenitent Remorse ; 
That juggling fiend — who never spake before — 
But cries " I warn'd thee ! " when the deed is o'er. 



Vain voice ! the spirit burning but unbent. 

May writhe — rebel — the weak alone repent ! 

Even in that lonely hour when most it feels, 

A.nd, to itself, all — all that self reveals, 

iSo single passion, and no ruling thought 

That leaves the rest as once unseen, unsought ; 

But the wild prospect when the soul reviews — 

All rushing through their thousand avenues. 

Ambition's dreams expiring, love's regret, 

Endanger'd glory, life itself beset; 

The joy untasted, the contempt or hate 

'Gainst those who fain would triumph in our fate; 

The hopeless past, the hasting future driven 

Too quickly on to guess if hell or heaven ; 

Deeds, thoughts, and words, perhaps remember'd not 

So keenly till that hour, but ne'er forgot ; 

Things light or lovely in their acted time, 

But now to stern reflection each a crime ; 

The withering sense of evil unreveal'd. 

Not cankering less because the more conceal'd — 

All, in a word, from which all eyes must start. 

That opening sepulchre -— the naked heart 

Bares with its buried woes, till Pride awake, 

To snatch the mirror from the soul — and break. 

Ay — Pride can veil, and Courage brave it all. 

All — all — before — beyond — the deadliest fall. 

Each hath some fear, and he who least betrays, 

The only hypocrite deserving praise : 

Not the loud recreant -s^Tetch who boasts and flies j 

But be who looks on death — and silent dies. 

So steel'd by pondering o'er his far career, 

He half-way meets him should he menace near ! 

XI. 

In the high chamber of his highest tower 

Sate Conrad, fetter'd in the Pacha's power. 

His palace perish'd in the flame — this fort 

Contain'd at once his captive and his court. 

Not much could Conrad of his sentence blame, 

His foe, if vanquish'd, had but shared the same : — 

Alone he sate — in solitude had scann'd 

His guilty bosom, but that breast he mann'd : 

One thought alone he could not — dared not meet — 

'' Oh, how these tidings will Medora greet ? " 

Then — only then — his clanking hands he raised, 

And strain'd with rage the chain on which he gazed ; 

But soon he found — or feign'd — or dream'd relief, 

And smiled in self-derision of his grief, 

'• And now come torture when it will — or may, 

More need of rest to nerve me for the day ! " 

This said, with languor to his mat he crept, 

And, whatsoe'er his visions, quickly slept. 

'T was hardly midnight when that fray begun, 

For Conrad's plans matured, at once were done; 

And Havoc loathes so much the waste of time, 

She scarce had left an uncommitted crime. 

One hour beheld him since the tide he stemm'd — 

Disguised — discover'd — conquering — ta'en — con- 

demn'd — 
A chief on land — an outlaw on the deep — 
Destroying — saving — prison'd — and asleep ! 

XII. 

He slept in calmest seeming — for his breath 

Was hush'd so deep— Ah ! happy if in death ! 

He slept — Who o'er his placid slumber bends ? 

His foes are gone — and here he hath no friends ; 

Is it some seraph sent to grant him grace ? 

No, 't is an earthly form with heavenly face ! 

Its white arm rais'ed a lamp— yet gently hid. 

Lest the ray flash abruptly on the lid 

Of that closed eye, which opens but to pain, 

And once unclosed — but once may close again. 

That form, with eye so dark, and cheek so fair, 

And auburn waves of gemm'd and braided hair ; 

With shape of fairy lightness — naked foot. 

That shines like snow,"^and falls on earth as mute — 

Through guards and dunnest night how came it there ? 

Ah ! rather ask what will not woman dare ? 

Whom youth and pity lead like thee, Gulnare ! 

She could not sleep — and while the Pacha's rest 

In muttering dreams yet saw his pirate-guest. 



Canto II.] 



THE CORSAIR. 



117 



She left his side — his signet-ring she bore, 
Which oft in sport adorn'd her hand before — 
And with it, scarcely question'd, won her way 
Through drowsy guards that must that sign obey. 
Worn out with toil, and tired with changing blows, 
Their eyes had envied Conrad his repose ; 
And chill and nodding at the turret door. 
They stretch their listless limbs, and watch no more ; 
Just raised their heads to hail the signet-ring, 
Nor ask or what or who the sign may bring. 

XIII. 

She gazed in wonder : " Can he calmly sleep, 
While other eyes his fall or ravage weep ? 
And mine in restlessness are wandering here — 
What sudden spell hath made this man so dear ? 
True — 't is to him my life, and more, I owe. 
And me and mine he spared from worse than woe : 
'T is late to think — but soft —his slumber breaks — 
How heavily he sighs ! — he starts — awakes ! " 

He raised his head — and dazzled with the light, 

His eye seem'd dubious if it saw aright: 

He moved his hand — the grating of his chain 

Too harshly told him that he lived again. 

" What is that form ? if not a shape of air, 

Methinks, my jailor's face shows wondrous fair ! " 

" Pirate ! thou know'st me not — but I am one, 
Grateful for deeds thou hast too rarely done ; 
Look on me — and remember her, thy hand 
Snatch'd from the flames, and thy more fearful band. 
I come through darkness — and I scarce know why — 
Yet not to hurt — I would not see thee die." 

"If so, kind lady ! thine the only eye 

That would not here in that gay hope delight : 

Theirs is the chanfe — and let them use their right. 

But still I thank their courtesy or thine. 

That would confess me at so fair a shrine ! " 

Strange though it seem — yet with extremest grief 

Is link'd a mirth — it doth not bring relief — 

That playfulness of Sorrow ne'er beguiles, 

And smiles in bitterness — but still it smiles; 

And sometimes with the wisest and the best, 

Till even the scafifold i echoes with their jest I 

Yet not the Joy to which it seems akin — 

It may deceive all hearts, save that within. 

Whate'er it was that flash'd on Conrad, now 

A laughing wildness half unbent his brow : 

And these his accents had a sound of mirth, 

As if the last he could enjoy on earth ; 

Yet 'gainst his nature — for through that short life. 

Few thoughts had he to spare from gloom and strife. 

XIV. 

" Corsair ! thy doom is named — but I have power 

To soothe the Pacha in his weaker hour. 

Thee would I spare — nay more — would save thee 

now, 
But this — time — hope — nor even thy strength allow j 
But all I can, I will : at least, delay 
The sentence that remits thee scarce a day. 
More now were ruin — even thyself were loth 
The vain attempt should bring but doom to both." 

" Yes ! —loth indeed : — my soul is nerved to all. 
Or fall'n too low to fear a further fall : 
Tempt not thyself with peril ,• me with hope. 
Of flight from foes with whom I could not cope : 
Unfit to vanquish — shall I meanly fly. 
The one of all my band that would not die ? 
Yet there is one — to whom my memory clings, 
Till to these eyes her own wild softness springs. 



1 In Sir Thomas More, for instance, on the scaffold, and 
Anne Boleyn, in the Tower, when, grasping her neck, she 
remarked, that it " was too slender to trouble the heads- 
man much." During one part of the French Revolution, 
it became a fashion to leave some "mot " as a legacy; and 
the quantity of facetious last words spoken during that 
period would form a melancholy jest-book of a consider- 
able size. 



My sole resources in the path I trod 

Were these— my bark — my sword — my love— my 

God! 
The last I left in youth ! — he leaves me now — 
And Man but works his will to lay me low. 
I have no thought to mock his throne with prayer 
Wrung from the coward crouching of despair j 
It is enough — I breathe — and I can bear. 
My sword is shaken from the worthless hand 
That might have better kept so true a brand ; 
My bark is sunk or captive — but my love — 
For her in sooth my voice would mount above : 
Oh ! she is all that still to earth can bind — 
And this will break a heart so more than kind, 
And blight a form — till thine appear'd, Gulnare ! 
Mine eye ne'er ask'd if others were as fair." 
" Thou lov'st another then ? — but what to me 
Is this — 't is nothing — nothing e'er can be : 
But yet — thou lov'st — and — Oh ! I envy those 
Whose hearts on hearts as faithful can repose. 
Who never feel the void — the wandering thought 
That sighs o'er visions — such as mine hath wrought." 

" Lady — methought thy love was his, for whom 

This arm redeemed thee from a fiery tomb." 

"My love stern Seyd's! Oh — No — No — not my 

love — 
Yet much this heart, that strives no more, once strove 
To meet his passion — but it would not be. 
I felt — I feel — love dwells with — with the free. 
I am a slave, a favour'd slave at best, 
To share his splendour, and seem very blest ! 
Oft must my soul the question undergo. 
Of— ' Dost thou love ? ' and burn to answer, * No ! ' 
Oh ! hard it is that fondness to sustain. 
And struggle not to feel averse in vain ; 
But harder still the heart's recoil to bear. 
And hide from one — perhaps another there. 
He takes the hand I give not — nor withhold — 
Its pulse nor check'd — nor quicken'd — calmly cold : 
And when resign'd, it drops a lifeless weight 
From one I never loved enough to hate. 
No warmth these lips return by his imprest, 
And chill'd remembrance shudders o'er the rest. 
Yes — had I ever proved that passion's zeal, 
The change to hatred were at least to feel : 
But still — he goes unmourn'd — returns unsought — 
And oft when present — absent from my thought. 
Or when reflection comes — and come it must — 
I fear that henceforth 't will but bring disgust j 
I am his slave — but, in despite of pride, 
'T were worse than bondage to become his bride. 
Oh ! that this dotage of his breast would cease ! 
Or seek another and give mine release. 
But yesterday — I could have said, to peace ! 
Yes — if unwonted fondness now I feign. 
Remember — captive ! 't is to break thy chain ; 
Repay the life that to thy hand I owe; 
To give thee back to all endear'd below. 
Who share such love as I can never know. 
Farewell — morn breaks — and I must now away : 
'T will cost me dear — but dread no death to-day ! " 

XV. 

She press'd his fetter'd fingers to her heart, 

And bow'd her head, and turn'd her to depart. 

And noiseless as a lovely dream is gone. 

And was she here ? and is he now alone ? 

What gem hath dropp'd and sparkles o'er his chain ? 

The tear most sacred, shed for others' pain. 

That starts at once — bright — pure — from Pity's 

mine. 
Already polish'd by the hand divine ! 
Oh ! too convincing — dangerously dear — 
In woman's eye the unanswerable tear ! 
That weapon of her weakness she can wield, 
To save, subdue — at once her spear and shield : 
Avoid it — Virtue ebbs and Wisdom errs, 
Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers ! 
What lost a world, and bade a hero fly ? 
The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye. 



118 



THE CORSAIR. 



[Canto III. 



Yet be the soft triumvir's fault forgiven, 

By this — how jnany lose not earth — but heaven ! 

Consign their souls to man's eternal foe, 

And seal their own to spare some wanton's woe ! 

XVI. 
'T is morn— and o'er his alter'd features play 
The beams — without the hope of yesterday. 
What shall he be ere night? perchance a thing 
O'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing, 
By his closed eye unheeded and unfelt ; 
While sets that sun, and dews of evening melt, 
Chill — wet — and misty round each stiffen'd limb, 
Refreshing earth — reviving all but him ! — 



CANTO THE THIRD. 

"Come vedi — ancor non m'abbandona." 

DANTE. . 
I. 
Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run,i 
Along Morea's hills the setting sun ; 
Not, as in Northern climes, obscurely bright, 
But one unclouded blaze of living light ! 
O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws, 
Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows. 
On old ^gina's rock, and Idra's isle. 
The god of gladness sheds his parting smile ; 
O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine, 
Though there his altars are no more divine. 
Descending fast the mountain shadows kiss 
Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis ! 
Their azure arches through the long expanse 
More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance, 
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 
Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven ; 
Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep. 
Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep. 

On such an eve, his palest beam he cast. 
When — Athens ! here thy Wisest look'd his last. 
How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray. 
That closed their murder'd sage's 2 latest day ! 
Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill — 
The precious hour of parting lingers still ; 
But sad his light to agonising eyes, 
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes : 
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour, 
The land, where Phoebus never frown'd before ; 
But ere he sunk below Cithaeron's head, 
The cup of woe was quaff 'd — the spirit fled; 
The soul of him who scorn'd to fear or fly — 
Who lived and died, as none can live or die ! 

But lo ! from high Hymettus to the plain. 
The queen of night asserts her silent reign.3 
No murky vapour, herald of the storm. 
Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form ; 
With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play, 
There the white column greets her grateful ray, 
And, bright around with quivering beams beset. 
Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret : 
The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide 
Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide, 
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque, 
The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk.* 

1 The opening lines, as far as section ii., have, perhaps, 
little business here, and were annexed to an unpublished 
(though printed) poem; but they were written on the 
spot, in the Spring of 1811, and — I scarce know why — 
the reader must excuse their appearance here — if he can. 

2 Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sunset 
(the hour of execution), notwithstanding the entreaties of 
his disciples to wait till the sun went down. 

3 The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our 
own country : the days in winter are longer, but in sum- 
mer of shorter duration. 

4 The Kiosk is a Turkish summer house: the palm is 
without the present walls of Athens, not far from the 



And, dun and sombre 'mid the holy calm, 
Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm, 
All tinged with varied hues, arrests the eye — 
And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by. 
Again the iEgean, heard no more afar, 
Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war j 
Again his waves in milder tints unfold 
Their long array of sapphire and of gold, 
Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle, 
That frown— where gentler ocean seems to smile. 

n. 

Not now my theme — why turn my thoughts to thee ? 

Oh ! who can look along thy native sea. 

Nor dwell upon thy name, whate'er the tale, 

So much its magic must o'er all prevail ? 

Who that beheld that Sun upon thee set. 

Fair Athens ! could thine evening face forget ? 

Not he — whose heart nor time nor distance frees. 

Spell-bound within the clustering Cyclades ! 

Nor seems this homage foreign to its strain. 

His Corsair's isle was once thine own domain — 

Would that with freedom it were thine again ! 

HI. 
The Sun hath sunk — and, darker than the night. 
Sinks with its beam upon the beacon height 
Medora's heart — the third day 's come and gone — 
With it he comes not — sends not — faithless one ! 
The wind was fair though light ; and storms were none. 
Last eve Anselmo's bark return'd, and yet 
His only tidings that they had not met '. 
Though wild, as now, far different were the tale 
Had Conrad waited for that single sail. 
The night-breeze freshens — she that day had pass'd 
In watching all that Hope proclaimed a mast ; 
Sadly she sate — on high — Impatience bore 
At last her footsteps to the midnight shore. 
And there she wander'd, heedless of the spray 
That dash'd her garments oft, and warn'd away : 
She saw not — felt not this — nor dared depart. 
Nor deem'd it cold — her chill was at her heart ; 
Till grew such certainty from that suspense — 
His very Sight had shock'd from life or sense ! 
It came at last— a sad and shatter'd boat, 
Whose inmates first beheld whom first they sought ; 
Some bleeding — all most wretched — these the few — 
Scarce knew they how escaped — this all they knew. 
In silence, darkling, each appear'd to wait 
His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate : 
Something they would have said ; but seem'd to fear 
To trust their accents to Medora's ear. 
She saw at once, yet sunk not — trembled not — 
Beneath that grief, that loneliness of lot. 
Within that meek fair form, were feelings high, 
That deem'd not till they found their energy. 
While yet was Hope — they soften'd — flutter'd — 

wept — 
All lost — that softness died not — but it slept ; 
And o'er its slumber rose that Strength which said, 
" With nothing left to love — there 's nought to dread." 
'T is more than nature's ; like the burning might 
Delirium gathers from the fever's height. 
" Silent you stand — nor would I hear you tell 
What — speak not — breathe not — for I know it well — 
Yet would I ask — almost my lip denies 
The — quick your answer — tell me where he lies." 
" Lady ! we know not — scarce with life we fled; 
But here is one denies that he is dead : 
He saw him bound j and bleeding — but alive." 
She heard no further — 't was in vain to strive — 
So throbb'd each vein— each thought — till then 

withstood ; 
Her own dark soul — these words at once subdued : 
She totters — falls — and. senseless had the wave 
Perchance but snatch'd her from another grave; 



temple of Theseus, between which and the tree the wall 
intervenes. — Cephisus' stream is indeed scanty, and 
Ilissus has no stream at all. 



'A^ 



Canto III.] 



THE CORSAIR. 



119 



But that with hands though rude, yet weeping eyes, 
They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies : 
Dash o'er her deathlike cheek the ocean dew, 
Raise — fan — sustain — tilt life returns anew; 
Awake her handmaids, with the matrons leave 
That fainting form o'er which they gaze and grieve j 
Then seek Anselmo's cavern, to report 
The tale too tedious — when the triumph short. 

IV. 
In that wild council words wax'd warm and strange 
With thoughts of ransom, rescue, and revenge ; 
All, save repose or flight : still lingering there 
Breathed Conrad's spirit, and forbade despair ; 
Whate'er his fate — the breasts he form'd and led, 
Will save him living, or appease him dead. 
Woe to his foes ! there yet survive a few, 
Whose deeds are daring, as their hearts are true. 



Within the Harem's secret chamber sate 

Stern Seyd, still pondering o'er his Captive's fate j 

His thoughts on love and hate alternate dwell, 

Now with Gulnare, and now in Conrad's cell ; 

Here at his feet the lovely slave reclined 

Surveys his brow — would soothe his gloom of mind j 

While many an anxious glance her large dark eye 

Sends in its idle search for sympathy, 

His only bends in seeming o'er his beads,! 

But inly views his victim as he bleeds. 

" Pacha ! the day is thine ; and on thy crest 
Sits Triumph— Conrad taken — fall'n the rest ! 
His doom is fix'd — he dies : and well his fate 
Was earn'd — yet much too worthless for thy hate : 
Methinks, a short release, for ransom told 
With all his treasure, not unwisely sold ; 
Report speaks largely of his pirate-hoard — 
Would that of this my Pacha were the lord ! 
While battled, weikeii'd by this fatal fray — 
Watch'd — follow'd — he were then an easier prey ; 
But once cut off — the remnant of his band 
Embark their wealth, and seek a safer strand." 
" Gulnare ! — if for eich drop of blood a gem 
Were offer'd rich as Stamboul's diadem ; 
If for each hair of his, a massy mine 
Of virgin ore should supplicating shine; 
If all our Arab tales divulge or dream 
Of wealth were here — that gold should not redeem ! 
It had not now redeem'd a single hour; 
But that I know him fetter'd, in my power; 
And, thirsting for revenge, I ponder still 
On pangs that longest rack, and latest kill." 

" Nay, Seyd ! — I seek not to restrain thy rage, 
Too justly moved for mercy to assuage ; 
My thoughts were only to secure for thee 
His riches — thus released, he were not free : 
Disabled, shorn of half his might and band. 
His capture could but wait thy first command," 

" His capture could ! — and shall I then resign 
One day to him — the wretch already mine ? 
Release my foe ! — at whose remonstrance ? — thine I 
Fair suitor ! — to thy virtuous gratitude, 
That thus repays this Giaour's relenting mood. 
Which thee and thine alone of all could spare. 
No doubt — regardless if the prize were fair. 
My thanks and praise alike are due — now hear ! 
I have a counsel for thy gentler ear : 
I do mistrust thee, woman ! and each word 
Of thine stamps truth on all Suspicion heard. 
Borne in his arms through fire from yon Serai — 
Say, wert thou lingering there with him to fly ? 
Thou need'st not answer — thy confession speaks, 
Already reddening on thy guilty cheeks ; 
Then, lovely dame, bethink thee I and beware : 
'T is not his life alone may claim such care ! 
Another word and — nay — I need no more. 
Accursed was the moment when he bore 



1 The comboloio, or Mahometan rosary ; the beads are 
in number ninety-nine. 



Thee from the flames, which better far — but — no — 

I then had mourn'd thee with a lover's woe — 

Now 't is thy lord that warns — deceitful thing ! 

Know'st thou that 1 can clip thy wanton wing ? 

In words alone I am not wont to chafe : 

Look to thyself — nor deem thy falsehood safe ! " 

He rose — and slowly, sternly thence withdrew, 

Rage in his eye and threats in his adieu : 

Ah ! little reck'd that chief of womanhood — 

Which frowns ne'er quell'd, nor menaces subdued ; 

And little deem'd he what thy heart, Gulnare! 

When soft could feel, and when incensed could dare. 

His doubts appear'd to wrong — nor yet she knew 

How deep the root from whence compassion grew — 

She was a slave — from such may captives claim 

A fellow-feeling, ditJ'ering but in name ; 

Still half unconscious — heedless of his wrath. 

Again she ventured on the dangerous path. 

Again his rage repell'd — until arose 

That strife of thought, the source of woman's woes ! 

VI, 
Meanwhile — long anxious — weary — still — the same 
Roll'd day and night — his soul could terror tame — 
This fearful interval of doubt and dread, 
When every hour might doom him worse than dead. 
When every step that echo'd by the gate, 
Might entering lead where axe and stake await ; 
When every voice that grated on his ear 
Might be the last that he could ever hear ; 
Could terror tame — that spirit stern and high 
Had proved unwilling as unfit to die ; 
'T was worn — perhaps decay'd — yet silent bore 
That conflict, deadlier far than all before : 
The heat of fight, the hurry of the gale, 
Leave scarce one thought inert enough to quail ; 
But bound and fix'd in fetter'd solitude, 
To pine, the prey of every changing mood ; 
To gaze on thine own heart ; and meditate 
Irrevocable faults, and coming fate — 
Too late the last to shun — the first to mend — 
To count the hours that struggle to thine end, 
With not a friend to animate!|^and tell 
To other ears that death became thee well ; 
Around thee foes to forge the ready lie, 
And blot life's latest scene with calumny; 
Before thee tortures, which the soul can dare. 
Yet doubts how well the shrinking flesh may bear; 
But deeply feels a single cry would shame, 
To valour's praise thy last and dearest claim ; 
The life thou leav'st below, denied above 
By kind monopolists of heavenly love ; 
And more than doubtful paradise — thy heaven 
Of earthly hope — thy loved one from"thee riven. 
Such were the thoughts that outlaw must sustain. 
And govern pangs surpassing mortal pain : 
And those sustain'd he — boots it well or ill ? 
Since not to sink beneath, is something still ! 

VH, 
The first day pass'd — he saw not her— Gulnare — 
The second — third — and still she came not there ; 
But what her words avouch'd, her charms had done. 
Or else he had not seen another sun. 
The fourth day roll'd along, and with the night 
Came storm and darkness in their mingling might. 
Oh ! how he listen'd to the rushing deep, 
That ne'er till now so broke upon his sleep ; 
And his wild spirit wilder wishes sent, 
Roused by the roar of his own element ! 
Oft had he ridden on that winged wave, 
And loved its roughness for the speed it gave ; 
And now its dashing echo'd on his ear, 
A long known voice — alas ! too vainly near I 
Loud sung the wind above ; and, doubly loud. 
Shook o'er his turret cell the thunder-cloud ; 
And flash'd the lightning by the latticed bar, 
To him more genial than the midnight star : 
Close to the glimmering grate he dragg'd his chain, 
And hoped that peril might not prove in vain. 
He raised his iron hand to Heaven, and pray'd 
The pitying flash to mar the form it made : 



U20 



THE CORSAIR. 



[Canto III. 



His steel and impious prayer attract alike — 
The storm roll'd onward, and disdain'd to strike ; 
Its peal wax'd fainter — ceased — he felt alone, 
As if some faithless friend had spurn'd his groan ! 

VIII, 

The midnight pass'd — and to the massy door 
A light step came — it paused — it moved once more ; 
Slow turns the grating bolt and sullen key: 
'T is as his heart foreboded — that fair she ! 
Whate'er her sins, to him a guardian saint, 
And beauteous still as hermit's hope can paint ; 
Yet changed since last within that cell she came, 
More pale her cheek, more tremulous her frame : 
On him she cast her dark and hurried eye. 
Which spoke before her accents — " Thou must die ! 
Yes, thou must die — there is but one resource, 
The last — the worst — if torture were not worse." 

" Lady ! I look to none — my lips proclaim 
What last proclaim'd they — Conrad still the same : 
Why should'st thou seek an outlaw's life to spare, 
And change the sentence I deserve to bear? 
Well have I earn'd — nor here alone — the meed 
Of Seyd's revenge, by many a lawless deed." 

" Why should I seek ? because — Oh ! didst thou not 
Redeem my life from worse than slavery's lot ? 
Why should I seek? — hath misery made thee blind 
To the fond workings of a woman's mind ? 
And must I say ? albeit my heart rebel 
With all that woman feels, but should not tell — 
Because — despite thy crimes — that heart is moved : 
It fear'd thee — thank'd thee — pitied — madden'd — 

loved. 
Reply not, tell not now thy tale again, 
Thou lov'st another — and I love in vain ; 
Though fond as mine her bosom, form more fair, 
I rush through peril which she would not dare. 
If that thy heart to hers were truly dear, 
Were I thine own — thou wert not lonely here : 
An outlaw's spouse — and leave her lord to roam ! 
What hath such gentle dame to do with home ? 
But speak not now — o'er thine and o'er my head 
Hangs the keen sabre by a single thread ; 
If thou hast courage still, and would'st be free, 
Receive this poniard — rise — and follow me 1 " 
" Ay — in my chains ! my steps will gently tread, 
With these adornments, o'er each slumbering head I 
Thou hast forgot — is this a garb for flight ? 
Or is that instrument more fit for fight ? " 

" Misdoubting Corsair ! I have gain'd the guard, 

Ripe for revolt, and greedy for reward. 

A single word of mine removes that chain : 

Without some aid how here could I remain ? 

Well, since we met, hath sped my busy time, 

If in aught evil, for thy sake the crime : 

The crime — 't is none to punish those of Seyd. 

That hated tyrant, Conrad — he must bleed ! 

I see thee shudder — but my soul is changed — 

Wrong'd, spurn'd, reviled — and it shall be avenged — 

Accused of what till now my heart disdain'd — 

Too faithful, though to bitter bondage chain'd. 

Yes, smile ! — but he had little cause to sneer, 

I was not treacherous then — nor thou too dear: 

But he has said it — and the jealous well, 

Those tyrants, teasing, templing to rebel, 

Deserve the fate their fretting lips foretell. 

I never loved — he bought me — somewhat high — 

Since with me came a heart he could not buy. 

I was a slave unmurmuring ; he hath said, 

But for his rescue I with thee had fled. 

'T was false thou know'st — but let such augurs rue, 

Their words are omens Insult renders true. 

Nor was thy respite granted to my prayer ; 

This fleeting grace was only to prepare 

New torments for thy life, and my despair. 

Mine too he threatens ; but his dotage still 

Would fain reserve me for his lordly will : 

When wearier of these fleeting charms and me, 

There yawns the sack— and yonder rolls the sea ! 



What, am I then a toy for dotard's play, 

To wear but till the gilding frets away ? 

I saw thee — loved thee — owe thee all — would save, 

If but to show how grateful is a slave. 

But had he not thus menaced fame and life, 

(And well he keeps his oaths pronounced in strife) 

I still had saved thee — but the Pacha spared. 

Now I am all thine own — for all prepared : 

Thou lov'st me not — nor know'st — or but the worst, 

Alas ! this love — that hatred are the first — 

Oh ! could'st thou prove my truth, thou would'st not 

start, 
Nor fear the fire that lights an Eastern heart ; 
'T is now the beacon of thy safety — now 
It points within the port a Mainote prow : 
But in one chamber, where our path must lead, 
There sleeps— be must not wake — the oppressor 

Seyd ! » 

" Gutoare — Gulnare — I never felt till now 

My abject fortune, wither'd fame so low : 

Seyd is mine enemy ; had swept my band 

From earth with ruthless but with open hand, 

And therefore came I, in my bark of war, 

To smite the smiter with the scimitar ; 

Such is my weapon — not the secret knife — 

Who spares a woman's seeks not slumber's life. 

Thine saved I gladly. Lady, not for this — 

Let me not deem that mercy shown amiss. 

Now fare thee well — more peace be with thy breast ! 

Night wears apace— my last of earthly rest !" 

" Rest ! rest ! by sunrise must thy sinews shake, 

And thy limbs writhe around the ready stake. 

I heard the order — saw — I will not see — 

If thou wilt perish, I will fall with thee. 

My life — my love — my hatred — all below 

Are on this cast — Corsair ! 't is but a blow I 

Without it flight were idle — how evade 

His sure pursuit ? my wrongs too unrepaid. 

My youth disgraced — the long, long wasted years, 

One blow shall cancel with our future fears ; 

But since the dagger suits thee less than brand, 

I '11 try the firmness of a female hand. 

The guards are gain'd — one moment all were o'er — 

Corsair ! we meet in safety or no more ; 

If errs my feeble hand, the morning cloud 

Will hover o'er thy scaffold, and my shroud." 

IX. 

She tum'd, and vanish'd ere he could reply, 

But his glance followed far with eager eye ; 

And gathering, as he could, the links that bound 

His form, to curl their length, and curb their sound, 

Since bar and bolt no more his steps preclude, 

He, fast as fetter'd limbs allow, pursued. 

'T was dark and winding, and he knew not where 

That passage led ; nor lamp nor guard were there : 

He sees a dusky glimmering — shall he seek 

Or shun that ray so indistinct and weak ? 

Chance guides his steps — a freshness seems to bear 

Full on his brow, as if from morning air — 

He reach'd an open gallery — on his eye 

Gleam'd the last star of night, the clearing sky : 

Yet scarcely heeded these — another light 

From a lone chamber struck upon his sight. 

Towards it he moved ; a scarcely closing door 

Reveal'd the ray within, but nothing more. 

With hasty step a figure outward past. 

Then paused — and tum'd — and paused — ^ is She at 

last! 
No poniard in that hand — nor sign of ill — 
" Thanks to that softening heart — she could not kill I" 
Again he look'd, the wildness of her eye 
Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully. 

She stopp'd — threw back her dark far-floating hair, 

That nearly veil'd her face and bosom fair; 

As if she late had bent her leaning head 

Above some object of her doubt or dread. 

They meet — upon her brow — unknown — forgot — 

Her hurrying hand had left — 't was but a spot — 



Canto III.] 



THE CORSAIR. 



121 



Its hue was all he saw, and scarce withstood — 
Oh ! slight but certain pledge of crime — 't is blood ! 



He had seen battle — he had brooded lone 

O'er promised pangs to sentenced guilt foreshown ; 

He had been tempted — chasten'd — and the chain - 

Yet on his arms might ever there remain : 

But ne'er from strife — captivity — remorse — 

From all his feelings in their inmost force — 

So thrili'd — so shudder'd every creeping vein, 

As now they froze before that purple stain. 

That spot of blood, that light but guilty streak, 

Had banish'd all the beauty from her cheek ! 

Blood he had view'd — could view unmoved — but 

then 
It flow'd in combat, or was shed by men ! 

XI. 

" 'T is done — he nearly waked — but it is done, 
Corsair ! he perish'd — thou art dearly won. 
All words would now be vain — away — away ! 
Our bark is tossing — 't is already day. 
The few gain'd over, now are wholly mine, 
And these thy yet surviving band shall join : 
Anon my voice shall vindicate my hand. 
When once our sail forsakes this hated strand." 

XII. 
She clapp'd her hands —and through the gallery pour, 
Equipp'd for flight, her vassals — Greek and Moor j 
Silent but quick they stoop, his chains unbind ; 
Once more his limbs are free as mountain wind ! 
But on his heavy heart such sadness sate. 
As if they there transferr'd that iron weight. 
No words are utter'd — at her sign, a door 
Reveals the secret passage to the shore ; 
The city lies behind — they speed, they reach 
The glad waves dancing on the yellow beach ; 
And Conrad following, at her beck, obey'd. 
Nor cared he now if rescued or betray'd; 
Resistance were as useless as if Seyd 
Yet lived to view the doom his ire decreed. 

XIII. 

Embark'd, the sail unfurPd, the light breeze blew — 
How much had Conrad's memory to review ! 
Sunk he in contemplation, till the cape 
Where last he anchor'd rear'd its giant shape. 
Ah ! — since that fatal night, though brief the time, 
Had swept an age of terror, grief, and crime. 
As its far shadow frown'd above the mast, 
He veil'd his face, and sorrow'd as he pass'd ; 
He thought of all — Gonsalvo and his band, 
His fleeting triumph and his failing hand ; 
He thought on her afar, his lonely bride : 
He turn'd and saw ~ Gulnare, the homicide ! 

XIV. 

She watch'd his features till she could not bear 
Their freezing aspect and averted air. 
And that strange fierceness foreign to her eye. 
Fell quench'd m tears, too late to shed or dry. 
She knelt beside him and his hand she press'd, 
<' Thou may'st forgive though Allah's self detest j 
But for that deed of darkness what wert thou ? 
Reproach me — but not yet — Oh ! spare me now ! 
I am not what I seem — this fearful night 
My brain bewilder'd — do not madden quite! 
If I had never loved — though less my guilt, 
Thou hadst not lived to — hate me — if thou wilt." 

XV. 
She wrongs his thoughts, they more himself upbraid 
Than her, though undesign'd, the wretch he made ; 
But speechless all, deep, dark, and unexprest, 
They bleed within that silent cell — his breast. 
Still onward, fair the breeze, nor rough the surge, 
The blue waves sport around the stern they urge ; 
Far on the horizon's verge appears a speck, 
A spot — a mast — a sail — an armed deck ! 



Their little bark her men of watch descry, 

And ampler canvass woos the wind from high ; 

She bears her down majestically near. 

Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier j 

A flash is seen — the ball beyond her bow 

Booms harmless, hissing to the deep below. 

Up rose keen Conn|d from his silent trance, 

A long, long abse"gladness in his glance ; 

^' 'T is mine — my blood-red flag ! again — again — 

" am not all deserted on the main ! " 

They own the signal, answer to the hail. 

Hoist out the boat at once, and slacken sail. 

T is Conrad ! Conrad : " shouting from the deck, 
Command nor duty could their transport check ! 
With light alacrity and gaze of pride, 
They view him mount once more his vessel's side; 
A smile relaxing in each rugged face. 
Their arms can scarce forbear a rough embrace. 
He, half forgetting danger and defeat, 
Returns their greeting as a chief may greet, 
Wrings with a cordial grasp Anselmo's hand, 
And feels he yet can conquer and command 1 

XVI. 

These greetings o'er, the feelings that o'erflow, 
Yet grieve to win him back without a blow j 
They sail'd prepared for vengeance — had they known 
A woman's hand secured that deed her own, 
She were their queen — less scrupulous are they 
Than haughty Conrad how they win their way. 
With many an asking smile, arid wondering stare, 
They whisper round, and gaze upon Gulnare ; 
And'her, at once above — beneath her sex. 
Whom blood appall'd not, their regards perplex. 
To Conrad turns her faint imploring eye. 
She drops her veil, and stands in silence by ; 
Her arms are meekly folded on that breast. 
Which — Conrad safe — to fate resign'd the rest. 
Though worse than frenzy could that bosom fill, 
Extreme in love or hate, in good or ill, 
The worst of crimes had left her woman still ! 

XVII. 

This Conrad mark'd, and felt — ah ! could he less ? — 
Hate of that deed — but grief for her distress j 
What she has done no tears can wash away, ^ 
And Heaven must punish on its angry day : 
But — it was done : he knew, whatever her guilt, 
For him that poniard smote, that blood was spilt ; 
And he was free ! — and she for him had given 
Her all on earth, and more than all in heaven ! 
And now he turn'd him to that dark-eyed slave 
Whose brow was bow'd beneath the glance he gave, 
Who now seem'd changed and humbled : — faint and 

meek. 
But varying oft the colour of her cheek 
To deeper shades of paleness — all its red 
That fearful spot which stain'd it from the dead ! 
He took that hand — it trembled — now too late — 
So soft in love — so wildly nerved in hate ; 
He clasp'd that hand — it trembled — and his own 
Had lost its firmness, and his voice its tone. 
" Gulnare ! " — but she replied not — "dear Gulnare ! " 
She raised her eye — her only answer there — 
At once she sought and sunk in his embrace : 
If he had driven her from that resting-place. 
His had been more or less than mortal heart. 
But — good or ill — it bade her not depart. 
Perchance, but for the bodings of his breast, 
His latest virtue then had join'd the rest. 
Yet even Medora might forgive the kiss 
That ask'd from form so fair no more than this. 
The first, the last that Frailty stole from Faith — 
To lips where Love had lavish'd all his breath, _ 
To lips — whose broken sighs such fragrance fling. 
As he had fann'd them freshly with his wing ! 

XVIII. 

They gain by twilight's hour their lonely isle. 
To them the very rocks appear to smile ; 



11 



122 



THE CORSAIR. 



[Canto III. 



The haven hums with many a cheering sound, 

The beacons blaze their wonted stations round, 

The boats are darting o'er the curly bay, 

And sportive dolphins bend them through the spray ; 

Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill, discordant shriek, 

Greets like the welcome of his tuneless beak 1 

Beneath each lamp that through M lattice gleams, 

Their fancy paints the friends thaWrim the beams. 

Oh 1 what can sanctify the joys of home. 

Like Hope's gay glance from Ocean's troubled foam ? 

XIX. 

The lights are high on beacon and from bower, 

And 'midst them Conrad seeks Medora's tower: 

He looks in vain — 't is strange — and all remark, 

Amid so many, hers alone is dark. 

'T is strange — of yore its welcome never fail'd. 

Nor now, perchance, extinguish'd, only veil'd. 

With the first boat descends he for the shore. 

And looks impatient on the lingering oar. 

Oh ! for a wing beyond the falcon's tiight, 

To bear him like an arrow to that height ! 

With the first pause the resting rowers gave. 

He waits not — looks not — leaps into the wave, 

Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach, and high 

Ascends the path familiar to his eye. 

He reach 'd his turret door — he paused — no sound 
Broke from within ; and all was night around. 
He knock'd, and loudly — footstep nor reply 
Announced that any heard or deem'd him nigh ; 
He knock'd — but faintly — for his trembling hand 
Refused to aid his heavy heart's demand. 
The portal opens — 't is a well-known face — 
But not the form he panted to embrace. 
Its lips are silent— twice his own essay'd, 
And fail'd to frame the question they delay'd ; 
He snatch'd the lamp — its light will answer all — 
It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall. 
He would not wait for that reviving ray — 
As soon could he have linger'd there for day; 
But, glimmering through the dusky corridor, 
Another chequers o'er "the shadow'd floor; 
His steps the chamber gain — his eyes behold 
All that his heart believed not — yet foretold ! 

XX. 

He turn'd not — spoke not — sunk not — fix'd his look, 

And set the anxious frame that lately shook : 

He gazed — how long we gaze despite of pain, 

And know, but dare not own, we gaze in vain ! 

In life itself she was so still and fair. 

That death with gentler aspect wither'd there ; 

And the cold flowers i her colder hand contain'd, 

In that last grasp as tenderly were strain'd 

As if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep, 

And made it almost mockery yet to weep : 

The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow, 

And veil'd — thought shrinks from all that lurk'd 

below — 
Oh ! o'er the eye Death most exerts his might, 
And hurls the spirit from her throne of light ; 
Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse. 
But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips — 
Yet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile, 
And vvish'd repose — but only for a while; 
But the white shroud, and each extended tress. 
Long — fair — but spread in utter lifelessness, 
Which, late the sport of every summer wind, 
Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind ; 
These — and the pale pure cheek, became the bier — 
But she is nothing — wherefore is he here ? 

XXL 

He ask'd no question — all were answer'd now 
By the first glance on that still — marble brow. 
It was enough — she died — what reck'd it how ? 



1 In the Levant it is the custom to strew flowers on the 
bodies of the dead, and in the hands of young persons to 
place a nosegay. 



The love of youth, the hope of better years. 

The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears. 

The only living thing he could not hate. 

Was reft at once — and he deserved his fate. 

But did not feel it less ; — the good explore, 

For peace, those realms where guilt can never soar ; 

The proud — the wayward — who have tixd below 

Their joy, and find this earth enough for woe. 

Lose in that one their all — perchance a mite — 

But who in patience parts with all delight ? 

Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern 

Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn; 

And many a withering thought lies hid, not lost. 

In smiles that least befit who wear them most. 

XXII. 

By those, that deepest feel, is ill exprest 
The indistinctness of the suffering breast; 
Where thousand thoughts be^in to end in one. 
Which seeks from allthe refuge found iu none ; 
No words suffice the secret soul to show. 
For Truth denies all eloquence to Woe. 
On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion prest, 
And stupor almost luU'd it into rest; 
So feeble now — his mother's softness crept 
To those wild eyes, which like an infant's wept: 
It was the very weakness of his brain, 
Which thus confess'd without relieving pain. 
None saw his trickling tears — perchance, if seen, 
That useless flood of grief had never been : 
Nor long they flow'd — he dried them to depart. 
In helpless — hopeless — brokenness of heart : 
The sun goes forth — but Conrad's day is dim ; 
And the night cometh — ne'er to pass from him. 
There is no darkness like the cloud of mind, 
On Grief's vain eye — the blindest of the blind ! 
Which may not — dare not see — but turns aside 
To blackest shade — nor will endure a guide ! 

XXI I L 
His heart was form'd for softness — warp'd to wrong; 
Betray'd too early, and beguiled too long ; 
Each feeling pure — as falls the dropping dew 
Within the grot; like that had harden'd too; 
Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass'd. 
But sunk, and chill'd, and petrified at last. 
Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the rock, 
If such his heart, so shatter'd it the shock. 
There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow, 
Though dark the shade — it shelter'd — saved till now. 
The thunder came — that bolt hath blasted both, 
The Granite's firmness, and the Lily's growth : 
The gentle plant hath left no leaf to teil 
Its tale, but shrunk and wither'd where it fell; 
And of its cold protector, blacken round 
But shiver'd fragments on the barren ground I 

XXIV. 
'T is morn — to venture on his lonely hour 
Few dare ; though now Anselmo sought his tower. 
He was not there — nor seen along the shore ; 
Ere night, alarm'd, their isle is traversed o'er: 
Another morn — another bids them seek. 
And shout his name till echo waxeth weak ; 
Mount — grotto — cavern — valley search'd in vain, 
They find on shore a sea-boat's broken chain : 
Their hope revives — they follow o'er the main. 
'T is idle all — moons roll on moons away, 
And Conrad comes not — came not since that day : 
Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare 
Where lives his grief, or perish'd his despair ! 
Long mourn'd his band whom none could mourn 

beside ; 
And fair the monument they gave his bride : 
For him they raise not the recording stone — 
His death yet dubious, deeds too widely known; 
He left a Corsair's name to other times, 
Link'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes.2 

2 That the point of honour which is represented in one 
instance of Conrad's character, has not been carried be* 
yond the bounds of probability, may perhaps be in some 



Canto III.] 



THE CORSAIR. 



123 



degree confirmed by tlie following anecdote of a brother 
buccaneer, in the year 1814: — "Our readers have all seen 
the account of the enterprise against the pirates of Barra- 
taria: but few, we believe, were informed of the situation, 
history, or nature of that establishment. For the infor- 
mation of such as were unacquainted with it, we have 
procured from a friend the following interesting narrative 
of the main facts, of which he has personal knowledge, 
and which cannot fail to interest some of our readers. — • 
Barrataria is a bay, or a narrow arm of the Gulf of Mexico; 
it runs through a rich but very flat country, until it 
reaches within a mile of the Mississippi river, fifteen 
miles below the city of New Orleans. The bay has 
branches almost innumerable, in which persons can lie 
concealed from the severest scrutiny. It communicates 
with three lakes which lie on the south-west side, and 
these, with the lake of the same name, and which lies 
contiguous to the sea, where there is an island formed by 
the two arms of this lake and the sea. The east and west 
points of this island were fortified, in the year 1811, by a 
band of pirates under the command of one Monsieur La 
Fitte. A large majority of these outlaws are of that class 
of the population of the state of Louisiana, who fled from 
the island of St. Domingo, during the troubles there, and 
took refuge in the island of Cuba; and when the last war 
between France and Spain commenced, they were com- 
pelled to leave that island with the short notice of a few 
days. Without ceremony they entered the United States, 
the most of them the state of Louisiana, with all the 
negroes they had possessed in Cuba. They were notified 
by the Governor of that State of the clause in the con- 
stitution which forbad the importation of slaves; but, at 
the same time, received the assurance of the Governor 
that he would obtain, if possible, the approbation of the 
General Government for their retaining this property. ~ 
The island of Barrataria is situated about lal. 29 deg. 15 
min., Ion. 92. 30.; and is as remarkable for its health as 
for the superior scale and shell fish with which its waters 
abound. The chief of this horde, like Charles de Moor, 
had mixed with his many vices some virtues. In the 
year 1813, this party had, from its turpitude and boldness, 
claimed the attention of the Governor of Louisiana; and 
to break up the establishment he thought proper to strike 
at the head. He therefore ofl"ered a reward of 600 dollars, 
for the head of Monsieur La Fitte, who was well known 
to the inhabitants of the city of New Orleans, from his 
immediate connection, and his once having been a fencing- 
master in that city of great reputation, which art he 
learnt in Buonaparte's army, where he was a captain. The 
reward which was offered by the Governor for the head 
of La Fitte, was answered by the off'er of a reward from 
the latter of 15,000 for the head of the Governor. The 
Governor ordered out a company to march from the city 
to La Fitte's island, and to burn and destroy all the pro- 
perty, and to bring to the city of New Orleans, all his 
banditti. This company, under the command of a man 
who had been the intimate associate of this bold Captain, 
approached very near to the fortified island, before he saw 
a man, or heard a sound, until he heard a whistle, not un- 
like a boatswain's call. Then it was he found himself 
surrounded by armed men who had emerged from the 
secret avenues which led into the Bayou. Here it was that 
the modern Charles de Moor developed his few noble 
traits; for to this man, who had come to destroy his life 
and all that was dear to him, he not only spared his life 
but offered him that which would have made the honest 
BCldier easy for the remainder of his days; which was in- 



dignantly refused. He then, with the approbation of his 
captor, returned to the city. This circumstance, and some 
concomitant events, proved that this band of pirates waa 
not to be taken by land. Our naval force having always 
been small in that quarter, exertions for the destruction 
of this illicit establishment could not be expected from 
them until augmented; for an officer of the navy, with 
most of the gun-boats on that station, had to retreat from 
an overwhelming force of La Fitte's. So soon as the 
augmentation of the navy authorised an attack, one was 
made; the overthrow of this banditti has been the result; 
and now this almost invulnerable point and key to New 
Orleans, is clear of an enemy, it is to be hoped the go- 
vernment will hold it by a strong military force." — 
American Newspaper. 

In Noble's continuation of Granger's Biographical) His- 
tory, there is a singular passage in his account of Arch- 
bishop Blackbourne; and as in some measure connected 
with the profession of the hero of the foregoing poem, I 
cannot resist the temptation of extracting it. — "There is 
something mysterious in the history and character of Dr. 
Blackbourne. The former is but imperfectly known ; and 
report has even asserted he was a buccaneer; and that 
one of his brethren in that profession having asked, on 
his arrival in England, what had become of his old chum, 
Blackbourne, was answered, he is Archbishop of York. 
We are informed, that Blackbourne was installed sub-dean 
of Exeter, in 1694, which office he resigned in 1702 ; but 
after his successor Lewis Barnet's death, in 1704, he re- 
gained it. In the following year he became dean: and in 
1714, held with it the archdeanery of Cornwall. He was 
consecrated bishop of Exeter, February 24, 1716; and 
translated to York, November 28, 1724, as a reward, ac- 
cording to court scandal, for uniting George I. to the 
Duchess of Munster. This, however, appears to have 
been an unfounded calumny. As archbishop he behaved 
with great prudence, and was equally respectable as the 
guardian of the revenues of the see. Rumour whispered 
he retained the vices of his youth, and that a passion for 
the fair sex formed an item in the list of his weaknesses; 
but so far from being convicted by seventy witnesses, he 
does not appear to have been directly criminated by one. 
In short, I look upon these aspersions as the efi'ects of 
mere malice. How is it possible a buccaneer should have 
been so good a scholar as Blackbourne certainly was? He 
who had so perfect a knowledge of the classics (particu- 
larly of the Greek tragedians), as to be able to read them 
with the same ease as he could Shakspeare, must have 
taken great pains to acquire the learned languages; and 
have had both leisure and good masters. But he was un- 
doubtedly educated at Christ-church College, Oxford. He 
is allowed to have been a pleasant man ; this, however, 
was turned against him, by its being said, 'he gained more 
hearts than souls.' " 



" The only voice that could soothe the passions of the 
savage (Alphonso III.) was that of an amiable and virtu- 
ous wife, the sole object of his love ; the voice of Donna 
Isabella, the daughter of the Duke of Savoy, and the 
grand-daughter of Philip II. King of Spain. — Her dying 

I words sunk deep into his memory; his fierce spirit melt- 

[ ed into tears ; and after the last embrace, Alphonso re- 
tired into his chamber to bewail his irreparable loss, and 

; to meditate on the vanity of human life." — GIBBON'S 

1 Miscellaneous Works, \ol. iii. p. 473. 



LARA.' 



CANTO THE FIRST. 

I. 

The Serfs ^ are glad through Lara's wide domain, 
And Slavery half forgets her feudal chain j 



1 Published in August, 1814. 

2 The reader is apprised, that the name of Lara being 
Spanish, and no circumstance of local and natural descrip- 
tion fixing the scene or hero of the poem to any country 
or age, the word 'Serf,' which could not be correctly ap- 
plied to the lower classes in Spain, who were never vas- 
sals of the soil, has nevertheless been employed to desig- 
nate the followers of our fictitious chieftain. — [Lord 
Byron elsewhere intimates, that he meant Lara for a chief 
of the Morea ; and the poem is almost universally deemed 
a continuation of the Corsair. — E.] 



I He, their unhoped, but unforgotten lord, 
i The long self-exiled chieftain, is restored : 
I There be bright faces in the busy hall, 
I Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall ; 
I Far checkering o'er the pictured window, plays 
' The unwonted fagots' hospitable blaze ; 
And gay retainers gather round the hearth, 
With tongues all loudness, and with eyes all mirth. 

H. 

The chief of Lara is return'd again : 
And why had Lara cross'd the bounding main ? 
Left by his sire, too young such loss to know, 
Lord of himself; — that heritage of woe. 
That fearful empire which the human breast 
But holds to rob the heart within of rest ! — 



124 



LARA. 



[Canto I. 



With none to check, and few to point in time, 
The thousand paths that slope the way to crime ; 
Then, when he most required coniniandment, then 
Had Lara's daring boyhood govern'd meu. 
It skills not, boots not step by step to trace 
His youth through all the mazes of its race ; 
Short was the course his restlessness had run, 
But long enough to leave him half undone. 

III. 
And Lara left in youth his father-land ; 
But from the hour he waved his jarting hand 
Each trace wax'd fainter of his course, till all 
Had nearly ceased his memory to recall. 
His sire was dust, his vassiils could declare, 
'T was all they knew, that Lara was not there ; 
Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew 
Cold in the many, anxious in the few. 
His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name, 
His portrait darkens in its fading frame. 
Another chief consoled his destined bride. 
The young forgot him, and the old had died ; 
" Yet doth he live I " exclaims the impatient heir, 
And siglis for sables which he must not wear. 
A hundred scutcheons deck with gloomy grace 
The Laras' last and longest dwelling-place; 
But one is absent from the mouldering tile. 
That now were welcome in that Gothic pile, 

IV. 
He comes at last in sudden loneliness. 
And whence they know not, why they need not gness ; 
They more miglit marvel, when the greeting 's o'er, 
Not that he canie, but came not long before : 
No train is his beyond a single page, 
Of foreign aspect," and of tender age. 
Years had roU'd on, and fast they speed away 
To those that wander as to those that stay; 
But lack of tidinp from another clime 
Had lent a flagging wing to A\eiry Time. 
They see, they recognise, yet almost deem 
The present dubious, or the past a dream. 
He lives, nor yet is past his manhood's prime. 
Though sear'd' by toil, and something touch'd by timei 
His fa^ults, whate'er they were, if scarce forgot, 
Might be untaught him'by his varied lot ; 
Nor good nor ill of late were known, his name 
Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame : 
His soul in youth was haughty, but his sins 
No more than pleasure from "the stripling wins ; 
And such, if not yet harden'J in their course, 
Might be redeemed, nor ask a long remorse. 

V. 

And they indeed were changed — 't is quickly seen, 
"WTiate'er he be, 't was not what he had been : 
That brow in furrow'd lines had Hx'd at last. 
And spake of passions, but of passion past : 
The pride, but not the fire, of early days. 
Coldness of mien, and carelessness of praise ; 
A high demeanour, and a glance that took 
Their thoughts from others by a single look; 
And that sarcastic levity of tongue, 
The stinging of a heart" the world hath stung, 
That darts in seeming playfulness around, 
And makes tho?e feel that will not own the wound; 
All these seem'd his, and something more beneath 
Than glance could well re\eal, or accent breathe. 
Ambition, glory, love, the common aim. 
That some can conquer, and that all would claim, 
Within his breast ajipear'd no more to strive. 
Yet seem'd as lately they had been alive ; 
And some deep feelin? it were vain to trace 
At moments lighten'd o'er his livid face. 

VI. 
Not much he loved long question of the past, 
Nor told of wondrous wilds, and deserts vast. 
In those far lands where he had wander'd lone. 
And — as himself would have it seem — unknown : 
Yet these in vain his eye could scarcely scan. 
Nor glean experience from his fellow man ; 



I But what he had beheld he shunn'd to show, 
I As hardly worth a stranger's care to know ; 
! If still niore prying such enquiry grew, 
j His brow fell darker, and his worcls more few. 

I VIL 

Not unrejoiced to see him once again, 
Warm was his w elcome to the haunts of men ; 
Born of high lineage, liuk'd in high conmiand, 
He mingled with the magnates ot~ his laud ; 
Join'd the carousals of the great and gay. 
And saw them smile or sigh their hours away ; 
But still he only saw, and did not share. 
The common pleasure or the general care ; 
He did not follow what they all pursued 
With hope still baffled still to be renew'd; 
Nor shadowy honour, nor substantial gain. 
Nor beauty's preference, and the rival's pain : 
Around him some mysterious circle thrown 
Repell'd approach, and show'd him still alone; 
Upon his eye sat something of reproof, 
That kept at least frivolity aloof ; 
And things more timid th:\t beheld him near. 
In silence gtized, or whisper'd mutual fear; 
And they the wiser, friendlier few confess'd 
They de'em'd him better than his air express'd. 

VIIL 

'T was strange — in youth all action and all life. 
Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife ; 
Woman — the field — the ocean — all that gave 
Promise of gladness, peril of a grave. 
In turn he tried — he ransack'd all below. 
And found his recompense in joy or woe. 
No tame, trite medium; for his feelings sought 
In that intenseness an escape from thought : 
The tempest of his heart in scorn had gazed 
On that the feebler elements hath raised ; 
The rapture of his heart had look'd on high. 
And ask'd if greater dwelt beyond the sky : 
Chain'd to excess, the slave of each extreme, 
How woke he from the wildness of that dream ? 
Alas ! he told not — but he did awake 
To curse the wither'd heart that would not break. 

IX. 

Books, for his volume heretofore was Man, 

With eye more curious he appear'd to scan, 

And oft, in sudden mood, for many a day. 

From all communion he would start away : 

And then, his rarely cail'd attendants said, 

Through night's lo'ng hours would sound his hurried 

tread 
O'er the dark gallery, where his fathers frown'd 
In rude but antique 'portraiture around : 
They heard, but whisper'd — " that must not b« 

known — 
The sound of words less earthly than his own. 
Yes, they who chose might smile, but some had seen 
They scarce knew what, but more than should have 

been. 
Why gazed he so upon the gha?tly head 
Which hands profane had sather'd from the dead, 
That still beside his open'd volume lay, 
As if to startle all save him away ? 
Why slept he not when others were at rest ? 
Why heard no music, and received no guest ? 
All was not well, they deem'd — but where the wrong ? 
Some knew perchance — but 't were a tale too long; 
And such besi'.les were too discreetly wise. 
To more than hint their knowledge in surmise ; 
But if they would — they could" — around the board. 
Thus Lara's vassals prattled of their lord. 

X. 

It was the night — and Lara's glassy stre.am 
The stars are studding, each with imaged beam ; 
So calm, the waters scarcely seem to stray. 
And yet they glide like happiness away ; 
Reflecting far and fairy-like from high 
The immortal lights that live along the sky: 



Canto I.] 



LARA. 



125 



Ita banks are frineed wi(h many a goodly tree, 

And flowerb the fairest that may feast the beej 

Such in her chaplet infant Dian wove, 

And Innocence would offer to her love. 

These deck the -hore j the waves their channel make 

In windings bright and mazy like the snake. 

All was so still, so s<^)ft in earth and air. 

You scarce would start to meet a spirit there j 

Secure that nou^^ht of evil could delight 

To walk in such a scene, on such a night ! 

It was a moment only for the good : 

So Lara deem'd, nor longer there he stood, 

But turri'd in silence to his castle-gate ; 

Such scene his soul no more otuld contemplate: 

Such scene reminded him of other days, 

Of skies more cloudless, moons of purer blaze. 

Of nights more srjft and frequent, hearts that now — 

No — no — the storm may beat upon his brow, 

Unfelt — unsparing — but a night like this, 

A night of beauty, mock'd such breast as his. 

XI. 

He turri'd within his solitary hall. 
And his high sharlow shot along the wall : 
There were the painted forms of other times, 
'T was all they left of virtues or of crimes. 
Save vague tradition ; and the gloomy vaults 
That hid their dust, their foibles, and their faults J 
And half a column of the pompous page. 
That speeds the specious tale from age to age ; 
Where history's pen its praise or blame supplies, 
And lies like truth, and still most truly lies. 
He wandering mused, and as the moonbeam shone 
Through the dim lattice o'er the floor of stone, 
And the high fretted roof, and saints, that there 
O'er Gothic windows knelt in pictured prayer, 
Reflected in fantastic figures grew. 
Like life, but not like mortal life, to view; 
His bristling locks of sable, t>row of gloom. 
And the wide waving of his shaken plume. 
Glanced like a spectre's attributes, and gave 
His aspect all that terror gives the grave. 

XII. 

'T was midnight — all was slumber ; the Icne light 
Dimm'd in the lamp, as loth to break the night. 
Hark ! there be murmurs heard in Lara's hall — 
A sound — a voice — a shriek — a fearful call ! 
A long, loud shriek — and silence — did they hear 
That frantic echo burst the sleeping ear ? 
They heard and rose, and, tremulously brave. 
Rush where the sound invoked their aid to save; 
They come with half-lit tapers in their hands, 
And snatch'd in startled haste unbelted brands. 

xin. 

Cold as the marble where his length was laid, 

Pale as the beam that o'er his features play'd. 

Was Lara stretch'd ; his half-drawn sabre near, 

Dropp'd it should seem in more than nature's fear ; 

Yet he was firm, or had been firm till now, 

And still defiance knit his gather'd brow ; 

Though mix'd with terror, senseless as he lay, 

There lived upon his lip the wish to slay; 

Some half-form'd threat in utterance there had died, 

Some imprecation of despairing pride ; 

His eye was almost seai'd, but not forsook 

Even in its trance the gladiator's look. 

That oft awake his aspect could disclose. 

And now was fix'd in horrible repose. 

They raise him — bear him ; — hush ! he breathes, he 

speaks. 
The swarthy blush recolours in his cheeks, 
His lip resumes its red, his eye, though dim. 
Rolls wide and wild, each slowly quivering limb 
Recalls its function, but his words are strung 
In terms that seem not of his native tongue ; 
Distinct but strange, enough they understand 
To deem them accents of another land ; 
And such they were, and meant to meet an ear 
That hears him not — alas ! that cannot hear 1 

1]M^ 



XIV. 
His page approach'd, and he alone appear'd 
To know the import of the words they heard ; 
And, by the char;ges of his cheek and brow, 
They were not such as Lara should avow. 
Nor he interpret, — yet with less surprise 
Than those around their chieftain's state he eyes, 
But Lara's prostrate form he bent beside. 
And in that tongue which seem'd his own replied, 
And Lara heeds those tones that gently seem 
To soothe away the horrors of his dream — 
If dream it were, that thus cfjuld overthrow 
A breast that needed not ideal woe. 

XV. 
Whate'er his frenzy dream'd or eye beheld. 
If yet remember'd, ne'er to be reveal'd. 
Rests at his he.irt : the custorn'd morning came, 
And breathed new vigour in his shaken frame; 
And sf>lace sought he none from priest nor leech, 
And soon the same in movement and in speech 
As heretofore he fill'd the passing hours, — 
Nor less he smiles, nor more his forehead lowers. 
Than these were wont ; and if the coming night 
Appear'd less welcome now to Lara's sight, 
He to his marvelling vassals show'd it not, 
Whose shuddering proved their fear was less forgot. 
In trembling pairs (alone they dared not) crawl 
The astonish'd slaves, and shun the fated hall ; 
The waving banner, and the clapping door. 
The rustling tapestry, and the echoing floor; 
The long dim shadows of surrounding trees. 
The flapping bat, the night song of the breeze; 
Aught they behold or hear their thought appals, 
As evening saddens o'er the dark grey walls. 

XVI. 
Vain thought ! that hour of ne'er unravell'd gloom 
Came not again, or Lara could assume 
A seeming of forget fulness, that made 
His vassals more amazed nor less afraid — 
Had memory vanish'd then with sense restored ? 
Since word, nor look, nor gesture of their lord 
Bctray'd a feeling that recall'd to these 
That fever'd moment of his mind's disease. 
Was it a dream ? was his the voice that spoke 
Those strange wild accents ; his the cry that broke 
Their slumber ? his the oppress'd, o'erlabour'd heart 
That ceased to beat, the look that made them start ? 
Could he who thus had sutier'd so forget. 
When such as saw that suffering shudder yet ? 
Or did that silence prove his memory fix'd 
Too deep for words, indelible, unmix'd 
In that corroding secrecy which gnaws 
The heart to show the effect, but not the cause ? 
Not 80 in him ; his breast had buried both, 
Nor common gazers could discern the growth 
Of thoughts that mortal lips must leave half told ; 
They choke the feeble words that would unfold. 

XVII. 
In him inexplicably mix'd appear'd 
Much to be loved and hated, sought and fear'd ; 
Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot, 
In praise or railing ne'er his name forgot : 
His silence form'd a theme for others' prate — 
They guess'd — they gazed — they fain would know 

his fate. 
What had he been ? what was he, thus unknown. 
Who walk'd their world, his lineage only known ? 
A hater of his kind ? yet some would say. 
With them he could seem gay amidst the gay ; 
But ownd that smile, if off observed and near. 
Waned in its mirth, and wither'd to a sneer; 
That smile might reach his lip, but pass'd not by. 
None e'er could trace its laughter to his eye : 
Yet there was softness too in his regard. 
At times, a heart as not by nature hard. 
But once perceived, his spirit seem'd to chide 
Such weakness, as unworthy of its pride. 
And steel 'd itself, as scorning to redeem 
One doubt from others' half withheld esteem ; 



1 



126 



LARA. 



[Canto I. 



In self-inflicted penance of a breast 

Which tenderness might once have wrung from rest j 

In vigilance of grief that would compel 

The soul to hate for having loved too well. 

XVIII. 
There was in him a vital scorn of all : 
As if the worst had fall'n which could befall, 
He stood a stranger in this breathing world, 
An erring spirit from another hurl'd ; 
A thing of dark imasi;inings, that shaped 
By choice the perils he by chance escaped ; 
But 'scaped in vain, for in their memory yet 
His mind would half exult and half regret : 
With more capacity for love than earth 
Bestows on most of mortal mould and birth, 
His early dreams of good outstripp'd the truth, 
And troubled manhood follow'd baffled youth ; 
With thought of years in phantom chase misspent, 
And wasted powers for better purpose lent j 
And fiery p-\ssions that had pour'd their wrath 
In hurried desolation o'er his path, 
And left the better feelings all at strife 
In wild reflection o'er his stormy life; 
But haughty still, and loth himself to blame, 
He call'd on Nature's self to share the shame, 
And charged all faults upon the fleshly form 
She gave to clog the soul, and feast the worm ; 
Till he at last confounded good and ill, 
And half mistook for fate the acts of will : 
Too high for common selfishness, he could 
At times resign his own for others' good, 
But not in pity, not because he ought, 
But in some strange perversity of thought, 
That sway'd him onward with a secret pride 
To do what few or none would do beside ; 
And this same impulse would, in tempting time. 
Mislead his spirit equally to crime ; 
So much he soar'd beyond, or sunk beneath, 
The men with whom he felt condemn'd to breathe, 
And long'd by good or ill to separate 
Himself from ail who shared his mortal state ; 
His mind abliorring this had fix'd her throne 
Far from the world, in regions of her own : 
Thus coldly passing all that pass'd below, 
His blood m temperate seeming now would flow: 
Ah ! happier if it ne'er with guilt had glovv'd, 
But ever in that icy smoothness flovv'd ! 
'T is true, with other men their path he walk'd. 
And like the rest in seeming did and talk'd. 
Nor outraged Reason's rules by flaw nor start, 
His madness was not of the head, but heart; 
And rarely wander'd in his speech, or drew 
His thoughts so forth as to otfend the view. 

XIX. 
With all that chilling mystery of mien, 
And seeming gladness to remain unseen, 
He had (if 't were not nature's boon) an art 
Of fixing memory on another's heart : 
It was not love perchance — nor hate — nor aught 
That words can image to express the thought; 
But they who saw him did not see in vain. 
And once beheld, would ask of him again : 
And those to whom he spake reniember'd well, 
And on the words, however light, would dwell : 
None knew, nor how, nor why, but he entwined 
Himself perforce around the hearer's mind ; 
There he was stamp'd, in likins:, or in hate. 
If greeted once ; however brief the date 
That friendship, pity, or aversion knew, 
Still there within the inmost thought he grew. 
You could not penetrate his soul, but found, 
Despite your wonder, to your own he wound ; 
His presence haunted still ; and from the breast 
He forced an all unwilling interest : 
Vain was the struggle in that mental net, 
His spirit seem'd to dare you to forget ! 

XX. 

There is a festival, where knights and dames. 
And aught that wealth or lofty lineage claims. 



Appear — a highborn and a welcome guest 
To Otho's hall came Lara with the rest. 
The long carousal shakes the illumined hall, 
Well speeds alike the banquet and the ball ; 
And the gay dance of bounding Beauty's train 
Links grace and harmony in happiest chain: 
Blest are the early hearts and gentle hands 
That mingle there in well-according bands; 
It is a sight the careful brow might smooth, 
And make Age smile, and dream itself to youth, 
And Youth forget such hour was past on earth, 
So springs the exulting bosom to that mirth ! 

XXL 

And Lara gazed on these, sedately glad. 

His brow belied him if his soul was sad ; 

And his glance follow'd fast each fluttering fair, 

Whose steps of lightness woke no echo there: 

He lean'd against Ihe lofty pillar nigh, 

With folded arms and long attentive eye. 

Nor mark'd a glance so sternly fix'd on his — 

111 brook'd high Lara scrutiny like this : 

At length he caught it, 't is a"face unknown. 

But seems as searching his, and his alone ; 

Prying and dark, a stranger's by his mien. 

Who still till now had gazed on him unseen: 

At length encountering meets the mutual gaze 

Of keen enquiry, and of mute amaze ; 

On Lara's glance emotion ga'hering grew, 

As if distrusting that the stranger threw ; 

Along the stranger's aspect, fix'd and stern, 

Flash'd more than thence the vulgar eye could learn. 

XXII. 

<' 'T is he ! " the stranger cried, and those that heard 

Re-echoed fast and far the whisper'd word. 

" 'T is he ! " — " 'T is who ? " they question far and 

near. 
Till louder accents rung on Lara's ear ; 
So widely spread, few bosoms well could brook 
The general marvel, or that single look : 
But Lara stirr'd not, changed not, the surprise 
That sprung at first to his arrested eyes 
Seem'd now subsided, neither sunk nor raised 
Glanced his eye round, though still the stranger gazed ; 
And drawing nigh, exclaim'd, with haughty sneer, 
"'T is he! — how came he thence? — what doth he 

here?" 

XXIII. 
It were too much for Lara to pass by 
Such Questions, so repeated fierce and high ; 
With look collected, but with accent cold, 
More mildly firm than petulantly bold, 
He turn'd, and met the mquisitorial tone — 
" My name is Lara ! — when thine own is known, 
Doubt not my fitting answer to requite 
The unlook'd for courtesy of such a knight. 
'T is Lara ! — further wouldst thou mark or ask ? 
I shun no question, and I wear no mask." 
"Thou shnnn'st no question ! Ponder — is there none 
Thy heart must answer, though thine ear would shun ? 
And deem'st thou me unknown too ? Gaze again I 
At least thy memory was not given in vain. 
Oh ! never canst thou cancel half her debt, 
Eternity forbids thee to forget." 
With slow and searching glance upon his face 
Grew Lara's eyes, but nothing there could trace 
They knew, or chose to know — with dubious look 
He deign'd no answer, but his head he shook, 
And half contemptuous turn'd to pass away; 
But the stern stranger motion'd him to stay. 
*' A word ! — I charge thee stay, and answer here 
To one, who, wert thou noble, were thy peer, 
But as thou wast and art — nay, frown not, lord, 
If false, 't is easy to disprove the word — 
But as thou wast and art, on thee looks down. 
Distrusts thy smiles, but shakes not at thy frovm. 

Art thou not he ? whose deeds " 

" Whate'er I be. 
Words wild as these, accusers like to thee. 



Canto I.] 



LARA 



127 



I list no further; those with whom they weigh 

May hear the rest, nor venture to gainsay 

The woudrous tale no doubt thy tongue can tell, 

Which thus begins so courteously and well. 

Let Otho cherish here his polish'd guest, 

To him my thanks and thoughts shall be express'd." 

And here their wondering host hath interposed — • 

" Whate'er there be between you undisclosed, 

This is no time nor fitting place to mar 

The mirthful meeting with a wordy war. 

If thou, Sir Ezzelin, hast aught to show 

Which it befits Count Lara's ear to know, 

To-morrow, here, or elsewhere, as may best 

Beseem your mutual judgment, speak the rest ; 

I pledge myself for thee, as not unknown, 

Though, like Count Lara, now return'd alone 

From other lands, almost a stranger grown j 

And if from Lara's blood and gentle birth 

I augur right of courage and of worth, 

He will not that untainted line belie, 

Nor aught that knighthood may accord, deny." 

" To-morrow be it," Ezzelin replied, 

** And here our several worth and truth be tried ; 

I gage my life, my falchion to attest 

My words, so may I mingle with the blest ! " 

What answers Lara ? to its centre shrunk 

His soul, in deep abstraction sudden sunk; 

The words of many, and the eyes of all 

That there were gather'd, seem'd on him to fall ; 

But his were silent, his appear'd to stray 

In far forgetful ness away — away — 

Alas! that heedlessness of all around 

Bespoke remembrance only too profound. 

XXIV. 

" To-morrow ! ~ ay, to-morrow ! " further word 

Than those repeated none from Lara heard ; 

Upon his brow no outward passion spoke; 

From his large eye no flashing anger broke ; 

Yet there was something fix'd in that low tone, 

Which show'd resolve, determined, though unknown, 

He seized his cloak — his head he slightly bow'd, 

And passing Ezzelin, he left the crowd; 

And as he pass'd him, smiling met the frown. 

With which that chieftain's brow would bear him 

down : 
It was nor smile of mirth, nor struggling pride 
That curbs to scorn the wrath it cannot hide; 
But that of one in his own heart secure 
Of all that he would do, or could endure. 
Could this mean peace ? the calmness of the good ? 
Or guilt grown old in desperate hardihood ? 
Alas ! too like in confidence are each, 
For man to trust to mortal look or speech ; 
From deeds, and deeds alone, may he discern 
Truths which it wrings the unpractised heart to learn. 

XXV. 

And Lara call'd his page, and went his way — 
Well could that stripling word or sign obey: 
His only follower from those climes afar, 
Where the soul glows beneath a brighter star ; 
For Lara left the shore from whence he sprung, 
In duty patient, and sedate though young; 
Silent as him he served, his faith appears 
Above his station, and beyond his years. 
Though not unknown the tongue of Lara's land, 
In such from him he rarely heard command ; 
But fleet his step, and clear his tones would come, 
When Lari's lip breathed forth the words of home: 
Those accents, as his native mountains dear. 
Awake their absent echoes in his ear. 
Friends', kindred's, parents', wonted voice recall, 
Now lost, abjured, for one — his friend, his all : 
For him earth now disclosed no other guide; 
What marvel then he rarely left his side ? 

XXVI. 
Light was his form, and darkly delicate 
That brow whereon his native sun had safe. 



But had not marr'd, though in his beams he grew, 
The cheek where oft the unbidden blush shone 

through ; 
Yet not such blush as mounts when health would show 
All the heart's hue in that delighted glow ; ^ 
But 't was a hectic tint of secret care 
That for a burning moment fever'd there ; 
And the wild sparkle of his eye seem'd caught 
From high, and lighten'd with electric thought. 
Though its black orb those long low lashes' fringe 
Had temper'd with a melancholy tinge ; 
Yet less of sorrow than of pride was there. 
Or, if 't were grief, a grief that none should share: 
And pleased not him the sports that please his age, 
The tricks of youth, the frolics of the page ; 
For hours on Lara he would fix his glance, 
As all-forgotten in that watchful trance ; 
And from his chief withdrawn, he wander'd lone, 
Brief were his answers, and his questions none; 
His walk the wood, his sport some foreign book j 
His resting-place the bank that curbs the brook: 
He seem'd, like him he served, to live apart 
From all that lures the eye, and fills the heart ; 
To know no brotherhood, and take from earth 
No gift beyond that bitter boon — our birth. 

XXVII. 

If aught he loved, 't was Lara ; but was shown 

His faith in reverence and in deeds alone; 

In mute attention ; and his care, which guess'd 

Each wish, fulfiU'd it ere the tongue express'd. 

Still there was haughtiness in all he did, 

A spirit deep that brook'd not to be chid ; 

His zeal, though more than that of servile hands. 

In act alone obeys, his air commands; 

As if 't was Lara's less than his desire 

That thus he served, but surely not for hire. 

Slight were the tasks enjoin'd him by his lord, 

To hold the stirrup, or to bear the sword ; 

To tune his lute, or, if he will'd it more, 

On tomes of other times and tongues to porej 

But ne'er to mingle with the menial train. 

To whom he show'd nor deference nor disdain, 

But that well-worn reserve which proved he knew 

No sympathy with that familiar crew : 

His soul, whate'er his station or his stem. 

Could bow to Lara, not descend to them. 

Of higher birth he seem'd, and better days. 

Nor mark of vulgar toil that hand betrays, 

So femininely white it might bespeak 

Another sex, when match'd with that smooth cheek. 

But for his garb, and something in his gaze. 

More wild and high than woman's eye betrays; 

A latent fierceness that far more became 

His fiery climate than his tender frame: 

True, in his words it broke not from his breast. 

But from his aspect might be more than guess'd. 

Kaled his name, though rumour said he bore 

Another ere he left his mountain-shore ; 

For sometimes he would hear, however nigh, 

That name repeated loud without reply, 

As unfamili\r, or, if roused again. 

Start to the sound, as but remember'd then ; 

Unless 't was Lara's wonted voice that spake. 

For then, ear, eyes, and heart would all awake. 

xxvni. 

He had look'd down upon the festive hall, 

And mark'd that sudden strife so mark'd of all : 

And when the crowd around and near him told 

Their wonder at the calmness of the bold. 

Their marvel how the high-born Lara bore 

Such insult, from a stranger doubly sore. 

The colour of young Kaled went and came, 

The lip of ashes, and the cheek of fiame ; 

And o'er his brow the dampening heart-drops threw 

The sickening iciness of that cold dew, 

That rises as the busy bosom sinks 

With heavy thoughts from which reflection shrinks. 

Yes — there be things which we must dream and dare. 

And execute ere thought be half aware : 



128 



LARA. 



[Canto II. 



Whate'er might Kaled's be, it was enow 

To seal his lip, but agonise his brow. 

He gazed on Ezzelin till Lara cast 

That sidelong smile upon the knight he past; 

When Kaled saw that smile his visage fell, 

As if on something recognised right well : 

His memory read in such a meaning more 

Thau Lara's aspect unto others wore : 

Forward he sprung — a moment, both were gone, 

And all within that hall seem'd left alone ; 

Each had so fix'd his eye on Lara's mien, 

All had so mix'd their feelings with that scene, 

That when his long dark shadow through the porch 

No more relieves the glare of yon high torch, 

Each pulse beats quicker, and all bosoms seem 

To bound as doubting from too black a dream, 

Such as we know is false, yet dread in sooth, 

Because the worst is ever nearest truth. 

And they are gone — but Ezzelin is there, 

With thoughtful visage and imperious airj 

But long reniain"d not ; ere an hour expired 

He waved his hand to Otho, and retired. 

XXIX. 

The crowd are gone, the revellers at rest ; 

The courteous host, and all-approving guest, 

Again to that accustom'd couch must creep 

Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep, 

And man, o'erlabour'd with his being's strife. 

Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life : 

There lie love's feverish hope, and cunning's guile. 

Hate's working brain, and lull'd ambition's wile j 

O'er each vain eye oblivion's pinions wave. 

And quench'd existence crouches in a grave. 

What better name may slumber's bed become ? 

Night's sepulchre, the universal home, 

Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk supine. 

Alike in naked helplessness recline ; 

Glad for awhile to heave unconscious breath, 

Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death. 

And shun, though day but dawn on ills increased, 

That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least. 



Why comes not Ezzelin ? The hour is past, 
And murmurs rise, and Otho's brow 's o'ercast 
" I know my friend ! his faith I cannot fear, 
If yet he be on earth, expect him here j 
The roof that held him m the valley stands 
Between my own and noble Lara's lands : 
My halls from such a guest had honour gain'd, 

' Nor had Sir Ezzelin his host disdain'd. 
But that some previous proof forbade bis stay, 
And urged him to prepare against to-day ; 
The word I pledged for his I pledge again, 
Or will myself redeem his knighthood's stain." 
He ceased — and Lara answer'cf, " I am here 

j To lend at thy demand a listening ear 
To tales of evil from a stranger's tongue, 

I Whose words already might my heart have wrung, 

■ But that I deem'd him scarcely less than mad, 

I Or, at the worst, a foe ignobly bad. 

I I know him not — but me it seems he knew 
In lands where — but I must not trifle too : 
Produce this babbler— or redeem the pledge ; 
Here in thy hold, and with thy falchion's edge." 
Proud Otho on the instant, reddening, threw 
His glove on earth, and forth his sabre flew. 
" The last alternative befits me best, 
And thus I answer for mine absent guest." 
With cheek unchanging from its sallow gloom, 

; However near his own or other's tomb ; 

1 With hand, whose almost careless coolness spoke 

j Its grasp well-used to deal the sabre-stroke ; 
With eye, though calm, determined not to spare, 
Did Lara too his willing weapon bare. 

! In vain the circling chieftains round them closed, 

j For Otho's frenzy would not be opposed ; 

I And from his lip those words of insult fell — 

I His sword is good who can maintain them well. 



IV. 



CANTO THE SECOND. 
I. 

Night wanes — the vapours round the mountains curl'( 
Melt into morn, and Light awakes the world. 
Man has another day to swell the past, 
And lead him near to little, but his last ; 
But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth. 
The sun is" in the heavens, and life on earth ; 
Flowers in the valley, splendour in the beam. 
Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream. 
Immortal man ! behold her glories shine, 
And cry, exulting inly, " They are thine ! " 
Gaze on, while yet thy gladden'd eye may see : 
A morrow comes when they are not for thee : 
And grieve what may above thy senseless bier, 
Nor earth nor sky will yield a single tear ; 
Nor cloud shall gather more^ nor leaf shall fall, 
Nor gale breathe forth one sigh for thee, for all ; 
But creeping things shall revel in tlieir spoil. 
And fit thy clay to fertilise the soil. 

II. 

T is mom — 't is noon — assembled in the hall. 

The gather'd chieftains come to Otho's call ; 

'T is now the promised hour, that must proclaim 

The life or death of Lara's future fame ; 

When Ezzelin his charge may here unfold. 

And whatsoe'er the tale, it must be told. 

His faith was pledged, and Lara's promise given, 

To meet it in the eye of man and heaven. 

Why comes he not'? Such truths to be divulged, 

Met'hinks the accuser's rest is long indulged. 

III. 
The hour is past, and Lara too is there. 
With self-confidmg, coldly patient air ; 



I Short was the conflict ; furious, blindly rash, 
j Vain Otho gave his tx)5om to the gash : 
i He bled, and fell ; but not with deadly wound, 
Stretch'd by a dextrous sleight along the ground. 
" Demand thy life I " He answer'd not : and then 
From that red floor he ne'er had risen again, 
For Lara's brow upon the moment grew 
Almost to blackness in its demon hue ; 
And fiercer shook his angry falchion now 
Than when his foe's was levell'd at his brow; 
Then all was stern coUectedness and art. 
Now rose the unleaven'd hatred of his heart; 
So little sparing to the foe he fell'd. 
That when theapproaching cro«d his arm withheld, 
He almost turn'd the thirsty point on those 
Who thus for mercy dared to interpose ; 
But to a moment's thought that purpose bent ; 
Yet look'd he on him still with eye intent. 
As if he loathed the ineffectual strife 
That left a foe, howe'er o'erthrown, with life ; 
As if to search how far the wound he gave 
Had sent its victim onward to his grave. 

V. 

Tliey raised the bleeding Otho, and the Leech 
Forbade all present question, sign, and speech ; 
The others met within a neighbouring hall, 
And he, incensed, and heedless of them all, 
The cause and conqueror in this sudden fray. 
In haughty silence slowly strode away ; 
He back'd" his steed, his homeward path he took. 
Nor cast on Otho's towers a single look. 

VI. 

But where was he ? that meteor of a night. 
Who menaced but to disappear with light. 
Where was this Ezzelin ? who came and went, 
To leave no other trace of his intent. 
He left the dome of Otho long ere mom, 
In darkness, yet so well the path was worn 
He could not miss it : near his dwelling lay ; 
I But there he was not, and with coming day 






Canto II.] 



LARA 



129 



Came fast inquiry, which unfolded nought, 
Except the absence of the chief it sought. 
A chamber tenantless, a steed at rest, 
His host alarm'd, his murmuring squires distress'd : 
Their search extends along, around the path, 
In dread to meet the marks of prowlers' wrath : 
But none are there, and not a brake hath borne, 
Nor gout of blood, nor shred of mantle torn ; 
Nor fall nor struggle hath defaced the grass, 
Which still retains a mark where murder was; 
Nor dabbling fingers left to tell the tale, 
The bitter print of each convulsive nail, 
When agonised hands that cease to guard, 
Wound in that pang the smoothness of the sward. 
Some such had been, if here a life was reft, 
But these were not; and doubting hope is left; 
And strange suspicion, whispering Lara's name, 
Now daily mutters o'er his blacken'd fame ; 
Then sudden silent when his form appear'd, 
Awaits the absence of the thing it fear'd, 
Again its wonted wondering to renew. 
And dye conjecture with a darker hue. 

VII. 

Days roll along, and Otho's wounds are heai'd, 
But not his pride ; and hate no more conceal'd : 
He was a man of power, and Lara's foe, 
The friend of all who sought to work him woe, 
And from his country's justice now demands 
Account of Ezzelin at Lara's hands. 
Who else than Lara could have cause to fear 
His presence? who had made him disappear. 
If not the man on whom his menaced charge 
Had sate too deeply were he left at large ? 
The general rumour ignorantly loud, 
The mystery dearest to the curious crowd ; 
The seeming friendlessness of him who strove 
To win no confidence, and wake no love ; 
The sweeping fierceness which his soul betray'd, 
The skill with which he wielded his keen blade ; 
Where had his arm unwarlike caught that art ? 
Where had that fierceness grown upon his heart ? 
For it was not the blind capricious rage 
A word can kindle and a word assuage ; 
But the deep working of a soul unmix'd 
With aught of pity where its wrath had fix'd ; 
Such as long power and overgorged success 
Concentrates into all that 's merciless : 
These, link'd with that desire which ever sways 
Mankind, the rather to condemn than praise, 
'Gainst Lara gathering raised at length a storm, 
Such as himself might fear, and foes would form, 
And he must answer for the absent head 
Of one that haunts him still, alive or dead. 

vin. 

Within that land was many a malcontent, 

Who cursed the tyranny to which he bent ; 

That soil full many a wringing despot saw. 

Who work'd his wantonness in form of law ; 

Long war without and frequent broil within 

Had made a path for blood and giant sin, 

That waited but a signal to begin 

New havoc, such as civil discord blends. 

Which knows no neuter, owns but foes or friends; 

Fix'd in his feudal fortress each was lord, 

In word and deed obey'd, in soul abhorr'd. 

Thus Lara had inherited his lands, 

And with them pinmg hearts and sluggish hands ; 

But that long absence from his native clime 

Had left him stainless of oppression's crime, 

And now, diverted by his milder sway, 

All dread by slow degrees had worn away. 

The menials felt their usual awe alone, 

But more for him than them that fear was grown ; 

They deem'd him now unhappy, though at first 

Their evil judgment augur'd of the worst. 

And each long restless night, and silent mood. 

Was traced to sickness, fed by solitude ; 

And though his lonely habits threw of late 

Gloom o'er his chamber, cheerful was his gate; 



j For thence ,the wretched ne'er unsoothed withdrew, 

! For them, at least, his soul compassion knew, 
Cold to the great, contemptuous to the high, 
The humble pass'd not his unheeding eye ; 
Much he would speak not, but beneath his roof 
They found asylum oft, and ne'er reproof. 
And they who watch'd might mark that, day by day, 
Some new retainers gather'd to his sway ; 
But most of late, since Ezzelin was lost, 
He play'd the courteous lord and bounteous host: 
Perchance his strife with Otho made him dread 
Some snare prepared for his obnoxious head ; 
Whate'er his view, his favour more obtains 

i With these, the people, than his fellow thanes. ] 

j If this were policy, so far 't was sound, 

I The million judged but of him as they found ; 

i From him by sterner chiefs to exile driven, 
They but required a shelter, and 't was given. 
By him no peasant mourn'd his rifled cot, 
And scarce the Serf could murmur o'er his lot ; 
With him old avarice found its hoard secure, 
With him contempt forbore to mock the poor ; 
Youth present cheer and promised recompense 
Detain'd, till all too late to part from thence : 
To hate he offer'd, with the coming change. 
The deep reversion of delay'd revenge ; 
To love, long baffled by the unequal match, 
The well-won charms success was sure to snatch. 
All now was ripe, he waits but to proclaim 

j That slavery nothing which was still a name. 

I The moment came, the hour when Otho thought 
Secure at last the vengeance which he sought : 
His summons found the destined criminal 
Begirt by thousands in his swarming hall. 
Fresh from their feudal fetters newly riven. 
Defying earth, and confident of heaven. 
That morning he had freed the soil-bound slaves. 
Who dig no land for tyrants but their graves ! 
Such is their cry — some watchword for the fight 
Must vindicate the wrong, and warp the right ; 

; Religion — freedom — vengeance — what you will, 

j A word 's enough to raise mankind to kill ; 
Some factious phrase by cunning caught and spread, 

I That guilt may reign, and wolves and worms be fed ! 

I IX. 

: Throughout that clime the feudal chiefs had gain'd 

j Such sway, their infant monarch hardly reign'd ; 

; Now was the hour for faction's rebel growth. 
The Serfs contemn'd the one, and hated boUi : 
They waited but a leader, and they found 
One to their cause inseparably bound ; 
By circumstance compell'd to plunge again. 
In self-defence, amidst the strife of men. 
Cut oft' by some mysterious fate from those 
Whom birth and nature meant not for his foes, 
Had Lara from that night, to him accurst. 
Prepared to meet, but not alone, the worst : 
Some reason urged, whate'er it was, to shun 
Enquiry into deeds at distance done ; 
By mingling with his own the cause of all, 
E'en if he fail'd, he still delay'd his fall. 
The sullen calm that long his bosom kept. 
The storm that once had spent itself and slept, 
Roused by events that seem'd foredoom'd to urge 
His gloomy fortunes to their utmost verge, 
Burst forth, and made him all he once had been, 
And is again ; he only changed the scene. 
Light care had he for life, and less for fame. 
But not less fitted for the desperate game : 
He deem'd himself niark'd out for others' hate. 
And mock'd at ruin so they shared his fate. 
What cared he for the freedom of the crowd ? 
He raised the humble but to bend the proud. 
He had hope4 quiet in his sullen lair, 
But man and destiny beset him there : 
Inured to hunters, he was found at bay ; 
And they must kill, they cannot snare' the prey. 
Stern, unambitious, silent, he had been 
Henceforth a calm spectator of life's scene ; 
But dragg'd again upon the arena, stood 
A leader not unequal to the feud ; 



130 



LARA. 



[Canto II. 



In voice — mien — gesture — savage nature spoke, 
And from his eye the gladiator broke. 
X. 

What boots the oft-repeated tale of strife, 

The feast of vultures, and the waste of life? 

The varying fortune of each separate field, 

The fierce that vanquish, and the faint that yield ? 

The smoking ruin, and the crumbled wall ? 

In this the struggle was the same with all ; 

Save that distemper'd passions lent their force 

In bitterness that banish'd all remorse. 

None sued, for Mercy knew her cr}' was vain, 

The captive died upon the battle-plain : 

In either cause, one rage alone possess'd 

The empire of the alternate victor's breast ; 

And they that smote for freedom or for sway, 

Deem'd few were slain, while more remain'd to slay. 

It was too late to check the wasting brand, 

And Desolation reap'd the famish'd land ; 

The torch was lighted, and the flame was spread, 

And Carnage smiled upon her daily dead. 

XI. 
Fresh with the nerve the new-born impulse strung, 
The first success to Lara's numbers clung : 
But that vain victory hath ruin'd all ; 
They form no longer to their leader's call : 
In blind confusion on the foe they press, 
And think to snatch is to secure success. 
The lusl of booty, and the thirst of hate, 
Lure on the broken brigands to their fate : 
In vain he doth whate'er a chief may do, 
To check the headlong fury of that crew ; 
In vain their stubborn ardour he would tame, 
The hand that kindles cannot quench the flame j 
The wary foe alone hath turn'd their mood, 
And shown their rashness to that erring brood : 
The feign'd retreat, the nightly ambuscade. 
The daily harass, and the fight delay'd. 
The long privation of the hoped supply, 
The tenfless rest beneath the humid sky, 
The stubborn wall that mocks the leaguer's art, 
And palls the patience of his bafBed heart, 
Of these they had not deem'd : the battle-day 
They could encounter as a veteran may ; 
But more preferr'd the fury of the strife. 
And present death, to hourly suflFering life : 
And famine wrings, and fever sweeps away 
His numbers melting fast from their array j 
Intemperate triumph fades to discontent. 
And Lara's soul alone seems still unbent. 
But few remain to aid his voice and hand. 
And thousands dwindled to a scanty band : 
Desperate, though few, the last and best remain'd 
To mourn the discipline they late disdain'd. 
One hope survives, the frontier is not far, 
And thence they may escape from native war; 
And bear within them to the neighbouring state 
An exile's sorrows, or an outlaw's hate : 
Hard is the task their father-land to quit. 
But harder still to perish or submit. 

XII. 
It is resolved — they march — consenting Night 
Guides with her star their dim and torchless flight j 
Already they perceive its tranquil beam 
Sleep on the surface of the barrier stream ; 
Already they descry — Is yon the bank ? 
Away ! 't is lined with many a hostile rank. 
Return or fly ! — What glitters in the rear? 
'T is Otho's banner — the pursuer's spear 1 
Are those the shepherds' fires upon the height ? 
Alas ! they blaze too widely for the flight : 
Cut off from hope, and compass'd in the toil. 
Less blood perchance hath bought a richer spoil ! 

xin. 

A moment's pause — 't is but to breathe their band. 
Or shall they onward press, or here withstand ? 
It matters little — if they charge the foes 
Who by their border-stream their march oppose, 



Some few, perchance, may break and pass the line, 
However link'd to baflBe such design. 
" The charge be ours ! to wait for their assault 
Were fate well worthy of a coward's halt." 
Forth flies each sabre, rein'd is every steed. 
And the next word shall scarce outstrip the deed : 
In the next tone of Lara's gathering breath 
How many shall but hear the voice of death ! 

XIV. 

His blade is bared, — in him there is an air 
As deep, but far too tranquil for despair ; 
A something of indifference more than then 
Becomes the bravest, if they feel for men. 
He turn'd his eye on Kaled, ever near, 
And still too faithful to betray one fear; 
Perchance 't was but the moon's dim twilight threw 
Along his aspect an unwonted hue 
Of mournful paleness, whose deep tint express'd 
The truth, and not the terror of his breast. 
This Lara mark'd, and laid his hand on his : 
^ It trembled not in such an hour as this ; 
His lip was silent, scarcely beat his heart, 
His eye alone proclaim'd, " We will not part ! 
Thy band may perish, or thy friends may flee. 
Farewell to life, but not adieu to thee ! " 

The word hath pass'd his lips, and onward driven, 
Pours the link'd band through ranks asunder riven ; 
Well has each steed obey'd the armed heel, 
And flash the scimitars, and rings the steel ; 
Outnumber'd, not outbraved, they still oppose 
Despair to daring, and a front to foes ; 
And blood is mingled with the dashing stream, 
Which runs all redly till the morning beam. 

XV. 
Commanding, aiding, animating all. 
Where foe appear'd to press, or friend to fall. 
Cheers Lara's voice, and waves or strikes his steel. 
Inspiring hope himself had ceased to feel. 
None fled, for well they knew that flight were vain ; 
But those that waver turn to smite again, 
While yet they find the firmest of the foe 
Recoil before their leader's look and blow : 
Now girt with numbers, now almost alone. 
He foils their ranks, or re-unites his own ; 
Himself he spared not — once they seem'd to fly — 
Now was the time, he waved his hand on high, 
And shook — Why sudden droops that plumed crest? 
The shaft is sped — the arrow 's in his breast ! 
That fatal gesture left the unguarded side. 
And Death has stricken down yon arm of pride. 
The word of triumph fainted from his tongue ; 
That hand, so raised, how droopingly it hung ! 
But yet the sword instinctively retains, 
Though from its fellow shrink the falling reins j 
These Kaled snatches : dizzy with the blow, 
And senseless bending o'er his saddle-bow. 
Perceives not Lara that his anxious page 
Beguiles his charger from the combat's rage : 
Meantime his followers charge, and charge again; 
Too mix'd the slayers now to heed the slain ! 

XVI. 
Day glimmers on the dying and the dead. 
The cloven cuirass, and the helmless head; 
The war-horse masterless is on the earth. 
And that last gasp hath burst his bloody girth ; 
And near, yet quivering with what life remain'd. 
The heel that urged him and the hand that rein'd ; 
And some too near that rolling torrent lie. 
Whose waters mock the lip o'f those that die ; 
That panting thirst which scorches in the breath 
Of those that die the soldier's fiery death, 
In vain impels the burning mouth to crave 
One drop — the last — to cool it for the grave ; 
With feeble and convulsive effort swept. 
Their limbs along the crimson'd turf have crept; 
The faint remains of life such struggles waste. 
But yet they reach the stream, and bend to taste : 
Thev feel its freshness, and almost partake — 
Why pause ? No further thirst have they to slake — 



^ 



Canto II.] 



LARA 



131 



It is unquench'd, and yet they feel it not j 
It was an agony — but now forgot ! 

XVII. 

Beneath a lime, remoter from the scene, 

Where but for him that strife had never been, 

A breathing but devoted warrior lay : 

'T was Lara bleeding fast from life away. 

His follower once, and now his only guide, 

Kneels Kaled watchful o'er his welling side. 

And with his scarf would stanch the tides that rush, 

With each convulsion, in a blacker gush ; 

And then, as his faint breathing waxes low, 

In feebler, not less fatal tricklings flow : 

He scarce can speak, but motions him 't is vain, 

And merely adds another throb to pain. 

He clasps the hand that pang which would assuage. 

And sadly smiles his thanks to that dark page, 

Who nothing fears, nor feels, nor heeds, nor sees, 

Save that damp brow which rests upon his knees ; 

Save that pale aspect, where the eye, though dim, 

Held all the light that shone on earth for him. 

XVIII. - 

The foe arrives, who long had search'd the field, 
Their triumph nought till Lara too should yield : 
They would remove him, but they see 't were vain, 
And he regards them with a calm disdain, 
That rose to reconcile him with his fate. 
And that escape to death from living hate : 
And Otho comes, and leaping from his steed. 
Looks on the bleeding foe that made him bleed, 
And questions of his state ; he answers not, 
Scarce glances on him as on one forgot. 
And turns to Kaled : — each remaining word 
They understood not, if distinctly heard ; 
His dying tones are in that other tongue, 
To which some strange remembrance wildly clung. 
They spake of other scenes, but what — is known 
To Kaled, whom their meaning reach'd alone j 
And he replied, though faintly, to their sound, 
While gazed the rest in dumb amazement round : 
They seem'd even then — that twain — unto the last 
To half forget the present in the past ; 
To share between themselves some separate fate, 
Whose darkness none beside should penetrate. 

XIX. 

Their words though faint were many — from the tone 
Their import those who heard could judge alone ; 
From this, you might have deem'd young Kaled's 

death 
More near than Lara's by his voice and breath, 
So sad, so deep, and hesitating broke 
The accents his scarce-moving pale lips spoke ; 
But Lara's voice, though low, at first was clear 
And calm, till murmuring death gasp'd hoarsely near : 
But from his visage little could we guess, 
So unrepentant, dark, and passionless, 
Save that when struggling nearer to his last, 
Upon that page his eye was kindly cast ; 
And once, as Kaled's answering accents ceased, 
Rose Lara's hand, and pointed to the East : 
Whether (as then the breaking sun from high 
Roll'd back the cloud) the morrow caught his eye, 
Or that 't was chance, or some remembered scene. 
That raised his arm to point where such had been. 
Scarce Kaled seem'd to know, but turn'd away. 
As if his heart abhorr'd that coming day. 
And shrunk his glance before that morning light, 
To look on Lara's brow — where all grew night- 
Yet sense seem'd left, though better were its loss j 
For when one near display'd the absolving cross, 
And proffer'd to his touch the holy bead, 
Of which his parting soul might own the need. 
He look'd upon it with an eye profane, 
And smiled — Heaven pardon! if 'twere with dis- 
dain : 
And Kaled, though he spoke not, nor withdrew 
From Lara's face his fix'd despairing view. 



With brow repulsive, and with gesture swift. 
Flung back the hand which held the sacred gift, 
As if such but disturb'd the expiring man. 
Nor seem'd to know his life but then began, 
That life of Immortality, secure 
To none, save them whose faith in Christ is sure. 

XX. 
But gasping heaved the breath that Lara drew, 
And dull the film along his dim eye grew ; 
His limbs stretch'd fluttering, and his head droop'd o'er 
The weak yet still untiring knee that bore ; 
He press'd the hand he held upon his heart — 
It beats no more, but Kaled will not part 
With the cold grasp, but feels, and feels in vain, 
For that faint throb which answers not again. 
" It beats ! "~ Away, thou dreamer ! he is gone — 
It once was Lara which thou look'st upon. 

XXI. 

He gazed, as if not yet had pass'd away 

The haughty spirit of that humble clay ; 

And those around have roused him from his trance. 

But cannot tear from thence his fixed glance ; 

And when, in raising him from where he bore 

Within his arms the form that felt no more. 

He saw the head his breast would still sustain, 

Roll down like earth to earth upon the plain j 

He did not dash himself thereby, nor tear 

The glossy tendrils of his raven hair, 

But strove to stand and gaze, but reel'd and fell, 

Scarce breathing more than that he loved so well. 

Than that he loved ! Oh ! never yet beneath 

The breast of man such trusty love may breathe ! 

That trying moment hath at once reveal'd 

The secret long and yet but half conceal'd j 

In baring to revive that lifeless breast. 

Its grief seem'd ended, but the sex confess'd ; 

And life return'd, and Kaled felt no shame — 

What now to her was Womanhood or Fame ? 

XXII. 
And Lara sleeps not where his fathers sleep. 
But where he died his grave was dug as deep ; 
Nor is his mortal slumber less profound, 
Though priest nor bless'd nor marble deck'd the 

mound ,• 
And he was mourn'd by one whose quiet grief. 
Less loud, outlasts a people's for their chief. 
Vain was all question ask'd her of the past. 
And vain e'en menace — silent to the last ; 
She told nor whence, nor why she left behind 
Her all for one who seem'd but little kind. 
Why did she love him ? Curious fool ! -— be still — 
Is human love the growth of human will ? 
To her he might be gentleness ; the stern 
Have deeper thoughts than your dull eyes discern, 
And when they love, your smilers guess not how 
Beats the strong heart, though less the lips avow. , 
They were not common links, that form'd the ch&in 
That bound to Lara Kaled's heart and brain ; 
But that wild tale she brook'd not to unfold. 
And seal'd is now each lip that could have told. 

XXIII. 
They laid him in the earth, and on his breast. 
Besides the wound that sent his soul to rest, 
They found the scatter'd dints of many a scar, 
Which were not planted there in recent war ; 
Where'er had pass'd his summer years of life, 
It seems they vanish'd in a land of strife j 
But all unknown his glory or his guilt. 
These only told that somewhere blood was spilt, 
And Ezzelin, who might have spoke the past, 
Return'd no more — that night appear'd his last. 

XXIV. 

Upon that night (a peasant's is the tale) 
A Serf that cross'd the intervening vale,i 



1 The event in this section was suggCBted by the descrip- 
tion of the death, or rather burial, of the Duke of Gan- 



132 



LARA. 



[Canto II. 



When CjTithia's light almost gave way to morn, 
And nearly veii'd in mist her waning horn j 



dia. The most interesting and particular account of it is 
given by Burchard, and is in substance as follows : — " On 
the eighth day of June, the Cardinal of Valenza and the 
Duke of Gandia, sons of the Pope, supped with their mo- 
ther, Vanozza, near the church of S. Pietro ad vincula; 
several other persons being present at the entertainment. 
A late hour approaching, and the cardinal having reminded 
his brother, that it was time to return to the apostolic 
palace, they mounted their horses or mules, with only a 
few attendants, and proceeded together as far as the palace 
of Cardinal Ascanio Sforza, when the Duke informed the 
cardinal that, before he returned home, he had to pay a 
visit of pleasure. Dismissing, therefore, all his attend- 
ants, excepting his staffiero, or footman, and a person in 
a mask, who had paid him a visit whilst at supper, and 
who, during the space of a month or thereabouts, previous 
to this time, had called upon him almost daily, at the 
apostolic palace, he took this person behind him on his 
mule, and proceeded to the street of the Jews, where he 
quitted his servant, directing him to remain there until a 
certain hour; when, if he did not return, he might repair 
to the palace. The Duke then seated the person in the 
mask behind him, and rode, I know not whither; but in 
that night he was assassinated, and thrown into the river. 
The servant, after having been dismissed, was also 
assaulted and mortally wounded; and although he was 
attended with great care, yet such was his situation, that 
he could give no intelligible account of what had befallen 
his master. In the morning, the Duke not having re- 
turned to the palace, his servants began to be alarmed ; 
and one of them informed the pontiff of the evening ex- 
cursion of his sons, and that the Duke had not yet made 
his appearance. This gave the Pope no small anxiety; 
but he conjectured that the Duke had been attracted by 
some courtesan to pass the night with her, and, not 
choosing to quit the house in open day, had waited till the 
following evening to return home. When, however, the 
evening arrived, and he found himself disappointed in his 
expectations, he became deeply afflicted, and began to 
make enquiries from diifferent persons, whom he ordered 
to attend him for that purpose. Amongst these was a man 
named Giorgio Schiavoni, who, having discharged some 
timber from a bark in the river, had remained on board 
the vessel to watch it ; and being interrogated whether he 
had seen any one thrown into the river on the night pre- 
ceding, he replied, that he saw two men on foot, who 
came down the street, and looked diligently about, to ob- 
serve whether any person was passing. That seeing no 
one, they returned, and a short time afterwards two others 
came, and looked around in the same manner as the for- 
mer : no person still appearing, they gave a sign to their 
companions, when a man came, mounted on a white 
horse, having behind him a dead body, the head and arms 
of which hung on one side, and the feet on the other side 
of the horse; the two persons on foot supporting the body, 
to prevent its falling. They thus proceeded towards that 
part, where the filth of the city is usually discharged into 
the river, and turning the horse, with his tail towards the 
water, the two persons took the dead body by the arms 
and feet, and with all their strength flung it into the river. 
The person on horseback then asked if they had thrown 
it in: tc which they replied, Signor, si (yes. Sir). He 
then looked towards the river, and seeing a mantle float- 
ing on the stream, he enquired what it was that appeared 
black, to which they answered, it was a mantle ; and one 
of them threw stones upon it, in consequence of which it 
sunk. The attendants of the pontiff then enquired from 
Giorgio, why he had not revealed this to the governor of 
the city; to which he replied, that he had seen in his 
time a hundred dead bodies thrown into the river at the 
same place, without any enquiry being made respecting 
them ; and that he had not, therefore, considered it as a 
matter of any importance. The fishermen and seamen 
were then collected, and ordered to search the river, 
where, on the following evening, they found the body of 
the Duke, with his habit entire, and thirty ducats in his 
purse. He was pierced with nine wounds, one of which 
was in his throat, the others in his head, body, and 
limbs. No sooner was the pontiff informed of the death 
of his son, and that he had been thrown, like filth, into 
the river, than, giving way to his grief, he shut himself 
up in a chamber, and wept bitterly. The Cardinal of Se- 
govia, and other attendants on the Pope, went to the 
door, and after many hours spent in persuasions and ex- 
hortations, prevailed upon him to admit them. From the 
evening of Wednesday till the following Saturday the Pope 
took no food; nor did he sleep from Thursday moining till 
the same hour on the ensuing day. At length, however, 



A Serf, that rose betimes to thread the wood, 
And hew the bough that bought his children's food, 
Pass'd by the river that divides the plain 
Of Otho's lands and Lara's broad domain : 
He heard a tramp — a horse and horseman broke 
From out the wood — before him was a cloak 
Wrapt round some burthen at his saddle-bow, 
Bent was his head, and hidden was his brow. 
Roused by the sudden sight at such a time. 
And some foreboding that it might be crime. 
Himself unheeded watch'd the stranger's course, 
Who reach'd the river, bounded from his horse, 
And lifting thence the burtiien which he bore, 
Heaved up the bank, and dash'd it from the shore, 
Then paused, and look'd, and turn'd, and seem'd to 

watch, 
And still another hurried glance would snatch, 
And follow with his step the stream that flow'd. 
As if even yet too much its surface show'd ; 
At once he started, stoop'd, around him strown 
The winter floods had scatter'd heaps of stone ; 
Of these the heaviest thence he gather'd there, 
And slung them with a more than common care. 
Meantime the Serf had crept to where unseen 
Himself might safely mark what this might mean ; 
He caught a glimpse, as of a floating breast, 
And something glitter'd starlike on the vest; 
But ere he well could mark the buoyant trunk, 
A massy fragment smote it, and it sunk : 
It rose again, but indistinct to view. 
And left the waters of a purple hue, 
Then deeply disappear'd : the horseman gazed 
Till ebb'd the latest eddy it had raised ; 
Then turning, vaulted on his pawing steed. 
And instant spurr'd him into panting speed. 
His face was mask'd — the features of the dead, 
If dead it were, escaped the observer's dread j 
But if in sooth a star its bosom bore. 
Such is the badge that knighthood ever wore. 
And such 't is known Sir Ezzelin had worn 
Upon the night that led to such a morn. 
If thus he perish'd, Heaven receive his soul ! 
His undiscover'd limbs to ocean roll ; 
And charity upon the hope would dwell 
It was not Lara's hand by which he fell. 

XXV. 
And Kaled — Lara — Ezzelin, are gone, 
Alike without their monumental stone ! 
The first, all efforts vainly strove to wean 
From lingering where her chieftain's blood had been ; 
Grief had so tamed a spirit once too proud, 
Her tears were few, her wailing never loud ; 
But furious would you tear her from the spot 
Where yet she scarce believed that he was not, 
Her eye shot forth with all the living fire 
That haunts the tigress in her whelpless ire ; 
But left to waste her weary moments there. 
She talk'd all idly unto shapes of air. 
Such as the busy brain of Sorrow paints. 
And woos to listen to her fond complaints: 
And siie would sit beneath the very tree 
Where lay his drooping head upon her knee ; 
And in that posture where she saw him fall. 
His words, his looks, his dyina: grasp recall ; 
And she had shorn, but saved her raven hair, 
And oft would snatch it from her bosom there, 
And fold, and press it gently to the ground. 
As if she stanch'd anew some phantom's wound. 
Herself would question, and for him reply j 
Then rising, start, and becKon him to fly 
] From sonie imagined spectre in pursuit ; 
Then seat her down upon some linden's root. 
And hide her visnge with her meagre hand, 
Or trace strange characters along the sand — 
This could not last — she lies by him she loved; 
Her tale untold — her truth too'dcarly proved. 

giving way to the entreaties of hie attendants, he began to 
restrain his sorrow, and«o consider the injury which his 
own health might sustain by the further indulgence of his 
grief. "'—ROSCOE'S Leo Tenth, vol. i. p. 2G5. 



^ 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



133 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH/ 



TO JOHN HOBHOUSE, Esd. 
THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED BYHIS FRIEND. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



" The grand army of the Turks (in 1715), under the 
Prime Vizier, to open to themselves a way into the 
heart of the Morea, and to form the siege of Napoli di 
Romania, the most considerable place in all that coun- 
try,» thought it best in the first place to attack Corinth, 
upon which they made several storms. The garrison 
being weakened, and Ihe governor seeing it was im,- 
possible to hold out against so mighty a force, thought 
it fit to beat a parley : but while they were treating 
about the articles, one of the magazines in the Turkish 
camp, wherein they hid six hundred barrels of pow- 
der, blew up by accident, wliereby six or seven hun- 
dred men were killed ; which so enraged the infidels, 
that they would not grant any capitulation, but storm- 
ed the place with so much fury, that they took it, and 
put most of the garrison, with Signior Minotti, the 
governor, to the sword. The rest, with Antonio 
Bembo, proveditor extraordinary, were made prisoners 
of war."— History of the Turks, vol. iii. p. 151. 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



In the year since Jesus died for men, 

Eighteen hundred years and ten, 

We were a gallant company, 

Riding o'er land, and sailing o'er sea. 

Oh 1 but we went merrily ! 

We forded the river, and clomb the high hill, 

Never our steeds for a day stood still ; 

Whether we lay in the cave or the shed, 

Our sleep fell soft on the hardest bed ; 

Whether we couch'd in our rough capote, 

On the rougher plank of our gliding boat. 

Or stretch'd on the beach, or our saddles spread 

As a pillow beneath the resting head, 

Fresh we woke upon the morrow : 

All our thoughts and words had scope, 

We had health, and we had hope. 
Toil and travel, but no sorrow. 
We were of all tongues and creeds ; — 
Some were those who couHted beads, 
Some of mosque, and some of church, 

And some, or I mis-say, of neither; 
Yet through the wide world might ye search, 

Nor find a motlier crew nor blither. 

But some are dead, and some are gone. 
And some are scatter'd and alone. 



1 Published in January, 1816. 

5: Napoli di Romania i8 not now the most considerable 
place in the Morea, but Tripulitza, where the Pacha re- 
fiides, and maintains his goveinrneiit. Napoli is near 
Argos. I visited all three in 1810-11 ; and, in the course 
of journeying through the country from my first arrival 
in lfc09, I crossed the Isthmus eight times in my way 
from Attica to the Morea, over the mountains; or in the 
other direction, when passing from the Gulf of Athens to 
that of Lepanto. Both the routes are picturesque and 
beautiful, though very different: that by sea has more 
sameness; but the voyage being always within sight of 
land, and often very near it, pr,esents many attractive 
views of the islands Salamis, Egina, Poro, &c. and the 
coast of the Continent. 



And some are rebels on the hills 3 

That look along Epirus' valleys, 

Where freedom still at moments rallies, 
And pays in blood oppression's ills; 

And some are in a far countree, 
And some all restlessly at home ; 

But never more, oh I never, we 
Shall meet to revel and to roam. 
But those hardy days flew cheerily ! 
And when they now fall drearily, 
My thoughts, like swallows, skim the main, 
And bear my spirit back again 
Over the earth, and through the air, 
A wild bird and a wanderer. 
'T is this that ever wakes my strain, 
And oft, too oft, implores again 
The few who may endure my lay, 
To follow me so far away. 
Stranger — wilt thou follow now, 
And sit with me on Acro-Corinth's brow ? 

I. 

Many a vanish'd year and age, 

And tempest's breath, and battle's rage. 

Have swept o'er Corinth ; yet she stands, 

A fortress form'd to Freedom's hands. 

The whirlwind's wrath, the earthquake's shock. 

Have left untouch'd her hoary rock. 

The keystone of a land, which still, 

Though fall'n, looks proudly on that hill, 

The landmark to the double tide 

That purpling rolls on either side, 

As if their waters chafed to meet, 

Yet pause and crouch beneath her feet. 

But could the blood before her shed 

Since first Timoleon's brother bled, 

Or bafHed Persia's despot fled. 

Arise from out the earth which drank 

The stream of slaughter as it sank, 

That sanguine ocean would o'erflow 

Her isthmus idly spread below : 

Or could the bones of all the slain, 

Who perish'd there, be piled again, 

That rival pyramid would rise 

More mountain-like, through those clear skies, 

Than yon tower-capp'd Acropolis, 

Which seems the very clouds to kiss. 

II. 

On dun Cithaeron's ridge appears 
The ?leam of twice ten thousand spears; 
And downward to the Isthmian plain, 
From shore to shore of either main, 
The tent is pitch'd, the crescent shines 
Along the Moslem's leaguering lines; 
And the dusk Spahi's bands 4 advance 
Beneath each bearded pacha's glance ; 
And far and wide as eye can reach 
The turban'd cohorts throng the beach ; 
And there the Arab's camel kneels, 
And there his steed the Tartar wheels ; 



3 The last tidings recently heard of Dervish (one of the 
Arnaoutswho followed me) state him to be in revolt upon 
the mountains, at the head of some of the bands common 
in that country in times of trouble. 
I 4 Turkish holders of military fiefs, which oblige them 
to join the army, mounted at their own expense.— E. 



12 





134 THE SIEGE OF CORIJNTH. 






The Turcoman hath left his herd, i 


When on Carlowitz' bloody plain, 
The last and mightiest of the slain. 






The sabre round his loins to gird ; 






And there the volleying thunders pour, 


He sank, regretting not to die, 






Till waves grow smoother to the roar. 


But cursed the Christian's victory — 






The trench is dug, the cannon's breath 


Coumourgi — can his glory cease, 






Wings the far-his<ing globe of death : 


That latest conqueror of Greece, 






Fast whirl the fragments from the wall. 


Till Christian hands to Greece restore 






Which crumbles with the ponderous ball ; 


The freedom Venice gave of yore ? 






And from that wall the foe replies, 


A hundred years have roll'd away 






O'er dusty plain and smoky skies, 


Since he refix'd the Moslem's sway ; 






With fires that answer fast and well 


And now he led the Mussulman, 






The summons of the Infidel. 


And gave the guidance of the van 






III. 


To Alp, who well repaid the trust 






By cities levell'd with the dust ; 






But near and nearest to the vsrall 


And proved, by many a deed of death, 






Of those who wish and work its fall, 


How firm his heart in novel faith. 






With deeper skill in war's black art. 








Than Othman's sons, and high of heart 


VI. 






As any chief that ever stood 


The walls grew weak ; and fast and hot 






Triumphant in the fields of blood ; 


Against them pour'd the ceaseless shot, 






From post to post, and deed to deed, 


With unabatiug fury sent 






Fast spurring on his reeking steed, 


From battery to battlement ; 






Where sallying ranks the trench assail, 


And thunder-like the pealing din 






And make the foremost Moslem quail ; 


Rose from each heated culverin ; 






Or where the battery, guarded well, 


And here and there some crackling dome 






Remains as yet impregnable. 


Was fired before the exploding bomb j 






Alighting cheerly to inspire 


And as the fabric sank beneath 






The soldier slackening in his fire; 


The shattering shell's volcanic breath, 






The first and fre-.hest of the host 


In red and wreathing columns flash'd 






Which Stamboul's sultan there can boast, 


The flame, as loud the ruin crash'd, 






To guide the follower o'er the field. 


Or into countless meteors driven, 






To point the tube, the lance to wield, 


Its earth-stars melted into heaven ; 






Or whirl around the bickering blade ; — 


Whose clouds that day grew doubly dun. 






Was Alp, the Adrian renegade 1 


Impervious to the hidden sun. 






IV. 


With volumed smoke that slowly grew 
To one wide sky of sulphurous hue. 






From Venice — once a race of worth 






His gentle sires — he drew his birth ; 
But late an exile from her shore. 
Against his countrymen he bore 
The arms they taught to bear ; and now 
The turban girt his shaven brow. 
Through many a change had Corinth pass'd 
With Greece to Venice' rule at last ; 
And here, before her walls, with those 


VII. 






But not for vengeance, long delay'd, 
Alone, did Alp, the renegade. 
The Moslem warriors s-ernly teach 
His skill to pierce the promised breach : 
Within these walls a maid was pent 
His hope would win, without consent 
Of that inexorable sire, 






To Greece and Venice equal foes, 


Whose heart refused him in its ire, 






He stood a foe, with all the zeal 


When Alp, beneath his Christian name, 






Which young and fiery converts feel, 
Within whose heated bosom throngs 


Her virgin hand aspired to claim. 
In happier mood, and earlier time. 
While unimpeach'd for traitorous crime, 
Gavest in gondola or hall. 






The memory of a thousand wrongs. 
To him had'Venice ceased to be 






Her ancient civic boast — " the Free ;" 
And in the palace of St. Mark 


He'glitter'd through the Carnival j 
And tuned the softest sei'enade 






Unnamed accusers in the dark 
Within the " Lion's mouth" had placed 


That e'er on Adria's waters play'd 
At midnight to Italian maid. 






A charge against him unefFaced : 








He fled in time, and saved his life, 


VIII. 






To waste his future years in strife, 
That taught his land how great her loss 


And many deem'd her heart was won ; 
For sought by numbers, given to none, 
Had young Francesca's hand remain'd 
Still by the church's bonds unchain'd : 






In him who triumph'd o'er the Cross, 






'Gainst which he rear'd the Crescent high, 






And battled to avenge or die. 


And when the Adriatic bore 






V. 


Lanciotto to the Paynim shore, 






Coumourgi ^ — he whose closing scene 
Adorn'd the triumph of Eugene, 


Her wonted smiles were seen to fail, 
And pensive wax'd the maid and pale ; 
More constant at confessional. 
More rare at masque and festival : 
Or seen at such, with downcast eyes. 






IThe life of the Turcomans is wandering and patri- 
archal : th«y dwell in tents. 

2 Ali Coumourgi, the favourite of three sultans, and 
Grand Vizier to Achmet III., after recovering Peloponne- 
sus from the Venetians in one campaign, was mortally 






Which conquer'd hearts they ceased to prize: 
With listless look she seemi to gaze : 
With humbler care her form arrays; 






wounded in the next, against the Germans, at the battle 


Her voice less lively in the song ; 






of Peterwaradin (in the plain of Carlowitz), in Hungary, 


Her step, though light, less fleet among 






endeavouring to rally his guards. He died of his wounds 


The pairs, on whom the Morning's glance 






next day. His last order was the decapitation of General 


Breaks, yet unsated with the dance. 






Breuner, and some other German prisoners; and his last 








words, "Oh that I could thus serve all the Christian 


IX. 






dogs !" a speech and act not unlike one of Caligula. He 
was a young man of great ambition and unbounded pre- 
sumption : on being told that Prince Eugene, then opposed 


Sent by the state to guard the land, 
(Which, wrested from the Moslem's hand, 






to him, "was a great general." he said, "I shall become a 


While Sobieski tamed his pride 






greater, and at his expense. " 


By Buda's wall and Danube's side, 





THE SIEGE OF CORINTH 



135 



The chiefs of Venice wrung away 
From Patra to Eubcea's bay,) 
Minotti held in Corinth's towers 
The Doge's delegated powers, 
While yet the pitying eye of Peace 
Smiled o'er her long-forgotten Greece : 
And ere that faithless truce was broke 
Which freed her from the unchristian yoke, 
With him his gentle daughter came ; 
Nor there, since Menelaus' dame 
Forsook her lord and land, to prove 
What woes await on lawless love, 
Had fairer form adorn'd the shore 
Than she, the matchless stranger, bore. 

X. 

The wall is rent, the ruins yawn ; 
And, with to-morrow's earliest dawn, 
O'er the disjointed mass shall vault 
The foremost of the fierce assault. 
The bands are rank'd ; the chosen van 
Of Tartar and of Mussulman, 
The full of hope, misnamed " forlorn," 
Who h9ld the thought of death in scorn, 
And win their way with falchion's force, 
Or pave the way with many a corse. 
O'er which the following brave may rise, 
Their stepping-stone — the last who dies ! 

XI. 

'T is midnight : on the mountains brown 
The cold, round moon shines deeply down; 
Blue roll the waters, blue the sky 
Spreads like an ocean hung on high, 
Bespangled with those isles of light, 
So wildly, spiritually bright ; 
Who ever gazed upon them shining 
And turn'd to earth without repining, 
Nor wish'd for wings to flee away, 
And mix with their eternal ray ? 
The waves on either shore lay there 
Calm, clear, and azure as the air ; 
And scarce their foam the pebbles shook, 
But murmur'd meekly as the brook. 
The winds were pillow'd on the waves ; 
The banners droop'd along their staves, 
And, as they fell around them furling. 
Above them shone the crescent curling ; 
And that deep silence was unbroke. 
Save where the watch his signal spoke. 
Save where the steed neigh'd oft and shrill. 
And echo answer'd from the hill. 
And the wide hum of that wild host 
Rustled like leaves from coast to coast, 
As rose the Muezzin's voice in air 
In midnight call to wonted prayer ; 
It rose, that chanted mournful strain. 
Like some lone spirit's o'er the plain : 
'Twas musical, but sadly sweet. 
Such as when winds and harp-strings meet, 
And take a long unmeasured tone. 
To mortal minstrelsy unknown. 
It seem'd to those within the wall 
A cry prophetic of their fall : 
It struck even the besieger's ear 
With something ominous and drear. 
An undefined and sudden thrill. 
Which makes the heart a moment still, 
Then beat with quicker pulse, ashamed 
Of that strange sense its silence framed j 
Such as a sudden passing-bell 
Wakes, though but for a stranger's knell. 

XII. 

The tent of Alp was on the shore ; 

The sound was hush'd, the prayer was o'er; 

The watch was set, the night-round made. 

All mandates issued and obey'd : 

'T is but another anxious night, 

His pains the morrow may requite 



With all revenge and love can pay, 

lo guerdon for their long delay. 

Few hours remain, and he hath need 

Of rest, to nerve for many a deed 

Of slaughter ; but within his soul 

The thoughts like troubled waters roll. 

He stood alone among the host ; 

Not his the loud fanatic boast 

To plant the crescent o'er the cross. 

Or risk a life with little loss, 

Secure in paradise to be 

By Houris loved immortally : 

Nor his, what burning patriots feel, 

The stern exaltedness of zeal. 

Profuse of blood, untired in toil. 

When battling on the parent soil. 

He stood alone — a renegade 

Against the country he betray'd ; 

He stood alone amidst his band. 

Without a trusted heart or hand : 

They follow'd him, for he was brave. 

And great the spoil he got and gave ; 

They crouch'd to him, for he had skill 

To warp and wield the vulgar will : 

But still his Christian origin 

With them was little less than sin. 

They envied even the faithless fame 

He earn'd beneath a Moslem name ; 

Since he, their mightiest chief, had been 

In youth a bitter Nazarene. 

They did not know how pride can stoop, 

When baffled feelings withering droop ; 

They did not know how hate can burn 

In hearts once changed from soft to stern ; 

Nor all the false and fatal zeal 

The convert of revenge can feel. 

He ruled them — man may rule the worst, 

By ever daring to be first : 

So lions o'er the jackal sway ; 

The jackal points, he fells the prey, 

Then on the vulgar yelling press, 

To gorge the relics of success. 

xni. 

His head grows fever'd, and his pulse 
The quick successive throbs convulse j 
In vain from side to side he throws 
His form, in courtship of repose ; 
Or if he dozed, a sound, a start 
Awoke him with a sunken heart. 
The turban on his hot brow press'd, 
The mail weigh'd lead-like on his breast. 
Though oft and long beneath its weight 
Upon his eyes had slumber sate, 
Without or couch or canopy, 
Except a rougher field and^ sky 
Than now might yield a warrior's bed, 
Than now along the heaven was spread. 
He could not rest, he could not stay 
Within his tent to wait for day, 
But walk'd him forth along the sand, 
Where thousand sleepers strew'd the strand. 
What pillow'd them ? and why should he 
More wakeful than the humblest be, 
Since more their peril, worse their toil ? 
And yet they fearless dream of spoil ; 
While he alone, where thousands pass'd 
A night of sleep, perchance their last, 
In sickly vigil wander'd on, 
And envied all he gazed upon. 

XIV. 

He felt his soul become more light 
Beneath the freshness of the night. 
Cool was the silent sky, though calm. 
And bathed his brow with airy balm : 
Behind, the camp — before him lay, 
In many a winding creek and bay, 
Lepanto's gulf; and, on the brow 
Of Delphi's hill, unshaken snow, 
High and eternal, such as shone 
Through thousand summers brightly gone, 



4 

i 



136 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



Along the gulf, the mount, the dime; 
It will not melt, like man, to time : 
Tyrant and slave are swept away. 
Less form'd to wear before the ray ; 
But that white veil, the lightest, frailest, 
Which on the mighty mount thou hailest, 
While tower and tree are torn and rent, 
Shines o'er its craggy battlement ; 
In form a peak, in height a cloud, 
In texture like a hovering shroud. 
Thus high by parting Freedom spread, 
As from her fond abode she fled. 
And linger'd on the spot, where long 
Her prophet spirit spake in song. 
Oh ! still her step at moments falters 
O'er wither'd fields, and ruin"d altars. 
And fain would \vake, in souls too broken, 
By pointing to each glorious token : 
But vain her voice, till better days 
Dawn in those yet remember'd rays, 
Which shone upon the Persian flying, 
And saw the Spartan smile in dying. 

XV. 
Not mindless of these mighty times 
Was Alp, despite his flight and crimes; 
And through this night, as on he wander'd, 
And o'er the past and present ponder'd, 
And thought upon the glorious dead 
Who there in better cause had bled, 
He felt how faint and feebly dim 
The fame that could accrue to him, 
Who cheer'd the band, and waved the sword, 
A traitor in a turban'd horde ; 
And led them to the lawless siege, 
Whose best success were sacrilege. 
Not so had those his fancy number'd, 
The chiefs whose dust around him slumber'd ; 
Their phalanx marshalPd on the plain, 
Whose bulwarks were not then in vain. 
They fell devoted, but undying ; 
The very gale their names seem'd sighing ; 
The waters murmur'd of their name ; 
The woods were peopled with their fame; 
The silent pillar, lone and grey, 
Claim'd kindred with their sacred clay ; 
Their spirits wrapp'd the dusky mountain, 
Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain ; 
The meanest rill, the mightiest river 
Roll'd mingling with their fame for ever. 
Despite of every yoke she bears. 
That land is glory's still and theirs ! 
'T is still a watch-word to the earth : 
When man would do a deed of worth 
He points to Greece, and turns to tread, 
So sanction'd, on the tyrant's head: 
He looks to her, and rushes on 
Where life is lost, or freedom won. 

XVI. 

Still by the shore Alp mutely mused. 

And woo'd the freshness Night diffused. 

There shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea,i 

Which changeless rolls eternally ; 

So that wildest of waves, in their angriest mood. 

Scarce break on the bounds of the land for a rood , 

And the powerless moon beholds them flow, 

Heedless if she come or go : 

Calm or high, in main or bay, 

On their course she hath no sway. 

The rock unworn its base doth bare, 

And looks o'er the surf, but it comes not there ; 

And the fringe of the foam may be seen below, 

On the line that it left long ages ago : 

A smooth short space of yellow sand 

Between it and the greener land. 

He wander'd on, along the beach, 

Till within the range of a carbine's reach 



1 The reader need hardly be reminded that there are no 
perceptible tides in the Mediterracean. 



Of the leaguer'd wall ; but they saw him not, 

Or how could he 'scape from the hostile shot? 

Did traitors lurk in the Christians' hold ? 

Were their hands grown stiff, or their hearts wax'd 

cold? 
I know not, in sooth ; but from yonder wall 
There flash'd no fire, and there hiss'd no ball, 
Though he stood beneath the bastion's frown, 
That flank'd the sea-ward gate of the town ; 
Though he heard the sound, and could almost tell 
The sullen words of the sentinel. 
As his measured step on the stone below 
Clank'd, as he paced it to and fro ; 
And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall 
Hold o'er the dead their carnival. 
Gorging and growling o'er carcass and limb ; 
They were too busy to bark at him ! 
From a Tartar's skull they had stripp'd the flesh, 
As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh ; 
And their white tusks crunch'd o'er the whiter 

skull, 2 
As it slipp'd through their jaws, when their edge 

grew dull, 
As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead. 
When tliey scarce could rise from the spot where 

they fed ; 
So well had they broken a lingering fast 
With those who had fallen for that night's repast. 
And Alp knew, by the turbans that roll'd on the 

sand. 
The foremost of these were the best of his band : 
Crimson and green were the shawls of their wear. 
And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair,3 
All the rest was shaven and bare. 
The scalps were in the wild dog's maw. 
The hair was tangled round his jaw: 
But close by the shore, on the edge of the gulf. 
There sat a vulture flapping a wolf, 
Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away. 
Scared by the dogs, from the human prey ; 
But he seized on his share of a steed that lay, 
Pick'd by the birds, on the sands of the bay. 

XVIL 

Alp turn'd him from the sickening sight : 

Never had shaken his nerves in fisrht; 

But he better could brook to behold the dying, 

Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying, 

Scorch'd with the death-thirst, and writhing in vain, 

Than the perishing dead who are past all pain. 

There is something of pride in the perilous hour, 

Whate'er be the shape in which deith may lower; 

For Fame is there to say who bleeds, 

And Honour's eye on daring deeds 1 

But when all is past, it is humbling to tread 

O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead, 

And see worms of the earth, and fowls of the air, 

Beasts of the forest, all gathering there; 

All regarding man as their prey, 

All rejoicing in his decay. 

XVIII. 

There is a temple in ruin stands, 
Fashion'd by long forgotten hands ; 
Two or three columns, and many a stone, 
Marble and granite, with grass o'ergrown ! 
Out npon Time ! it will leave no more 
Of the things to come than the things before ! 



2 This spectacle I have seen, such as desciibed, beneath 
the wall of the Seraglio at Constantinople, in the little 
cavities worn by the Bosphorus in the rock, a narrow ter- 
race of which projects between the wall and the water. 
I think the fact is also mentioned in Hobhouse's Travels. 
The bodies were probably those of some refractory Jani- 
zaries. ~ ["The sensations produced by the state of the 
weather, and leaving a comfortable cabin, were in unison 
with the impressions which we felt when, passing under 
the palace of the Sultans, and gazing at the gloomy 
cypresses which rise above the walls, we saw two dogs 
gnawing a dead body." — HOBHOUSE. — E.] 

3 This tuft, or long lock, is left from a superstition that 
Mahomet will draw them into Paradise by it. 



THE SIEGE OF OORINTH. 



137 



Out upon Time ! Who for ever will leave 

But enough of the past for the future to grieve, 

O'er that which hath been, and o'er that which must 

be: 
What we have seen, our sons shall see ; 
Remnants of things that have pass'd away. 
Fragments of stone, rear'd by creatures of clay ! 

XIX. 

He sate him down at a pillar's base, 

And pass'd his hand athvvurt his facej 

Like one in dreary musing mood, 

Declining was his attitude ; 

His head was drooping on his breast, 

Fever'd, throbbing, and oppress'd ; 

And o'er his brow, so downward bent, 

Ott his beating fingers went. 

Hurriedly, as you may see 

Your own run over the ivory key. 

Ere the measured tone is taken 

By the chords you would awaken. 

There he sate all heavily, 

As he heard the night-wind sigh. 

Was it the wind through some hollow stone, 

Sent that soft and tender moan ? J- 

He lifted his head, and he look'd on the sea, 

But it was unrippled as glass may be ; 

He look'd on the long grass — it waved not a blade j 

How was that gentle sound convey'd ? 

He look'd to the banners — each flag lay still, 

So did the leives on Ciihaeron's hill, 

And he felt not a breath come over his cheek j 

What did that sudden sound bespeak ? 

He turn'd to the left — is he sure of sight ? 

There sate a lady, youthful and bright ! 

XX. 

He started up with more of fear 

Than if an armed foe were near. 

" God of my fathers ! what is here ? 

Who art thou ? and wherefore sent 

So near a hostile armament ? " 

His trembling hands refused to sign 

The cross he deem'd no more divine : 

He had resumed it in that hour, 

But conscience wrung away the power. 

He gazed, he saw : he knew the face 

Of beauty, and the form of grace j 

It was Francesca by his side, 

The maid who might have been his bride! 

The rose was yet upon her cheek, 

But mellow'd with a tenderer streak : 

Where was the play of her soft lips fled ? 

Gone was the smile that enliven'd their red. 

The ocean's calm within their view, 

Beside her eye had less of blue ; 

But like that cold wave if stood still, 

And its glance, though clear, was chill. 

Around her form a thin robe twining. 

Nought conceal'd her bosom shining; 

Through the parting of her hair. 

Floating darkly downward there. 

Her rounded arm show'd white and bare : 

And ere yet she made reply. 

Once she raised her hand on high ; 

It was so wan, and transparent of hue. 

You might have seen the moon shine through. 



1 I muBt here acknowledge a close, though uninten- 
tional, resemblance in these twelve lines to a passage in 
an unpublished poem of Mr. Coleridge, called "Christa- 
bel." It was not till after these lines were written that 
I heard that, wild and siiigiilarly original and beautiful 
poem recited; and the MS. of that production I never 
saw till very recently, by the kindness of Mr. Coleridge 
himself, who, I hope, ie convinced that I have not been a 
wilful plagiarist. The original idea undoubtedly pertains 
to Mr. Coleridge, whose poem has been composed above 
fourteen years. Let me conclude by a hope that he will 
not longer delay the publication of a production, of which 
I can only add my mite of approbation to the applause of 
far more competent judges. 



XXI. 

" I come from my rest to him I love best. 

That I may be happy, and he may be bless'd. 

I have pass'd the guards, the gate, the wall j 

Sought thee in satety through foes and all. 

'T is said the lion will turn and flee 

From a maid in the pride of her purity ; 

And the Power on high, that can shield the good 

Thus from the tyrant of the wood. 

Hath extended its mercy to guard me as well 

From the hands of the leaguering infidel. 

I come — and if I come in vain. 

Never, oh never, we meet again ! 

Thou hast done a fearful deed 

In falling away from thy fathers' creed : 

But dash that turban to earth, and sign 

The sign of the cross, and for ever be mine; 

Wring the black droj) from thy heart, 

And to-morrow unites us no more to part." 

" And where should our bridal couch be spread ? 

In the midst of the dying and the dead ? 

For to-morrow we give to the slaughter and flame 

The sons and the shrines of the Christian name. 

None, save thou and thine, I've sworn, 

Shall be left upon the morn : 

But thee will I bear to a lovely spot, 

Where our hands shall be join'd, and our sorrow 

forgot. 
There thou yet shalt be my bride. 
When once again I 've quell'd the pride 
Of Venice ; and her hated race 
Have felt the arm they would debase. 
Scourge, with a whip of scorpions, those 
Whom vice and envy made my foes." 

Upon his hand she laid her own — 

Light was the touch, but it thrill'd to the bone, 

And shot a chillness to his heart, 

Which fix'd him beyond the power to start. 

Though slight was th it grasp so mortal cold. 

He could not loose him from its hold ; 

But never did clasp of one so dear 

Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear, 

As those thin fingers, long and white. 

Froze through his blood by their touch that night. 

The feverish glow of his brow was gone, 

And his heart sank so still that it felt like stone, 

As he look'd on the face, and beheld its hue, 

So deeply changed from what he knew : 

Fair but faint — without the ray 

Of mind, that made each feature play 

Like sparkling waves on a sunny day ; 

And her motionless lips lay still as death. 

And her words came fortli. without her breath. 

And there rose not a heave o'er her bosom's swell. 

And there seem'd not a pulse in her veins to dwell. 

Though her eye shone out, yet the lids were fix'd, 

And the glance that it gave was wild and unmix'd 

With aught of change, as the eyes may seem 

Of the restless who walk in a troubled dream; 

Like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare, 

Stirr'd by the breath of the wintry air, 

So seen by the dying lamp's fiiful light. 

Lifeless, but life-like, and awful to sight ; 

As they seem, through the dimness about to come 

down 
From the shadowy wall where their images frown ; 
Fearfully flitting to and fro. 
As the gusts on the tapestry come and go. 

" If not for love of me be given 

Thus much, then, for the love of heaven, — 

Again 1 say — that turban tear 

From off thy faithless brow, and swear 

Thine injured country's sons to spare, 

Or thou art lost ; and never shalt see — 

Not earth — that 's past — but heaven or me. 

If this thou dost accord, albeit 

A heavy doom 't is thine to meet. 

That doom shall half absolve thy sin,_ 

And mercy's gate may receive thee within: 



12 



138 



THE SIEGE OF CORIJNTH. 



But pause one moment more, and take 
The curse of Him thou didst forsake ; 
And look once more to heaven, and see 
Its love for ever shut from thee. 
There is a light cloud by the moon — i 
'T is passing^and will pass full soon — 
If, by the time its vapoury sail 
Hath ceased her shaded orb to veil, 
Thy heart within thee is not changed, 
Then God and man are both avenged j 
Dark will thy doom be, darker still 
Thine immortality of ill." 

Alp look'd to heaven, and saw on high 

The sign she spake of in the sky ; 

But his heart was swollen, and turn'd aside, 

By deep interminable pride. 

This first false passion of his breast 

RoU'd like a torrent o'er the rest. 

He sue for mercy ! He dismay'd 

By wild words of a timid mai'd ! 

He., wrong'd by Venice, vow to save 

Her sons, devoted to the grave ! 

No — though that cloud were thunder's worst, 

And charged to crush him — let it burst ! 

He look'd upon it earnestly, 

Without an accent of reply ; 

He watch 'd it passing ; it is flown : 

Full on his eye the clear moon shone, 

And thus he spake— " Whate'er my fate, 

I am no changeling — 't is too late : 

The reed in storms may bow and quiver, 

Then rise again ; the tree must shiver. 

What Venice made me, I must be, 

Her foe in all, save love to thee : 

But thou art safe : oh, fly with me '. " 

He turn'd, but she is gone ! 

Nothing is there but the column stone. 

Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in air? 

He saw not — he knew not — but nothing is there. 

XXII. 

The night is past, and shines the sun 
As if that morn were a jocund one. 
Lightly and brightly breaks away 
The Morning from her mantle grey, 
And the Noon will look on a sultry day. 
Hark to the trump, and the drum, 
And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn. 
And the flap of the banners, that flit as they're borne, 
And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum. 
And the clash, and the shout, " They come ! they 
come ! " 



1 1 have been told that the idea expressed in this and 
the five following lines has been admired by those whose 
approbation is valuable. I am glad of it : but it is not 
original — at least not mine; it may befound much better 
expressed in pages 182-3-4. of the English version of 
•' Vathek" (I forget the precise page of the French), a 
work to which I have before referred ; and never recur to, 
or read, without a renewal of gratification.— [The follow- 
ing is the passage:— "'Deluded prince'.' said the Genius 
addressing the Caliph, 'to whom Providence hath confided 
the care of innumerable subjects; is it thus that thou 
fulfiUest thy mission ? Thy crimes are already completed ; 
and art thou now hastening to thy punishment ? Thou 
knowest that beyond those mountains Eblis and his 
accursed dives hold their infernal empire ; and, seduced by 
a malignant phantom, thou art proceeding to surrender 
thyself to them! This moment is ihe last of grace 
allowed thee: give back Nouronahar to her father, who 
still retains a few sparks of life: destroy thy tower, with 
all its abominations: drive Carathie from thy councils: 
be just to thy subjects: respect the ministers of the pro- 
phet: compensate for thy impieties by an exemplary life; 
and, instead of squandering thy days in voluptuous indul- 
gence, lament thy crimes on the sepulchres of thy ances- 
tors. Thou beholdest the clouds that obscure the sun : at 
the instant he recovers his splendour, if thy heart be not 
changed, the time of mercy assigned thee will be past 
for ever.' "] — E. 



The horsetails i are pluck'd from the ground, and 

the sword 
From its sheath ; and they form, and but wait for 

the word. 
Tartar, and Spahi, and Turcoman, 
Strike your tenis, and throng to the van j 
Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain, 
That the fugitive may flee in vain. 
When he breaks from the town ; and none escape, 
Aged or young, in the Christian shape ; 
While your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass. 
Bloodstain the breach through which they pass. 
The steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein j 
Curved is each neck, and flowing each mane j 
White is the foam of their champ on the bit ; 
The spears are uplifted ; the matches are lit j 
The cannon are pointed and ready to roar, 
And crush the wall they have crumbled before : 
Forms in his phalanx each janizar ; 
Alp at their head j his right arm is bare. 
So is the blade of his scimitar ; 
The khan and the pachas are all at their post ; 
The vizier himself at the head of the host. 
When the culverin's signal is fired, then on ; 
Leave not in Corinth a living one — 
A pi iest at her altars, a chief in her halls, 
A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls. 
God and the prophet — Alia Hu ! 
Up to the skies with that wild halloo ! 
" There the breach lies for passage, the ladder to 

scale ; 
And your hands on your sabres, and how should ye 

fail? 
He who first downs with the red cross may crave 
His heart's dearest wish j let him ask it, and have ! " 
Thus utter'd Coumourgi, the dauntless vizier; 
The reply was the brandish of sabre and spear. 
And tlie shout of fierce thousands in joyous ire : — 
Silence — hark to the signal — fire ! 

xxin. 

As the wolves, that headlong go 

On the stately butfalo. 

Though with fiery eyes, and angry roar. 

And hoofs that stamp, and horns that gore. 

He tramples on earth, or tosses on high 

'J'he foremost, who rush on his strength but to die : 

Thus against the wall they went. 

Thus the first were backward bent; 

Many a bosom, sheathed in brass, 

Strew'd the earth like broken glass, 

Shiver'd by the shot, that tore 

The ground whereon they moved no more : 

Even as they fell, in files'they lay, 

Like the mower's grass at the close of day. 

When his work is done on the levell'd plain ; 

Such was the fall of the foremost slain. 

XXIV. 

As the spring-tides, with heavy plash, 

From the clitfs invading dash 

Huge fragments, sapp'd by the ceaseless fliow, 

Till white and thundering down they go, 

Like the avalanche's snow 

On the Alpine vales below ; 

Thus at length, outbreathed and worn, 

Corinth's sons were downward borne 

By the long and oft renew'd 

Charge of the Moslem multitude. 

In firmness they stood, and in masses they fell, 

Heap'd by the host of the infidel, 

Hand to hand, and foot to foot : 

Nothing there, save death, was mute j 

Stroke, and thrust, and flash, and cry 

For quarter, or for victory, 

Mingle there with the volleying thunder, 

Which makes the distant cities wonder 

How the sounding battle goes, 

If with them, or for their foes j 



1 The horsetails, fixed upon a lance, a pacha's standard. 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



139 



If they must mourn, or may rejoice 

In that annihilating voice, 

Which pierces the deep hills through and through 

With an echo dread and new : 

You might have heard it, on that day, 

O'er Salamis and Megara ; 

(We have heard the hearers say,) 

Even unto Piraeus' bay. 

XXV. 

From the point of encountering blades to the hilt, 

Sabres and swords with blood were gilt ; 

But the rampart is won, and the spoil begun. 

And all but the after carnage done. 

Shriller shrieks now mingling come 

From within the plunder'd dome: 

Hark to the haste of flying feet, 

That splash in the blood of the slippery street; 

But here and there, where 'vantage ground 

Against the foe may still be found, 

Desperate groups, of twelve or ten, 

Make a pause, and turn again — 

With banded backs against the wall. 

Fiercely stand, or fighting fall. 

There stood an old man — his hairs were white, 

But his veteran arm was full of might : 

So gallantly bore he the brunt of the fray, 

The dead before him, on that day. 

In a semicircle lay ; 

Still he combated unwounded. 

Though retreating unsurrounded. 

Many a scar of former fight 

Lurk'd beneath his corslet bright ; 

But of every wound his body bore, 

Each and all had been ta'en before : 

Though aged, he was so iron of limb, 

Few of our youth could cope with him ; 

And the foes, whom he singly kept at bay, 

Outnumber'd his thin hairs of silver grey. 

From right to left his sabre swept : 

Many an Othman mother wept 

Sons that were unborn, when dipp'd 

His weapon first in Moslem gore. 

Ere his years could count a score. 

Of all he might have been the sire 

Who fell that day beneath his ire : 

For, sonless left long years ago, 

His wrath made many a childless foe ; 

And since the day, when in the strait 1 

His only boy had met his fate, 

His parent's iron hand did doom 

More than a human hecatomb. 

If shades by carnage be appeased, 

Patroclus' spirit less was pleased 

Than his, Minotti's son, who died 

Where Asia's bounds and ours divide. 

Buried he lay, where thousands before 

For thousands of years were inhumed on the shore : 

What of them is left, to tell 

Where they lie, and how they fell ? 
Not a stone on their turf, nor a bone in their graves ; 
But they live in the verse that immortally saves. 

XXVI. 

Hark to the Allah shout ! a band 

Of the Mussulman bravest and best is at hand : 

Their leader's nervous arm is bare, 

Swifter to smite, and never to spare — 

Unclothed to the shoulder it waves them on; 

Thus in the fight is he ever known : 

Others a gaudier garb may show, 

To tempt the spoil of the greedy foe ; 

Many a hand 's on a richer hilt. 

But none on a steel more ruddily gilt; 

Many a loftier turban may wear, — 

Alp is but known by the white arm bare ; 

Look through the thick of the fight, 't is there ! 



1 In the naval battle at the mouth of the Dardanelles, 
between the Venetians and Turks. 



There is not a standard on that shore 
So well advanced the ranks before ; 
There is not a banner in Moslem war 
Will lure the Delhis half so far; 
It glances like a falling star ! 
Where'er that mighty arm is seen. 
The bravest be, or late have been ; 
There the craven cries for quarter 
Vainly to the vengeful Tartar ; 
Or the hero, silent lying. 
Scorns to yield a groan in dying ; 
Mustering his last feeble blow 
'Gainst the nearest levell'd foe. 
Though faint beneath the mutual wound. 
Grappling on the gory ground. 

XXVII. 

Still the old man stood erect. 

And Alp's career a moment check'd. 

" Yield thee, Minotti ; quarter take, 

For thine own, thy daughter's sake." 

" Never, renegade, never ! 

Though the life of thy gift would last for ever." 

" Francesca ! — Oh, my promised bride ! 

Must she too perish by thy pride ? " 

*' She is safe."—" Where ? where ? "--<' In heaven ; 

From whence thy traitor soul is driven — 

Far from thee, and undefiled." 

Grimly then Minotti smiled. 
As he saw Alp staggering bow 
Before his words, as with a blow. 

" Oh God ! when died she ? » — « Yesternight — 

Nor weep I for her spirit's flight : 

None of my pure race shall be 

Slaves to Mahomet and thee — 

Come on ! " — That challenge is in vain — 

Alp 's already with the slain ! 

While Minotti's words were wreaking 

More revenge in bitter speaking 

Than his falchion's point had found. 

Had the time allow'd to wound. 

From within the neighbouring porch 

Of a long defended church, 

Where the last and desperate few 

Would the failing fight renew. 

The sharp shot dash'd Alp to the ground ; 

Ere an eye could view the wound 

That crash'd through the brain of the infidel, 

Round he spun, and down he fell; 

A flash like fire within his eyes 

Blazed, as he bent no more to rise, 

And then eternal darkness sunk 

Through all the palpitating trunk : 

Nought of life left, save a quivering 

Where his limbs vvere slightly shivering: 

They turn'd him on his back ; his breast 

And brow were stain'd with gore and dust. 

And through his lips the life-blood oozed. 

From its deep veins lately loosed ; 

But in his pulse there was no throb. 

Nor on his lips one dying sob ; 

Sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath 

Heralded his way to death : 

Ere his very thought could pray, 

Unanel'd he pass'd away. 

Without a hope from mercy's aid. 

To the last— a Renegade. 

XXVIII. 

Fearfully the yell arose 
Of his followers, and his foes; 
These in joy, in fury those : 
Then again in conflict mixing, 
Clashing swords, and spears transfixing, 
Interchanged the blow and thrust, 
Hurling warriors in the dust. 
Street by street, and foot by foot. 
Still Minotti dares dispute 



140 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



The latest portion of the land 
Left beneath his high command ; 
With him, aiding heart and hand, 
The remnant of his gallant band. 
Still the church is tenable. 

Whence issued late the fated ball 

That half avenged the city's fall, 
When Alp, her fierce assailant, fell : 
Thither bending sternly back, 
They leave before a bloody track ; 
And, with their faces to the foe. 
Dealing wounds with every blow, 
The chief, and his retreating train, 
Join to those within the fane ; 
There they yet may breathe awhile, 
Shelter'd by the massy pile. 

XXIX. 

Brief breathing-time ! the turban'd host, 
With adding ranks and raging boast. 
Press onwards with such strength and heat, 
Their numbers balk their own retreat ; 
For narrow the way that led to the spot 
Where still (he Christians yielded not ; 
And the foremost, if fearful, may vainly try 
Through the massy column to turn and Hy ; 
They perforce must do or die. 

They die ; but ere their eyes could close, 

Avengers o'er their bodies rose ; 

Fresh and furious, fast they fill 

The ranks unthinn'd, though slaughter'd still ; 

And faint the weary Christians wax 

Before the still renew'd attacks : 

And now the Othmans gain the gate ; 

Still resists its iron weight. 

And still, all deadly aim'd and hot, 

From every crevice comes the shot ; 

From every shatter'd window pour 

The volleys of the sulphurous shower : 

But the portal wavering grows and weak — 

The iron yields, the hinges creak — 

It bends — it falls — and all is o'er j 

Lost Corinth may resist no more ! 

XXX. 

Darkly, sternly, and all alone, 

Minotti stood o'er the altar stone: 

Madonna's face upon him shone, 

Painted in heavenly hues above, 

With eyes of light and looks of love j 

And placed upon that holy shrine 

To fix our thoughts on things divine. 

When pictured there, we kneeling see 

Her, and the boy-God on her knee, 

Smiling sweetly on each prayer 

To heaven, as if to waft it there. 

Still she smiled ; even now she smiles, 

Though slaughter streams along her aisles : 

Minotti lifted his aged eye. 

And made the sign of a cross with a sigh, 

Then seized a torch which blazed thereby ; 

And still he stood, while with steel and flame, 

Inward and onward the Mussulman came. 

XXXI. 

The vaults beneath the mosaic stone 

Contain'd the dead of ages gone ; 

Their names were on the graven floor. 

But now illegible with gore ; 

The carved crests, and curious hues 

The varied marble's veins ditiuse, 

Were smear'd, and slippery — stain'd, and strewn 

With broken swords, and helms o'erthrown : 

There were dead above, and the dead belovf 

Lav cold in many a coffin'd row ; 

You might see them piled in sable state, 

Bv a pale light through a gloomy grate; 

Biit War had enter'd their dark caves, 

And stored along the vaulted graves 

Her sulphurous treasures, thickly spread 

In masses by the flesh! ess dead : 



I Here, throughout the siege, had been 
'J he Christians' chiefest magazine ; 
To these a late form'd train now led, 
Minotii's last and stern resource 
Against the foe's o'erwhelming force. 

XXXII. 
The foe came on, and few remain 
To strive, and those must strive in vain: 
For lack of further lives, to slake 
The thirst of vengeance now awake. 
With barbarous blows they gash the dead, 
And lop the already lifeless head, 
And fell the statues from their niche, 
And spoil the shrines of olterings rich, 
And from each other's rude hands wrest 
The silver vessels saints had bless'd. 
To the high altar on they go; 
Oh, but itmade a glorious show ! 
On its table still behold 
The cup of consecrated gold ; 
Massy and deep, a glittering prize, 
Brigritly it sparkles to plunderers' eyes : 
Tliat morn it held the holy wine. 
Converted by Christ to his blood so divine. 
Which his worshippers drank at the break of day, 
To shrive their souls ere they join'd in the fray. 
Still a few drops within it lay ; 
And round the sicred table glow 
Twelve lofty lamps, in splendid row, 
From the purest metal cast ; 
A spoil — the richest, and the last. 

XXXIII. 
So near they came, the nearest stretch'd 
To grasp the s{)oil he almost reach'd, 

When old Minotti's hand 
Touch'd wjih the torch the train — 

'T is fired ! 
Spire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain. 
The turban'd victors, the Christian band, 
All that of living or dead remain, 
Hurl'd on high with the shiver'd fane. 

In one wild roar expired ! 
The shatter'd town — the walls thrown down — 
The waves a moment backward bent — 
The hills that shake, although unreut, 

As if an earthquake pass'd — 
The thousand shapeless things all driven 
In cloud and flame athwart the heaven. 

By that tremendous blast — 
Proclaim'd the desperate conflict o'er 
On that too long afflicted shore : 
Up to the sky like rockets go 
All that mingled there below: 
Many a tall and goodly man, 
Scorch'd and shrivell'd to a span, 
When he fell to earth again 
Like a cinder strew-d the plain : 
Down the ashes shower like rain ; 
Some fell in the gulf, which received the sprinkles 
With a thousand circling wrinkles; 
Some fell on the shore, but, far away, 
Scatter'd o'er the isthmus lay ; 
Christian or Moslem, which be they? 
Let their mothers see and say ! 
When in cradled rest they lay, 
And each nursing mother smiled 
On the sweet sleep of her child. 
Little deem'd she such a day 
Would rend those tender limbs away. 
Not the matrons that them bore 
Could disqern their offspring more ; 
That one ifiioment left no trace 
More of human f^rm or face. 
Save a scatter'd scalp or bone : 
And down came blazing rafters, strown 
Around, and many a falling stone. 
Deeply dinted in the clay, 
All bhcken'd there and reeking lay. 
All the living things that heard 
The deadly earth-shock disappear'd : 



PARI SIN A. 



141 



The wild birds flew ; the wild dogs fled, 
And howling left the unburied dead ; 
The camelstrom their keepers broke; 
The distant steer forsook the yoke — 
The nearer steed plunged o'er the plain, 
And burst his girth, and tore his rein ; 
The bull-frog's note, from out the marsh, 
Deep-mouth'd arose, and doubly harsh j 
The wolves yell'd on the cavern'd hill 
Where echo roU'd in thunder still ; 
The jackal's troop, in gather'd cry,*- 
Bay'd from afar complainingly, 



1 I believe I have taken a poetical license to transplant 



With a mix'd and mournful sound. 
Like crying babe, and beaten hound : 
With sudden wing, and ruflfled breast, 
The eagle left his rocky nest. 
And mounted nearer to the sun. 
The clouds beneath him seem'd so dun ; 
Their smoke assail'd his startled beak. 
And made him higher soar and shriek' — 
Thus was Corinth lost and won ! 



the jackal from Asia. In Greece I never saw nor heard 
these animals; but among the ruins of Ephesus I have 
heard them by hundreds. They haunt ruins, and foUcw 
armies. 



PARISINA/ 



TO SCROPE BERDMORE DAVIES, Esa. 
THE FOLLOWING POEM IS INSCRIBED 

BY ONE WHO HAS LONG ADMIRED HIS TALENTS AND VALUED HIS FRIENDSHIP. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The following poem is grounded on a circumstance 
mentioned in Gibbon's " Antiquities of the House of 
Brunswick." I am aware, that in modern times, the 
delicacy or fastidiousness of the reader may deem such 
subjects unfit for the purposes of poetry. The Greek 
dramatists, and some of the best of our old English 
writers, were Of a different opinion : as Alfieri and 
Schiller have also been, more recently, upon the Con- 
tinent. The following extract will explain the facts 
on which the story is founded. The name of Azo is 
substituted for Nicholas, as more metrical. 

" Under the reign of Nicholas III. Ferrara was pol- 
luted with a domestic tragedy. By the testimony of an 
attendant, and his own observation, the Marquis of 
Este discovered the incestuous loves of his wife Pari- 
sina, and Hugo his bastard son, a beautiful and valiant 
youth. They were beheaded in the castle by the sen- 
tence of a father and husband, who published his shame, 
and survived their execution.s He was unfortunate, 
if they were guilty : if they were innocent, he was 
still more unfortunate ; nor "is there any possible situa- 
tion in which I can sincerely approve the last act of 
the justice of a parent." — GIBBON'S Miscellaneous 
Works, vol. iii. p. 470. 

The facts on wliich the present poem was grounded 
are thus given in Frizzi's History of Ferrara : — 

" This turned out a calamitous year for the people of 
Ferrara ; for there occurred a very tragical event in 
the court of their sovereign. Our annals, both printed 
and in manuscript, with the exception of the unpolish- 
ed and negligent work of Sardi, and one other, have 
given the following relation of it, — from which, how- 
ever, are rejected many details, and especially the nar- 
rative of Bandelli, who wrote a century afterwards, 
and who does not accord with the contemporary his- 
torians. 

"• By the above-mentioned Stella dell' Assassino, the 
Marquis, in the year 1405, had a son called Ugo, a 
beautiful and ingenuous youth. Parisina Malatesta, 
second wife of Niccolo, like the generality of step- 
mothers, treated him with little kindness, to the infinite 
regret of the Marquis, who regarded him with fond 

2 Published in January, 1816. 

3 "Ferrara is much decayed and depopnlated ; but the 
castle still exists entire; and I saw the court where Pari- 
sina and HuRo were beheadtjd, according to the annal of 
Gibbon.'" — Byron's Letters, 1817. — E. 



partiality. One day she asked leave of her husband to 
undertake a certain journey, to which he consented, 
but upon condition that Ugo should bear her company ; 
for he hoped by these means to induce her, in the end, 
to lay aside the obstinate aversion which she had con- 
ceived against him. And indeed his intent was accom- 
plished but too well, since, during the journey, she not 
only divested herself of all her hatred, but fell into the 
opposite extreme. After their return, the Marquis had 
no longer any occasion to renew his former reproofs. 
It happened one day that a servant of the Marquis, 
named Zoese, or, as some call him, Giorgio, passing 
before the apartments of Parisina, saw going out from 
them one of her chamber-maids, all terrified and in 
tears. Asking the reason, she told him that her mis- 
tress, for some slight offence, had been beating her: 
and, giving vent to her rage, she added, that she could 
easily be revenged, if she chose to make known the 
criminal familiarity which subsisted between Parisina 
and her step-son. The servant took note of the words, 
and related them to his master. He was astounded 
thereat, but, scarcely believing his ears, he assured 
himself of the fact, alas! too clearly, on the ISth of 
May, by looking through a hole made in the ceiling of 
his wife's chamber. Instantly he broke into a furious 
rage, and arrested both of them, together with Aldo- 
brandlno Rangoni, of Modena, her gentleman, and 
also, as some say, two of the women of her chamber, 
as abettors of this sinful act. He ordered them to be 
brought to a hasty trial, desiring the judges to pro- 
nounce sentence, in the accustomed forms, upon the 
culprits. This sentence was death. Some there were 
that bestirred themselves in favour of the delinquents, 
and, amongst others, Ugoccion Conlrario, who was all 
powerful with Niccolo, and also his aged and much 
deserving minister Alberto dal Sale. Both of these, 
their tears flowing down their cheeks, and upon their 
knees, implored him for mercy ; adducing whatever 
reasons they could suggest for sj)aring the otfenders, be- 
sides those m.olives of honour and decency which 
might persuade him to conceal from the public so 
scandalous a deed. But his rage made him inflexible, 
and, on the instant, he conmianded that the sentence 
should be put in execution. 

" It was, then, in the prisons of the castle, and ex- 
actly in those frightful dungeons which are seen at this 
day beneath the chamber called the Aurora, at the foot 
of the Lion's tower, at the top of the street Giovecca, 
that on the night of the 21st of May were beheaded, 
first, Ugo, and afterwards Parisina. Zoese, he that 
accused her, conducted the latter under his arm to the 



142 



FARISIJNA. 



place of punishment. She, all along, fancied that she 
was to be thrown into a pit, and asked at every step, 
whether she was yet come to the spot ? She was told 
that her punishment was the axe. She enquired what 
was become of Ugo, and received for answer, tliat he 
was already dead ; at the which, sighing grievously, 
she exclaimed, ' Now, then, I wish not myself to 
live ;' and, being come to the block, she stripped her- 
self with her own hands of all her ornaments, and, 
v/rapping a cloth round her head, submitted to the 
fatal stroke, which terminated the cruel scene. The 
same was done with Rangoni, who, together with the 
others, according to two calendars in the library of St. 
Francesco, was buried in the cemetery of that convent. 
Nothing else is known respecting the women. 

" The Marquis kept watch the whole of that dread- 
ful night, and, as he was walking backwards and for- 
wards, enquired of the captain of the castle if Ugo 
was dead yet ? who answered him, yes. He then gave 
himself up to the most desperate lamentations, ex- 
claiming, ' Oh ! that 1 too were dead, since I have 
been hurried on to resolve thus against my own Ugo ! ' 
And then gnawing with his teeth a cane which he had 
in his hand, he passed the rest of the night in sighs and 
in tears, calling frequently upon his own dear Ugo. 
On the following day, calling to mind that it would be 
necessary to make public his justification, seeing that 
the transaction could not be kept secret, he ordered the 
narrative to be drawn out upon paper, and sent it to 
all the courts of Italy. 

"On receiving this advice, the Doge of Venice, 
Francesco Foscari, gave orders, but without publishing 
his reasons, that stop should be put to the preparations 
for a tournament, which, under the auspices of the 
Marquis, and at the expense of the city of fadua, was 
about to take place, in the square of St. Maik, in order 
to celebrate his advancement to the ducal chair. 

" The Marquis, in addition to what be had already 
done, from some unaccountable burst of vengeance, 
commanded that as many of the married women as 
were well known to him to be faithless, like his Pari- 
sina, should, like her, be beheaded. Amongst others, 
Barberina, or, as some call her, Laodamia Romei, wife 
of the court judge, underwent this sentence, at the 
usual place of execution ; that is to say, in the quarter 
of St. Giacomo, opposite the present fortress, beyond 
St. Paul's. It cannot be told how strange appeared 
this proceeding in a prince, who, considering his own 
disposition, should, as it seemed, have been in such 
cases most indulgent. Some, however, there were 
who did not fail to commend him." 

The above passage of Frizzi was translated by Lord 
Byron, and formed a closing note to the original edi- 
tion of "Parisina."— E. 



PARISINA. 



I. 

It is the hour when from the boughs 

The nightingale's high note is heard ; 
It is the hour when lovers' vows 

Seem sweet in every whisper'd wordj 
And gentle winds, and waters near, 
Make music to the lonely ear. 
Each flower the dews have lightly wet, 
And in the sky the stars are met, ' 
And on the wave is deeper blue, 
And on the leaf a browner hue. 
And in the heaven that clear obscure, 
So softly dark, and darkly pure. 
Which follows the decline of day. 
As twilight melts beneath the moon away, i 



IThe lines contained in this section were printed as set 
to music some time since, but belonged to the poem where 
they now appear ; the greater part of which was com- 
posed prior to " Lara." 



II. 

But it is not to list to the waterfall 

That Parisina leaves her hall, 

And it is not to gaze on the heavenly light 

That the lady walks in the shadow of night j 

And if she sits in Este's bower, 

'T is not for the sake of its full-blown flower-- 

She listens — but not for the nightingale — 

Though her ear expects as soft a tale. 

There glides a step through the foliage thick, 

And her cheek grows pale — and her heart beats 

quick. 
There whispers a voice through the rustling leaves, 
And her blush returns, and her bosom heaves : 
A moment more — and they shall meet — 
'T is past — her lover 's at her feet. 

III. 

And what unto them is the world beside, 
With all its change of time and tide ? 
Its living things — its earth and sky^ 
Are nothing to their mind and eye. 
And heedless as the dead are they 

Of aught around, above, beneath j 
As if all else had pass'd away, 

They only for each other breathe j 
Their very sighs are full of joy 

So deep, that did it not decay, 
That happy madness would destroy 

The hearts which feel its fiery sway : 
Of guilt, of peril, do they deem 
In that tumultuous tender dream ? 
Who that have felt that passion's power. 
Or paused or fear'd in such an hour ? 
Or thought how brief such moments last ? 
But yet — they are already past ! 
Alas ! we must awake before 
We know such vision comes no more. 

IV. 

With many a lingering look they leave 

The spot of guilty gladness past : 
And though they hope, and vow, they grieve, 

As if that parting were the last. 
The frequent sigh — the long embrace — 

The lip that there would cling for ever, 
While gleams on Parisina's face 

The Heaven she fears will not forgive her, 
As if each calmly conscious star 
Beheld her frailty from afar — 
The frequent sigh, the long embrace. 
Yet binds them to their trysting-place. 
But it must come, and they must part 
In fearful heaviness of heart, 
With all the deep and shuddering chill 
Which follows fast the deeds of ill. 



And Hugo is gone to his lonely bed. 

To covet there another's bride; 
But she must lay her conscious head 

A husband's trusting heart beside. 
But fever'd in her sleep she seems, 
And red her cheek with troubled dreams, 

And mutters she in her unrest 
A name she dare not breathe by day, 

And clasps her Lord unto the breast 
Which pants for one away ; 
And he to that embrace awakes. 
And, happy in the thought, mistakes 
That dreaming sigh, and warm caress, 
For such as he was wont to bless j 
And could in very fondness weep 
0"er her who loves him even in sleep. 

VI. 

He clasp'd her sleeping to his heart, 
And listened to each broken word : 

He hears — why doth Prince Azo start, 
As if the Archangel's voice he heard ? 



^ 



PARISINA. 



143 



And well he may — a deeper doom 
Could scarcely thunder o'er his tomb, 
When he shall wake to sleep no more, 
And stand the eternal throne before. 
And well he may — his earthly peace 
Upon that sound is doom'd to cease. 
That sleeping whisper of a name 
Bespeaks her guilt and Azo's shame. 
And whose that name ? that o'er his pillow 
Sounds fearful as the breaking billow, 
Which rolls the plank upon the shore, 

And dashes on the pointed rock 
The wretch who sinks to rise no more, — 

So came upon his soul the shock. 
And whose that name?— 'tis Hugo's,— his — 
In sooth he had not deem'd of this ! — 
'T is Hugo's,— he, the child of one 
He loved — his own all-evil son — 
The offspring of his wayward youth, 
When he betray'd Bianca's truth. 
The maid whose folly could confide 
In him who made her not his bride. 

VII. 

He pluck'd his poniard in its sheath, 

But sheath'd it ere the point was bare — 
Howe'er unworthy now to breathe, 
He could not slay a thing so fair — 
At least, not smiling — sleeping — there — 
Nay more : — he did not wake her then. 
But gazed upon her with a glance 
Which, had she roused her from her trance. 
Had frozen her sense to sleep again — 
And o'er his brow the burning lamp 
Gleam'd on the dew-drops big and damp. 
She spake no more — but still she slumber'd — 
While, in his thought, her days are number'd. 

VIII. 

And with the morn he sought and found, 

In many a tale from those around, 

The proof of all he fear'd to know, 

Their present guilt, his future woe j 

The long-conniving damsels seek 
To save themselves, and would transfer 
The guilt — the shame — the doom — to her ; 

Concealment is no more — they speak 

All circumstance which may compel 

Full credence to the tale they tell : 

And Azo's tortured heart and ear 

Have nothing more to feel or hear. 

IX. 

He was not one who brook'd delay : 

Within the chamber of his state. 
The chief of Este's ancient sway 

Upon his throne of judgment sate ; 
His nobles and his guards are there, — 
Before him is the sinful pair; 
Both young, — and one how passing fair ! 
With swordless belt, and fetter'd hand, 
Oh, Christ ! that thus a son should stand 

Before a father's face ! 
Yet thus must Hugo meet his sire, 
And hear the sentence of his ire, 

The tale of his disgrace ! 
And yet he seems not overcome, 
Although, as yet, his voice be dumb. 



And still, and pale, and silently 

Did Parisina wait her doom ; 
How changed since last her speaking eye 

Glanced gladness round the glittering room, 
Where high born men were proud to wait — 
Where Beauty watch'd to imitate 

Her gentle voice — her lovely mien — 
And gather from her air and gait 

The graces of its queen ; 
Then,— had her eye in sorrow wept, 
A thousand warriors forth had leapt, 



A thousand swords had sheathless shone. 

And made her quarrel all their own. 

Now,— what is she ? and what are they ? 

Can she command, or these obey ? 

All silent and unheeding now. 

With downcast eyes and knitting brow, 

And folded arms, and freezing air. 

And lips that scarce their scorn forbear. 

Her knights, her dames, her court — is there : 

And he, the chosen one, whose lance 

Had yet been couch'd before her glance. 

Who — were his arm a moment free — 

Had died or gain'd her liberty ; 

The minion of his father's bride, — 

He, too, is fetter'd by her side ; 

Nor sees her swoln and full eye swim 

Less for her own despair than him : 

Those lids — o'er which the violet vein 

Wandering, leaves a tender stain, 

Shining through the smoothest white 

That e'er did softest kiss invite — 

Now seem'd with hot and livid glow 

To press, not shade, the orbs below j 

Which glance so heavily, and fill, 

As tear on tear grows gathering still. 

XI. 
And he for her had also wept, 

But for the eyes that on him gazed : 
His sorrow, if he felt it, slept ; 

Stern and erect his brow was raised. 
Whate'er the grief his soul avow'd. 
He would not shrink before the crowd ; 
But yet he dared not look on her; 
Remembrance of the hours that were — 
H is guilt — his love — his present state — 
His father's wrath — all good men's hate — 
His earthly, his eternal fate — 
And hers, — oh, hers ! he dared not throw 
One look upon that deathlike brow ! 
Else had his rising heart betray'd 
Remorse for all the wreck it made. 

XII. 

And Azo spake : —"But yesterday 

I gloried in a wife and son ; 
That dream this morning pass'd away j 

Ere day declines, I shall have none. 
My life must linger on alone ; 
Well, — let that pass, — there breathes not one 
Who would not do as I have done : 
Those ties are broken— not by me ; 

Let that too pass ; — the doom 's prepared ! 
Hugo, the priest awaits on thee, 

And then — thy crime's reward ! 
Away ! address thy prayers to Heaven, 

Before its evening stars are met — 
Learn if thou there canst be forgiven ; 

Its mercy may absolve thee yet. 
But here, upon the earth beneath. 

There is no spot where thou and I 
Together for an hour could breathe : 

Farewell ! I will not see thee die — 
But thou, frail thing ! shalt view his head — 

Away ! I cannot speak the rest : 

Go ! woman of the wanton breast ; 
Not I, but thou his blood dost shed : 
Go ! if that sight thou canst outlive, 
And joy thee in the life I give." 

XIII. 
And here stern Azo hid his face — 

For on his brow the swelling vein 

Throbb'd as if back upon his brain 

The hot blood ebb'd and flow'd again ; 
And therefore bow'd he for a space, 
And pass'd his shaking hand along 

His eye, to veil it from the throng ; 
While Hugo raised his chained hands, 
And for a brief delay demands 
His father's ear : the silent sire 
Forbids not what his words require. 



{ 



144 



PARISINA. 



*' It is not that I dread the death — 
For thou hast seen me by thy side 
All redly through the battle ride, 
And that not once a useless brand 
Thy slaves have wrested from my hand 
Hath shed more blood in cause of thine, 
Than e'er can stain the axe of mine : 

Thou gav'st, and may'st resume my breath, 
A gift for which I thank thee not ; 
Nor are my mother's wrongs forgot, 
Her slighted love and ruin'd name, 
Her offspring's heritage of shame j 
But she is in the grave, where he, 
Her son, thy rival, soon shall be. 
Her broken heart — my sever'd head — 
Shall witness for thee from the dead 
How trusty and how tender were 
Thy youthful love — paternal care. 
'T is true that I have done thee wrong — 

But wrong for wrong : — this, deem'd thy bride, 

The other victim of thy pride, 
Thou know'st for me was" destined long. 
Thou saw'st and coveted'st her charms — 

And with thy very crime — my birth, 

Thou taunted'st me — as little worth; 
A match ignoble for her arms. 
Because, forsooth, I could not claim 
The lawful heirship of thy name, 
Nor sit on Este's lineal throne ; 

Yet, were a few short summers mine. 

My name should more than Este's shine 
With honours all my own. 
I had a sword — and have a breast 
That should have won as haught i a crest 
As ever waved along the line 
Of all these sovereign sires of thine. 
Not always knightly spurs are worn 
The brightest by the better born ; 
And mine have lanced my courser's flank 
Before proud chiefs of princely rank, 
When charging to the cheering cry 
Of ' Este and of Victory ! ' 
I will not plead the cause of crime, 
Nor sue thee to redeem from time 
A few brief hours or days that must 
At length roll o'er my reckless dust ; — 
Such maddening moments as my past. 
They could not, and they did not, last. 
Albeit my birth and name be base, 
And thy nobility of race 
Disdain'd to deck a thing like me — 

Yet in my lineaments they trace 

Some features of my father's face, 
And in my spirit — all of thee. 
From thee — this tamelessness of heart — 
From thee — nay, wherefore dost thou start ?-— 
From thee in all their vigour came 
My arm of strength, my soul of flame — 
Thou didst not give me life alone, 
But all that made me more thine own. 
See what thy guilty love hath done ! 
Repaid thee with too like a son ! 
I am no bastard in my soul, 
For that, like thine, abhorr'd control ; 
And for my breath, that hasty boon 
Thou gav'st and wilt resume so soon, 
I valued it no more than thou. 
When rose thy casque above thy brow. 
And we, all side by side, have striven,' 
And o'er the dead our coui-sers driven : 
The past is nothing — and at last 
The future can but be the past ; 
Yet would I that I then had died : 

For though thou work'dst my mother's ill, 
And made thy own my destined bride, 

I feel thou art my father still : 
And harsh as sounds thy hard decree, 
'T is not unjust, although from thee. 



1 Haught— haughty.— "A war ftfflWff'if man, thou art 
insulting me."— SIIAKSPEARB. 



Begot in sin, to die in shame, 
My life begun and ends the same : 
As err'd the sire, so err'd the son. 
And thou must punish both in one. 
My crime seems worst to human view, 
But God must judge between us too I " 

XIV. 
He ceased — and stood with folded arms, 
On which the circling fetters sounded j 
And not an ear but felt as wounded, 
Of all the chiefs that there were rank'd, 
When those dull chains in meeting clank'd ; 
Till Parisina's fatal charms 
Again attracted every eye — 
Would she thus hear him doom'd to die 1 
She stood, I said, all pale and still, 
The living cause of Hugo's ill : 
Her eyes unmoved, but full and wide, 
Not once had turn'd to either side — 
Nor once did those sueet eyelids close. 
Or shade the glance o'er which they rose, 
But round their orbs of deepest blue 
The circling white dilated grew — 
And there with glassy gaze she stood 
As ice were in her curdled blood j 
But every now and then a tear 
So large and slowly gather'd slid 
From the long dark fringe of that fair lid, 
It was a thing to see, not hear ! 
And those who saw, it did surprise, 
Such drops could fall from human eyes. 
To speak she thought — the imperfect note 
Was choked within her swelling throat, 
Yet seem'd in that low hollow groan 
Her whole heart gushing in the tone. 
It ceased — again she thought to speak, 
Then burst her voice in one long shriek. 
And to the earth she fell like stone 
Or statue from its base o'erthrown. 
More like a thing that ne'er had life, — 
A monument of Azo's wife, — 
Than her, that living guilty thing. 
Whose every passion was a sting. 
Which urged to guilt, but could not bear 
That guilt's detection and despriir. 
But yet she lived — and all too soon 
Recover'd from that death-like swoon — 
But scarce to reason — every sense 
Had been o'erstrung by pangs intense ; 
And each frail fibre of her brain 
(As bowstrings, when relax'd by rain, 
The erring arrow lanch aside) 
Sent forth her thoughts all wild and wide — 
The past a blank, the future black. 
With glimpses of a dreary track, 
Like lightning on the desert path, 
When midnight storms are mustering wrath. 
She fear'd — she felt that something 111 
Lay on her soul, so deep and chill — 
That there was sin and shame she knew ; 
That some oiie was to die — but who ? 
She had forgotten : — did she breathe ? 
Could this be still the earth beneath, 
The sky above, and men around j 
Or were they fiends who now so frown'd 
On one, before whose eyes each eye 
Till then had smiled in sympathy ? 
All was confused and undefined 
To her all-jarr'd and wandering mind ; 
A chaos of wild hopes and fears : 
And now in laughter, now in tears. 
But madly still in each extreme. 
She strove with that convulsive dream ; 
For so it seem'd on her to break : 
Oh ! vainly must she strive to wake ! 

XV. 
The Convent bells are ringing. 

But mournfully and slow; 
In the grey square turret swinging. 

With a "deep sound, to and fro. 



-^-1 



PARISINA. 



145 



Heavily to the heart they go ! 

Hark ! the hymn is singing; — 
The song for the dead below, 
Or the living who shortly shall be so ! 

For a departing being's soul 

The death hymn peals and the hollow bells knoll : 

He is near his mortal goal ; 

Kneeling at the Friar's knee: 

Sad to hear — and piteous to see — 

Kneeling on the bare cold ground, 

With the block before and the guards around — 

And the headman with his bare arm ready, 

That the blow may be both swift and steady, 

Feels if the axe be sharp and true — 

Since he set its edge anew : 

While the crowd in a speechless circle gather 

To see the Son fall by the doom of the Father ! 

XVI. 
It is a lovely hour as yet 
Before the summer sun shall set, 
Which rose upon that heavy day. 
And mock'd it with his steadiest ray ; 
And his evening beams are shed 
Full on Hugo's fated head, 
As his last confession pouring 
To the monk, his doom deploring 
In penitential holiness. 
He bends to hear his accents bless 
With absolution such as may 
Wipe our mortal stains away. 
That high sun on his head did glisten 
As he there did bow and listen — 
And the rings of chestnut hair 
Curl'd half down his neck so bare ; 
But brighter still the beam was thrown 
Upon the axe which near him shone 
With a clear and ghastly glitter ■ 

Oh ! that parting hour was bitter ! 
Even the stern stood chill'd with awe : 
Dark the crime, and just the law — 
Yet they shudder'd as they saw. 

XVII. 

The parting prayers are said and over 

Of that false son — and daring lover ! 

His beads and sins are all recounted. 

His hours to their last minute mounted — 

His mantling cloak before was stripp'd, 

His bright brown locks must now be clipp'd ; 

'T is done — all closely are they shorn — 

The vest which till this moment worn — 

The scarf which Parisina gave — 

Must not adorn him to the grave. 

Even that must now be thrown aside, 

And o'er his eyes the kerchief tied j 

But no — that last indignity 

Shall ne'er approach his haughty eye. 

All feelings seemingly subdued. 

In deep disdain were half renew'd. 

When headman's hands prepared to bind 

Those eyes which would not brook such blind : 

As if they dared not look on death, 

" No — yours my forfeit blood and breath — 

These hands are'chain'd — but let me die 

At least with an unshackled eye — 

Strike : " — and as the word he said, 

Upon the block he bow'd his head ; 

These the last accents Hugo spoke : 

<' Strike " — and flashing fell the stroke — 

RoU'd the head — and, gushing, sunk 

Back the stain'd and heaving trunk, 

In the dust, which each deep vein 

Slaked with its ensanguined rain ; 

His eyes and lips a moment quiver. 

Convulsed and quick — then fix for ever. 

He died, as erring man should die. 

Without display, without parade; 

Meekly had he bow'd and pray'd, 

As not disdaining priestly aid. 
Nor desperate of all hope on high. 



And while before the Prior kneeling. 

His heart was wean'd from earthly feeling ; 

His wrathful sire — his paramour — 

What were they in such an hour ? 

No more reproach — no more despair ; 

No thought but heaven — no word but prayer — 

Save the few which from him broke. 

When, bared to meet the headman's stroke, 

He claim'd to die with eyes unbound, 

His sole adieu to those around. 

XVIII. 

Still as the lips that closed in death, 
Each gazer's bosom held his breath : 
But yet, afar, from man to man, 
A cold electric shiver ran. 
As down the deadly blow descended 
On him whose life and love thus ended ; 
And, with a hushing sound comprcbs'd, 
A sigh shrunk back on every breast ; 
But no more thrilling noise rose there. 

Beyond the blow that to the block 

Pierced through with forced and sullen shock, 
Save one : — what cleaves the silent air 
So madly shrill, — so passing wild? 
That, as a mother's o'er her child, 
Done to death by sudden blow, 
To the sky these accents go. 
Like a soul's in endless woe. 
Through Azo's palace-lattice driven, 
That horrid voice ascends to heaven, 
And every eye is turn'd thereon ; 
But sound and sight alike are gone ! 
It was a woman's shriek — and ne'er 
In madlier accents rose despair ; 
And those who heard it, as it past. 
In mercy wish'd it were the last. 

XIX. 

Hugo is fallen ; and, from that hour. 

No more in palace, hall, or bower, 

Was Parisina heard or seen : 

Her name — as if she ne'er had been — 

Was banish'd from each lip and ear. 

Like words of wantonness or fear ; 

And from Prince Azo's voice, by none 

Was mention heard of wife or son j 

No tomb — no memory had they ; 

Theirs was unconsecrated clay ; 

At least the knight's who died that day. 

But Parisina's fate lies hid 

Like dust beneath the coffin lid : 

Whether in convent she abode. 

And won to heaven her dreary road. 

By blighted and remorseful years 

Of scourge, and fast, and sleepless tears; 

Or if she fell by bowl or steel, 

For that dark love she dared to feel ; 

Or if, upon the moment smote, 

She died by tortures less remote ; 

Like him she saw upon the block, 

With heart that shared the headman's shock, 

In quicken 'd brokenness that came. 

In pity, o'er her shattered frame. 

None knew — and none can ever know : 

But whatsoe'er its end below. 

Her life began and closed in woe I 

XX. 

And Azo found another bride, 

And goodly sons grew by his side ; 

But none so lovely and so brave 

As him who wither'd in the grave; 

Or if they were — on his cold eye 

Their growth but glanced unheeded by. 

Or noticed with a smother'd sigh. 

But never tear his cheek descended, 

And never smile his brow unbended ; 

And o'er that fair broad brow were wrought 

The intersected lines of thought ; 



13 



10 



146 



THE PRISOINER OF CHILLON. 



Those furrows which the burning share 

Of Sorrow ploughs untimely there ; 

Scars of the lacerating mind 

Which the Soul's war doth leave behind. 

He was past all mirlh or woe: 

Nothing more remain'd below 

But sleepless nights and heavy daj-s, 

A mind all dead to scorn or praise, 

A heart which shunn'd itself— and yet 

That would not yield — nor could forget, 

Which, when it least appear'd to melt, 

Intensely thought — intensely felt : 

The deepest ice which ever froze 

Can only o'er the surface close — 

The living stream lies quick below, 

And flows —and cannot cease to flow. 

Still was his seal'd-up bosom haunted 

By thoughts which Nature hath implanted; 

Too deeply rooted thence to vanish, 

Howe'er our stifled tears we banish ; 

When, struggling as they rise to start. 

We check those waters of the heart, 

They are not dried — those tears unshed 



But flow back to the fountain-head, 
And resting in their spring more pure, 
For ever in its depth endure. 
Unseen, unwept, but uncongeal'd. 
And cherish'd most where least reveal'd. 
With inward starts of feeling left, 
To throb o'er those of life bereft ; 
Without the power to till again 
The desert gap which made his pain ; 
Without the hope to meet ihem where 
United souls shall gladness share. 
With all the consciousness that he 
Had only pass'd a just decree; 
That they had wrought their doom of ill j 
Yet Azo's age was wretched still. 
The tainted branches of the tree, 
If lopp'd with care, a strength may give, 
By which the rest shall bloom and live 
All greenly fresh and wildly free : 
ButTf the lightning, in its wTath, 
The waving'bouglis with fury scathe, 
The massy trunk the ruin feels. 
And never more a leaf reveals. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON: 

A FABLE.i 



SONNET ON CHILLON. 

Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind ! 

Brightest in dungeons, Liberty ! thou art, 

For there thy habitation is the heart — 
The heart which love of thee alone can bind ; 
And when thy sons to fetters are consign 'd — 

To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, 

Their country conquers with their martyrdom. 
And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 
Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place, 

And thy sad floor an altar — for 't was trod, 
Until his very steps have left a trace 

Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 
By Bonnivard ! May none those marks efiface ! 

For they appeal from tyranny to God. 



When this poem was composed, I was not suffi- 
ciently aware of the history of Bonnivard, or I should 
have endeavoured to dignify the subject by an attempt 
to celebrate his courage and his virtues. With some 
account of his life I have been furnished, by the kind- 
ness of a citizen of that republic, which is still proud 
of the memory of a man worthy of the best age of 
ancient freedom : — 

"Francois de Bonnivard, fits de Louis de Bonnivard, ori- 
ginaire de Seyssel et Seigneur de Lunes, naquit en 1496. 
II fit sea etudes a Turin: en 1510 Jean Aime de Bonni- 
vard, son oncle, lui resigna le Prieure de St. Victor, qui 
aboutis>ait aux murs de Geneve, et qui formait un bene- 
fice considerable. 

"Ce grand homme — (Bonnivard merite ce titre par la 
force de son ame, la droiture de son roeur, la noblesse de 
ses intentions, la sagesse de ses conseils, le courage de ses 
demarches, I'etendue de ses connaissances, et la vivacite : 
de son esprit),— ce grand homme, qui excitera I'admira- I 
tion de tous ceux qu'une vertu heroiquc peut encore emou- | 
voiTf inspirera encore la plus vive reconnaissance dans lea [ 
coeurs des Genevois qui aiment Geneve. Bonnivard en j 
fut toujours un des plus fermes appuis : pour assurer la 
liberte de notre Republique, il ne craignit pas de perdre | 
souvent la sienne; il oublia son repns ; il meprisa ses 
richesses; il ne negligea rien pour afferrair le bonheur , 
d'une patrie qu'il honora de son choix : des ce moment il i 

ILord Byron wrote this beautiful poem at a small inn, ' 
in the little village of Ouchjr, near Lausanne, where he 
happened, in June, 1816, to be detained two days by stress 
of weather. — E. I 



la cherit comme le plus zele de ees citoyens ; il la eervit 
avec I'intrepidited'un heros, et il ecrivit son Histoire avec 
la naivete d'un philosophe et la chaleur d'un patriote. 

"II dit dans le commtncemeut de son Histoire de Ge- 
neve, que, det qu'il eut commence de lire I'histoire de$ 
nations, il se sentit entraine par son gout pour let Re- 
publigues, dont il epousa tovjotira les interets : c'est ce 
gout pour la liberte qui lui fit sans doute adopter Geneve 
pour sa patrie. 

" Bonnivard, encore jeune, s'annonca hautement comme 
le defenseur de Geneve contre le Due de Savoye et I'Eve- 
que. 

"En 1519, Bonnivard devient le martyr de sa patrie : Le 
Due de Savoye etant entre dans Geneve avec cinq cent 
hommes, Bonnivard craint le ressentimentdu Due; il vou- 
lut se retirer a Fribourg pour en eviter les suites; raais 
il fut trahi par deux hommes qui I'accompagnaient, et 
conduit par ordre du Prince a Grolee, ou il resta prisonnier 
pendant deux ans. Bonnivard elait malheureux dans ses 
voyages: comme ses malheurs n'avaient point ralenti son 
zele pnur Geneve, il etait toujours un ennemi redoutable 
pour ceux qui la menacaieut, et par consequent il devait 
etre expose a leurs coups. II ful rencontre en 1530 sur le 
Jura par des voleurs, qui le depouillerent, et qui le mirent 
encore entre les mains du Due de Savoye : ce Prince le fit 
enfermer dans le Chateau de Chillon, ou il resta sans etre 
interroge jusques en 1536; il fut alors delivre par les Ber- 
mis, qui s'emparereiit du Pays de Vaud. 

"Bonnivard, en sortant de sa capiivite, eut le pJaisir de 
trouver Geneve libre et reformee : la Republique s'em- 
pressa de lui temoigner sa reconnaissance, et de le dcdi.m- 
mager des maux qu'il avoit souflferts ; elle le recut Bour- 
geois de la ville au mois de Juin, 1536; elle lui douna la 
maison habitee autrefois par le Vicaire-General, et elle lui 
assigna une pension de deux cent ecus d'or tant qu'il 
sejournerait a Geneve. II fut adrais dans le Conseil de 
Deux-Cent en 1537. 

"Bonnivard n'a pas fini d'etre utile: apres avoir tra- 
vaille a rendre Geneve libre, il reussit a la rendre tole- 
rante. Bonnivard entagea le Conseil a accorderaux ercle- 
siastiques et aux paysans un terns sufflsant pourexaminer 
les propositions qu'on leur faisait; il reussit par sa dou- 
ceur : on preche toujours le Christianisme avec succes 
quand on le preche avec charite. 

" Bonnivard fut savaut : ses manuscrits, qui sont dans la 
biblioiheque publique, prouvent qu'il avait bien lu lea 
auteurs classiques Latins, et qu'il avait approfondi latheo- 
logie et I'historie. Ce grand homme aimait les sciences, 
et il croyait qu'elles pouvaient faire la gloire de Geneve ; 
aussi il ne nepligea rien pour les fixer dans cette ville nais- 
sante; en 1551 il donna sa bihliothequeau public ; elle fut 
le commencement de notre bibliotheque publique; et ces 
livrea sont en partie les rares et belles editions du quin- 
zieme eiecle qu'on voit dans notre collection. Enfin, pen- 



A^ 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



147 



dant la merae annee; ce ben patriote institua la Bepublique 
eon heritiere, a condition qu'elle employe rait ses biens a 
entretenir le college dont on projettait la fondation. 

"II parait que Bonnivard mourut en 1570; rnais on ne 
pent I'assurer, pareequ'il y a une lacuna dans le Necro- 
loge depuis le moia de Juillet, 1570, jusques en 1571." 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



I. 

My hair is grey, but not with years, 
Nor grew it white 
In a single night,i 
As men's have grown from sudden fears : 
My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil, 

But rusted with a vile repose, 
For they have been a dungeon's spoil. 

And mine has been the fate of those 
To whom the goodly earth and air 
Are bann'd, and barr'd — forbidden fare ; 
But this was for my father's faith 
I sufFer'd chains and courted death ; 
That father perish'd at the stake 
For tenets he would not forsake ; 
And for the same his lineal race 
In darkness found a dwelling place ; 
We were seven — who now are one. 

Six in youth, and one in age, 
Finish'd as they had begun, 

Proud of Persecution's rage j 
One in fire, and two in field. 
Their belief with blood have seal'd : 
Dying as their father died, 
For the God their foes denied j — 
Three were in a dungeon cast, 
Of whom this wreck is left the last. 

II. 

There are seven pillars of Gothic mould, 
Jn Chillon's dungeons deep and old, 
There are seven columns, massy and grey. 
Dim with a dull imprison'd ray, 
A sunbeam which hath lost its way, 
And through the crevice and the cleft 
Of the thick wall is fallen and left : 
Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 
Like a marsh's meteor lamp : 
And in each pillar there is a ring. 

And in each ring there is a chain ; 
That iron is a cankering thing. 

For in these limbs its teeth remain, 
With marks that will not wear away, 
Till I have done with this new day, 
Which now is painful to these eyes. 
Which have not seen the sun so rise 
For years — I cannot count them o'er, 
I lost their long and heavy score. 
When my last brother droop'd and died, 
And I lay living by his side. 

III. 

They chain'd us each to a column stone. 
And we were three — yet, each alone; 
We could not move a single pace. 
We could not see each other's face. 
But with that pale and livid light 
That made us strangers in our sight: 
And thus together — yet apart, 
Fetter'd in hand, but pined in heart; 
'T was still some solace, in the dearth 
Of the pure elements of earth. 
To hearken to each other's speech, 
And each turn comforter to each 



1 Ludovico Sforza, and others. — The same is asserted of 
Marie Antoinette's, the wife of Louis tlie Sixteenth, 
though not in quite so short a period. Grief is said to 
have the same etfect : to such, and nut to fear, this change 
in hem was to be attributed. 



With some new hope, or legend old, 

Or song heroically bold ; 

But even these at length grew cold. 

Our voices took a dreary tone, 

An echo of the dungeon stone, 

A grating sound — not full and free 
As they of yore were wont to be : 
It might be fancy — but to me 

They never sounded like our own. 

IV. 

I was the eldest of the three. 
And to uphold and cheer the rest 
I ought to do — and did my best — 
And each did well in his degree. 

The youngest, whom my father loved. 
Because our mother's brow was given 
To him — with eyes as blue as heaven. 
For him my soul was sorely moved : 
And truly might it be distress'd 
To see such bird in such a nest ; 
For he was beautiful as day — 
(When day was beautiful to me 
As to young eagles, being free) — 
A polar day, which will not see 
A sunset till its summer 's gone. 

Its sleepless summer of long light, 
The snow-clad offspring of the sun : 

And thus he was as pure and bright, 
And in his natural spirit gay, 
With tears for nought but others' ills. 
And then they iiow'd like mountain rills, 
Unless he could assuage the woe 
Which he abhorr'd to view below. 



The other was as pure of mind. 
But form'd to combat with his kind; 
Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
Which 'gainst the world in war had stood. 
And perish'd in the foremost rank 

With joy : — but not in chains to pine : 
His spirit wither'd with their clank, 

I saw it silently decline — 

And so perchnnce in sooth did mine : 
But yet I forced it on to cheer 
Those relics of a home so dear. 
He was a hunter of the hills. 

Had follow'd there the deer and wolf; 

To him this dungeon was a gulf. 
And fetter'd feet the worst, of ills. 

VI. 

Like Leman lies by Chillon's walls : 
A thousand feet in depth below 
Its massy waters meet and flow ; 
Thus much the fathom-line was sent 
From Chillon's snow-white battlement,! 

Which round about the wave inthrals : 



1 The Chateau de Chillon is situated between Clarens 
and Villeneuve, which last is at one extremity of (he 
Lake of Geneva. On its left are the entrances of the 
Rhone, and opposite are the heights of Meillerie and the 
range of Alps above Boverel and St. Gingo. Near it, on 
a hill behind, is a torrent: below it, washing its walls, the 
lake has been fathomed to the depth of 800 feet, French 
measure : within it are a range of dungeons, in which the 
early reformers, and subsequently prisoners of slate, were 
confined. Across one of the vaults is a beam black with 
age, on which we were informed that the condemned 
were formerly executed. In the cells are seven pillars, 
or, rather, eight, one being half merged in the wall ; in 
some of these are rings for the fetters and the fettered: 
in the pavement the steps of Bonnivard have left their 
traces. He was confined here several years. It is by 
this castle that Rousseau has fixed the catastrophe of his 
Heloise, in the rescue of one of her children by Julie 
from the water; the shock of which, and the illness pro- 
duced by the immersion, is the cause of her death. The 
chateau is large, and seen along the lake for a great dis- 
tance. The walls are white,-- ["The early history of 
this castle," says Mr. Tennant, who went over it in 1851i 



Jl 



148 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



A double dungeon-wall and wave 

Have made — and like a living grave. 

Below the surface of the lake 

The dark vault lies wherein we lay, 

We heard it ripple night and day ;' 
Sounding o'er our heads it kuock'd ; 

And I have felt the winter's spray 

Wash through the bars when winds were high 

And wanton in the happy sky ; 
And then the very rock hath rock'd, 
And I have felt it shake, unshock'd, 

Because I could have smiled to see 

The death that would have set me free. 

VII. 

I said my nearer brother pined, 
I said his mighty heart declined. 
He loathed and put away his food ; 
It was not that 't was coarse and rude, 
For we were used to hunter's fare, 
And for the like had little care : 
The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
Was changed for water from the moat, 
Our bread was such as captive's tears 
Have moisten'd many a thousand years, 
Since man first pent his fellow men 
Like brutes within an iron den ; 
But what were these to us or him ? 
These wasted not his heart or limb ; 
My brother's soul was of that mould 
Which in a palace had grown cold, 
Had his free breathing been denied 
The range of the steep mountain's side ; 
But why delay the truth ? — he died. 
I saw, and could not hold his head. 
Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead, — 
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, 
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
He died — and they unlock'd his chain, 
And scoop'd for him a shallow grave 
Even from the cold earth of our cave. 
I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay 
His corse in dust whereon the day 
Might shine — it was a foolish thought, 
But then within my brain it wrought, 
That even in death his f reeborn breast 
In such a dungeon could not rest. 
I might have spared my idle prayer — 
They coldly laugh'd — and laid him there : 
The flat and turfless earth above 
The being we so much did love j 
His empty chain above it leant, 
Such murder's fitting monument ! 

vni. 

But he, the favourite and the flower. 
Most cherish'd since his natal hour. 
His mother's image in fair face. 
The infant love of all his race. 
His martyr'd father's dearest thought, 
My latest care, for whom I sought 
To hoard my life, that his might be 
Less wretched now, and one day free; 
He, too, who yet had held untired 
A spirit natural or inspired — 
He, too, was struck, and day by day 
Was wither'd on t^ie stalk away. 



"is, I believe, involved in doubt. By some historians it 
is said to be built in the yearll20,and according to others, 
in the year 1236 ; but by whom it was built seems not to 
be known. It is said, however, in history, that Charles 
the Fifth, Duke of Savoy, stormed and took it in 1536 ; 
that he there found great hidden treasures, and many 
wretched beings pining away their lives in these frightful 
dungeons, amongst whom was the good Bonnivard. On 
the pillar to which this unfortunate man is said to have 
been chained, I observed, cut out of the stone, the name 
of one whose beautiful poem has done much to heighten 
the interest of this dreary spot, and will, perhaps, do 
more towards rescuing from oblivion the names of ' Chil- 
ton' and 'Bonnivard,' than all the cruel sufferings which 
that injured man endured within its damp and gloomy 
walls."]— E. 



Oh, God ! it is a fearful thing 

To see the human soul take wing 

In any shape, in any mood : — 

I 've seen it rushing forth in blood, 

I 've seen it on the breaking ocean 

Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, 

I 've seen the sick and ghastly bed 

Of Sin delirious with its dread : 

But these were horrors — this was woe 

Unmix'd with such — but sure and slow : 

He faded, and so calm and meek. 

So softly worn, so sweetly weak. 

So tearless, yet so tender — kind, 

And grieved for those he left behind ; 

With all the while a cheek whose bloom 

Was as a mockery of the tomb, 

Whose tints as gently sunk away 

As a departing rainbow's ray — 

An eye of most transparent light. 

That almost made the dungeon bright, 

And not a word of murmur — not 

A groan o'er his untimely lot, — 

A little talk of better days, 

A little hope my own to raise. 

For I was sunk in silence — lost 

In this last loss, of all the most ; 

And then the sighs he would suppress 

Of fainting nature's feebleness. 

More sbwly drawn, grew less and less: 

I listen'd, but I could^not hear — 

I call'd, for I was wild with fear; 

I knew 't was hopeless, but my dread 

Would not be thus admonished ; 

I call'd, and thought I heard a sound — 

I burst my chain with one strong bound, 

And rush'd to him : — I found him not, 

I only stirr'd in this black spot, 

/ only lived — 7 only drew 

The accursed breath of dungeon dew ; 

The last — the sole — the dearest link 

Between me and the eternal brink, 

Which bound me to my failing race. 

Was broken in this fatal place. 

One on the earth, and one beneath — 

My brothers — both had ceased to breathe : 

I took that hand which lay so still, 

Alas ! my o\%-n was full as chill ; 

I had not strength to stir, or strive. 

But felt that I was still alive — 

A frantic feeling, when we know 

That what we love shall ne'er be so. 

I know not why 

I could not die, 
I had no earthly hope — but faith, 
And that forbade a selfish death. 

IX. 

What next befell me then and there 
I know not well — I never knew — 

First came the loss of light, and air. 
And then of darkness too : 

I had no thought, no feeling — none — 

Among the stones I stood a stone. 

And was, scarce conscious what I wist, 

As shrubless crags within the mist ; 

For all was blank, and bleak, and grey, 

It was not night — it was not day. 

It was not even the dungeon-light. 

So hateful to my heavy sight, 

But vacancy absorbing" space, 

And fixedness — without a place ; 

There were no stars — no earth — no time — 

No check — no change — no good — no crime ■ 

But silence, and a stirless breath 

Which neither was of life nor death ; 

A sea of stagnant idleness. 

Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless ! 

X. 

A light broke in upon my brain, — 
It'was the carol of a bird ; 



EOE 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 


149 


It ceased, and then it came again, 


I thought of this, and I was glad. 




The sweetest song ear ever heard, 


For thought of them had made me mad ; 




And mine was thankful till my eyes 


But I was curious to ascend 




Ran over with the glad surprise, 
And they that moment could not see 


To my barr'd windows, and to bend 




Once more, upon the mountains high, 




I was the mate of misery ; 


The quiet of a loving eye. 




But then by dull degrees came back 






My senses to their wonted track. 


XIII. 




I saw the dungeon walls and floor 


I saw them — and they were the same, 




Close slowly round me as before, 


They were not changed like me in frame ; 




I saw the glimmer of the sun 


I saw their thousand years of snow 




Creeping as it before had done, 


On high — their wide long lake below, 




But through the crevice where it came 


And the blue Rhone in fullest flow ; 




That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame, 


I heard the torrents leap and gush 




And tamer than upon the tree ; 


O'er channell'd rock and broken bush ; 




A lovely bird, with azure wings. 


I saw the white-wail'd distant town. 




And song that said a thousand things, 


And whiter sails go skimming down j 
And then there was a little isle,i 




And seem'd to say them all for me ! 




I never saw its like before. 


Which in my very face did smile, 




I ne'er shall see its likeness more : 


The only one in view ; 




It seem'd like me to want a mate, 


A small green isle, it seem'd no more. 




But was not half so desolate, 


Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, 




And it was come to love me when 


But in it there were three tall trees, 




None lived to love me so again, 


And o'er it blew the mountain breeze. 




And cheering from my dungeon's brink, 


And by it there were waters flowing. 




Had brought me back to feel and think. 


And on it there were young flowers growing, 




I know not if it late were free. 


Of gentle breath and hue. • 




Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 


The fish swam by the castle wall, 




But knowing well captivity. 


And they seem'd joyous each and all ; 




Sweet bird ! I could not wish for thine ! 


The eagle rode the rising blast, 




Or if it were, in winged guise, 
A visitant from Paradise ; 


Methought he never flew so fast 




As then to me he seem'd to fly. 




For— Heaven forgive that thought ! the while 


And then new tears came in my eye. 
And I felt troubled — and would fain 




Which made me both to weep and smile; 




I sometimes deem'd that it might be 


I had not left my recent chain ; 




My brother's soul come down to me j 


And when I did descend again, 




But then at last awav it flew. 


The darkness of my dim abode 




And then 't was mortal — well I knew, 


Fell on me as a heavy load ; 




For he would never thus have flown, 


It was as is a new-dug grave. 




And left me twice so doubly lone,— 


Closing o'er one we sought to save,— 




Lone — as the corse within its shroud, 


And yet my glance, too much opprest, 




Lone — as a solitary cloud. 


Had almost need of such a rest. 




A single cloud on a sunny day, 






While all the rest of heaven is clear, 


XIV. 




A frown upon the atmosphere, 


It might be months, or years, or days. 




That hath no business to appear 


I kept no count — I took no note, 




When skies are blue, and earth is gay. 


I had no hope my eyes to raise, 
And clear them of their dreary mote j 




XI. 


At last men came to set me free. 




A kind of change came in my fate, 


I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where. 




My keepers grew compassionate ; 


It was at length the same to me, 




I knovi' not what had made them so, 


Fetter'd or fetterless to be. 




They were inured to sights of woe, 


I learn'd to love despair. 




But so it was : — my broken chain 


And thus when they appear'd at last. 




With links unfasten'd did remain. 


And all my bonds aside were cast. 




And it was liberty to stride 


These heavy walls to me had grown 




Along my cell from side to side. 


A hermitage — and all my own ! 




And up and down, and then athwart, 


And half I felt as they were come 




And tread it over every part ; 


To tear me from a second home : 




And round the pillars one by one, 


With spiders I had friendship made, 




Returning where my walk begun. 


And watch'd them in their sullen trade, 




Avoiding only, as I trod, 


Had seen the mice by moonlight play. 




My brothers' graves without a sod ; 


And why should I feel less than they ? 




For if I thought with heedless tread 


We were all inmates of one place, 




My step profaned their lowly bed. 


And I, the monarch of each race, 




My breath came gaspingly and thick. 


Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell ! 




And my crushed heart fell blind and sick. 


In quiet we had learn'd to dwell — 
My very chains and I grew friends. 




XII. 


So much a long communion tends 




I made a footing in the wall. 

It was not therefrom to escape. 
For I had buried one and all, 


To make us what we are : — even I 
Regain'd my freedom with a sigh. 








Who loved me in a human shape ; 
And the whole earth would henceforth be 
A wider prison unto me : 


1 Between the entrances of the Rhone and Villeneuve, 


not far from Chillon, is a very small island; the only one 
I could perceive, in my voyage round and over the lake, 
within its circumference. It contains a few trees (I think 


No child — no sire — no kin had I, 


not above three), and from its singleness and diminutive 


No partner in my misery j 




size has a peculiar effect upon the view. 





13* 



150 



BEPPO. 



BEPPO:* 

A VENETIAN STORY. 



Jtosalind. Farewell, Monsieur Traveller: Look, you lisp, and wear strange suits: disable all the benefits of your 
own country ; be out of love with your Nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are ; or 
I will scarce think that you have swam in a Gondola.— Aa You Like It, Act IV. Sc. 1. 

Annotation of the Commentators. 

That is, been at Venice, which was much visited by the young English gentlemen of those times, and was then 
what Paris is now — the seat of all dissoluteness. S. A. 



BEPPO. 



I. 

'T is known, at least it should be, that throughout 
All countries of the Catholic persuasion, 

Some weeks before Shrove Tuesday comes about, 
The people take their fill of recreation, 

And buy repentance, ere they grow devout, 
However high their rank, or low their station, 

With fiddling, feasting, dancing, drinking, masquing, 

And other things which may be had for asking. 

II. 
The moment night with dusky mantle covers 

The skies (and the more duskily the better), 
The time less liked by husbands than by lovers, 

Begins, and prudery flings aside her fetter j 
And gaiety on restless tiptoe hovers. 

Giggling with all the gallants who beset her ; 
And there are songs and quavers, roaring, humming. 
Guitars, and every other sort of strumming. 

III. 

And there are dresses splendid, but fantastical, 
Masks of all times and nations, Turks and Jews, 

And harlequins and clowns, with feats gymnastical, 
Greeks, Romans, Yankee doodles, and Hindoos j 

All kinds of dress, except the ecclesiastical. 
All people, as their fancies hit, may choose, 

But no one in these parts may quiz the clergy, — 

Therefore take heed, ye Freethinkers ! I charge ye. 

IV. 

You 'd better walk about begirt with briars. 
Instead of coat and smallclothes, than put on 

A single stitch reflecting upon friars. 
Although you swore it only was in fun ; 

They 'd haul you o'er the coals^ and stir the fires 
Of Phlegethon with every mother's son. 

Nor say one mass to cool the caldron's bubble 

That boil'd your bones, unless you paid them double. 



But saving this, you may put on whate'er 
You like by way of doublet, cape, or cloak, 

Such as in Monmouth-street, or in Rag Fair, 
Would rig you out in seriousness or joke ; 

And even in Italy such places are. 

With prettier name in softer accents spoke, 

For, bating Covent Garden, I can hit on 

No place that 's call'd " Piazza" in Great Britain. 

VI. 

This feast is named the Carnival, which being 
Interpreted, implies " farewell to flesh ;" 

So call'd, because the name and thing agreeing. 
Through Lent they live on fish both salt and fresh. 

But why they usher Lent with so much glee in. 
Is more than I can tell, although I guess 



1 Written at Venice in October, 1817, and Published in 
May, 1810. 



*T is as we take a glass with friends at parting. 
In the stage-coach or packet, just at starting. 

vn. 

And thus they bid farewell to carnal dishes, 
And solid meats, and highly-spiced ragouts, 

To live for forty days on ill-dress'd fishes. 
Because they have no sauces to their stews, 

A thing which causes many " poohs" and "pishes," 
And several oaths (which would not suit the Muse), 

From travellers accustom'd from a boy 

To eat their salmon, at the least, with soy j 

VIII. 
And therefore humbly I would recommend 

" The curious in fish-sauce," before they cross 
The sea, to bid their cook, or wife, or friend, 

Walk or ride to the Strand, and buy in gross 
(Or if set out beforehand, these may send 

By any means least liable to loss), 
Ketchup, Soy, Chili-vinegar, and Harvey, 
Or, by the Lord ! a Lent will well nigh starve ye ; 

IX. 

That is to say, if your religion 's Roman, 
And you at Rome would do as Romans do, 

According to the proverb, — although no man. 
If foreign, is obliged to fast ; and you, 

If Protestant, or sickly, or a woman. 
Would rather dine in sin on a ragout — 

Dine and be d d ! I don't mean to be coarse, 

But that 's the penalty, to say no worse. 

X. 

Of all the places where the Carnival 
Was most facetious in the days of yore, 

For dance, and song, and serenade, and ball. 
And masque, and mime, and mystery, and more 

Than I have time to tell now, or at all, 
Venice the bell from every city bore, — 

And at the moment when I fix my story, 

That sea-born city was in all her glory. 

XL 

They 've pretty faces yet, those same Venetians, 
Black eyes, arch'd brows, and sweet expressions still ; 

Such as of old were copied from the Grecians, 
In ancient arts by moderns mimick'd ill; 

And like so many Venuses of Titian's 

(The best's at Florence — see it, if ye will,) 

They look when leaning over the balcony, 

Or stepp'd from out a picture by Giorgione, 

XII. 

Whose tints are truth and beauty at their best j 
And when you to Manfrini's palace go. 

That picture (howsoever fine the rest) 
Is loveliest to my mind of all the show j 

It may perhaps be also to your zest, 
And that 's the cause I rhyme upon it so : 

'T is but a portrait of his son and wife. 

And self; but such a woman '. love in life ! 



BEPPO. 



151 



XIII. 

Love in full life and length, not love ideal, 

No, nor ideal beauty, that fine name, 
But something baiter still, so very real, 

That the sweet model must have been the same; 
A thing that you would purchase, beg, or steal, 

Wer 't not impossible, besides a shame : 
The face recalls some face, as 't were with pain, 
You once hav£ seen, but ne'er will see again j 

XIV. 
One of those forms which flit by us, when we 

Are young, and fix our eyes on every face ; 
And, oh ! the loveliness at "times we see 

In momentary gliding, the soft grace. 
The youth, the bloom, the beauty which agree, 

In many a nameless being we retrace. 
Whose course and home we knew not, nor shall know, 
Like the lost Pleiad i seen no more below. 

XV. 
I said that like a picture by Giorgione 

Venetian women were, and so they are^ 
Particularly seen from a balcony, 

(For beauty 's sometimes best set off afar) 
And there, just like a heroine of Goldoni, 

They peep from out the blind, or O'er the bar j 
And truth to say, they 're mostly very pretty, 
And rather like to show it, more 's the pity I 

XVI. 

For glances beget ogles, ogles sighs, 

Sighs wishes, wishes words, and words a letter, 
Which flies on wings of light-heel'd Mercuries, 

Who do such things because they know no better ; 
And then, God knows what mischief may arise, 

When love links two young people in one fetter. 
Vile assignations, and adulterous beds. 
Elopements, broken vows, and hearts, and heads. 

xvn. 

Shakspeare described the sex in Desdemona 

As very fair, but yet suspect in fame, 
And to this day from Venice to Verona 

Such matters may be probably the same. 
Except that since those times was never known a 

Husband whom mere suspicion could inflame 
To suffocate a wife no more than twenty, 
Because she had a " cavalier servente." 

xvin. 

Their jealousy (if they are ever jealous) 

Is of a fair complexion altogether, 
Not like that sooty devil of Othello's 

Which smothers women in a bed of feather. 
But worthier of these much more jolly fellows, 

When weary of the matrimonial tether 
His head for such a wife no mortal bothers. 
But takes at once another, or another's. 

XIX. 

Didst ever see a Gondola ? For fear 
You should not, I'll describe it you exactly: 

'T is a long cover'd boat that 's common here, 
Carved at the prow, built lightly, but compactly, 

Row'd by two rowers, each call'd " Gondolier," 
It glides along the water looking blackly, 

Just like a coffin clapt in a canoe, 

Where none can make out what you say or do. 

XX. 

And up and down the long canals they go. 

And under the Rialto shoot along, 
By night and day, all paces, swift or slow. 

And round the theatres, a sable throng, 
They wait in tlieir dusk livery of woe, — 

But not to them do woeful tilings belong. 
For sometimes tliey contain a deal of fun, 
Like mourning coaches when the funeral 's done. 



l"Qiiae septem did sex tamen esse solent."— OVID. 



XXI. 

But to my story.— 'T was some years ago, 
It may be thirty, forty, more or less. 

The Carnival was at its heiglit, and so 
Were all kinds of bufibonery and dress ; 

A certain lady went to see the show. 
Her real name I know not, nor can guess, 

And so we '11 call her Laura, if you please. 

Because it slips into my verse with ease. 

XXII. 

She was not old, nor young, nor at the years 
Which certain people call a " ctrtain age,'>^ 

Which yet the most uncertain age appears, 
Because I never heard, nor could engage 

A person yet by prayers, or bribes, or tears, 
To name, deiine by speech, or write on page. 

The period meant precisely by that word — 

Which surely is exceeduigly absurd. 

xxin. 

Laura was blooming still, had made the best 
Of time, and time returned the compliment, 

And treated her genteelly, so that, dress'd, 
She look'd extremely well where'er she went j 

A pretty woman is a welcome guest, 
And Laura's brow a frown had rarely bent ; 

Indeed she shone all smiles, and seem'd to flatter 

Mankind with her black eyes for looking at her. 

XXIV. 

She was a married woman — 't is convenient, 
Because in Christian countries 'tis a rule 

To view their little slips with eyes more lenient j 
Whereas if single ladies play the fool, 

(Unless within the period intervenient, 
A well-timed wedding makes the scandal cool) 

I don't know how they ever can get over it, 

Except they manage never to discover it. 

XXV. 
Her husband sail'd upon the Adriatic, 

And made some voyages, too, in other seas, 
And when he lay in quarantine for pratique 

(A forty days' precaution 'gainst disease). 
His wife would mount, at times, her highest attic, 

For thence she could discern the ship with ease : 
He was a merchant trading to Aleppo, 
His name Giuseppe, call'd more briefly, Beppo. 

XXVI. 

He was a man as dusky as a Spaniard, 
Sunburnt with travel, yet a portly figure ; 

Though colour'd, as it were, within a tan-yard, 
He was a person both of sense and vigour — 

A better seaman never yet did man yard : 
And she, although her manners show'd no rigour, 

Was deem'd a wonian of the strictest principle, 

So much as to be thought almost invincible. 

XXVII. 

But several years elapsed since they had met ; 

Some people thought the ship w^as lost, and some 
That he had somehow blunder'd into debt, 

And did not like the thoughts of steering home ; 
And there were several ofler'd any bet. 

Or that he would, or that he would not come, 
For most men (till by losing render'd sager) 
Will back their own opinions with a wager. 

XXVIII. 

'T is said that their last parting was pathetic. 
As partings often are, or ought to be. 

And their presentiment was quite prophetic 
That they should never more each other see, 

(A sort of morbid feeling, half poetic, 
Which I have known occur in two or three). 

When kneeling on the shore upon her sad knee, 

He left this Adriatic Ariadne. 



152 



BEPPO. 



XXIX. 

And Laura waited long, and wept a little, 
And thought of wearing weeds, as well she might j 

She almost lost all appetite for victual, 
And could not sleep with ease alone at night ; 

She deem'd the window-frames and shutters brittle 
Against a daring housebreaker or spri:e, 

And so she thought it prudent to connect her 

With a vice-husband, chiefly to -protect her. 

XXX. 

She chose, (and what is there they will not choose, 
If only you will but oppose their choice ?) 

Till Beppo should return from his long cruise, 
And bid once more her faithful heart rejoice, 

A man some women like, and yet abuse — 
A coxcomb was he by the public voice ; 

A Couut of wealth, they said, as well as quality, 

And in his pleasures of 'great liberality. 

XXXI. 

And then he was a Count, and then he knew 
Music, and dancing, fiddling, French and Tuscan; 

The last not easy, be it known to you. 
For few Italians speak the right Etruscan. 

He was a critic upon operas, too. 
And knew all niceties of the sock and buskin ; 

And no Venetian audience could endure a 

Song, scene, or air, when he cried " seccatura ! " 

XXXII. 

His " bravo" was decisive, for that sound 
Hush'd "Academic" sigh'd in silent awe; 

The fiddlers trembled as he look'd around. 
For fear of some false note's detected flaw ; 

The " prima donna's" tuneful heart would bound, 
Dreading the deep damnation of his " bah 1 " 

Soprano, basso, even (he contra-alto, 

Wish'd him five fathom under the Rialto. 

XXXIII. 

He patronised the Improvisatori, 

Nay, could himself extemporise some stanzas. 
Wrote rhymes, sang songs, could also tell a story, 

Sold pictures, and was skilful in the dance as' 
Italians can be, though in this their glory 

Must surely yield the palm to that^^vhich France has ; 
In short, he was a perfect cavaliero, 
And to his very valet seem'd a hero. 

XXXIV. 

Then he was faithful too, as well as amorous ; 

So that no sort of female could complain. 
Although they 're now and then a little clamorous, 

He never put the pretty souls in pain ; 
His heart was one of those which most enamour us, 

Wax to receive, and marble to retain. 
He was a lover of the good old school. 
Who still become more constant as they cool. 

XXXV. 

No wonder such accomplishments should turn 
A female head, however sage and steady — 

With scarce a hope that Beppo could return, 
In law he was almost as good as dead, he 

Nor sent, nor wrote, nor show'd the least concern, 
And she had waited several years already ; 

And really If a man won't let us know 

That he 's alive, he 's dead, or should be so. 

XXXVI. 

Besides, within the Alps, to every woman, 
(Although, God knows, it is a grievous sin,) 

'T is, I may say, permitted to have two men ; 
I can't tell who first brought the custom in. 

But " Cavalier Serventes" are quite common. 
And no one notices nor cares a jjin ; 

And we may call this (not to say the worst) 

A stcond marriage which corrupts the first. 



xxxvn. 

The word was formerly a " Cicisbeo," 
But that is now grown vulgar and indecent; 

The Spaniards call the person a " Cortejo,"^ 
For the same mode subsists in Spain, though recent j 

In short, it reaches from the Po to Teio, 
And may perhaps at last be o'er the sea sent. 

But Heaven preserve Old England from such courses! 

Or what becomes of damage and divorces ? 

XXXVIII. 

However, I still think, with all due deference 

To the fair single part of the creation. 
That married ladies should preserve the preference 

In tete-a-tete or general conversation — 
And this I say without peculiar reference 

To England, France, or any other nation — 
Because they know the world, and are at ease, 
And being natural, naturally please. 

XXXIX. 

'T is true, your budding Miss is very charming, 

But shy and awkward at first coming out, 
So much alarm'd, that she is quite alarming. 

All Giggle, Blush ; half Pertness, and half Pout ; 
And glancing at Mamma, for fear there 's harm in 

What you, she, it, or they, may be about, 
The Nursery still lisps out m all'they utter — 
Besides, they always smell of bread and butter. 

XL. 
But " Cavalier Servente" is the phrase 

Used in politest circles to express 
This supernumerary slave, who s'ays 

Close to the lady as a part of dress, 
Her word the only law which he obeys. 

His is no sinecure as you may guess ; 
Coach, servants, gondola, he goes to call, 
And carries fan and tippet, gloves and shawl. 

XLL 
With all its sinful doings, I must say, 

That Italy 's a pleasant place to nie, 
Who love to see the sun shine every day. 

And vines (not nail'd to walls) from tree to tree 
Festoon'd, much like the back scene of a play, 

Or melodrame, which people flock to see. 
When the first act is ended by a dance, 
In vineyards copied from the south of France. 

XLII. 
I like on Autumn evenings to ride out, 

Without being forced to bid my groom be sure 
My cloak is round his middle strapp'd about, 

Because the skies are not the most secure ; 
I know too that, if sto| p'd upon my route, 

Where the green alleys windingly allure, 
Reeling with grapes red wagons choke the way, — 
In England 't would be dung, dust, or a dray. 

XLIII. 
I also like to dine on becaficas, 

To see the sun set, sure he '11 rise to-morrow, 
Not through a misty morning twinkling weak as 

A drunken man's' dead eye in maudlin sorrow, 
But with all Heaven t' himself; the day will break as 

Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to borrow 
That sort of farthing candlelight which glimmers 
Where reeking London's smoky caldron simmers. 

XLIV. 
I love the languase, that soft bastard Latin, 

Which melts like kisses from a female mouth. 
And sounds as if it should be writ on satin, 

With syllables which breathe of the sweet South, 
And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in. 

That not a singleliccent seems uncouth, 



ICortejo is pronounced Cortefto, with an aspirate, ac- 
cording to the Arabesque guttural. It means what there 
is as yet no precise name for in England, though the 
practice is as common as in any tramontane country 
whatever. 



BEPPO. 



153 



Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural, 
Which we 're obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all. 

XLV. 

I like the women too (forgive my folly). 
From the rich peasant cheek of ruddy bronze, 

And large black eyes that Hash on you a volley 
Of rays that say' a thousand things at once, 

To the high dama's brow, more melancholy, 
But clear, and with a wild and liquid glance, 

Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes, 

Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies. 

XLVI. 

Eve of the land which still is Paradise ! 

Italian beauty didst thou not inspire 
Raphael,! vvho died in thy embrace, and vies 

With all we know of Heaven, or can desire. 
In what he hath bequeath'd us ? — in what guise, 

Though flashing from the fervour of the lyre, 
Would words describe thy past and present glow, 
While yet Canova can create below ? 3 

XLVII. 

« England ! with all thy faults I love thee still," 
I said at Calais, and have not forgot it ; 

I like to speak and lucubrate my fill ; 
I like the government (but that is not it) j 

I like the freedom of the press and quill ; 
I like the Habeas Corpus (when we've got it) ; 

I like a parliamentary debate, 

Particularly when 't is not too late ; 

XLVIII. 

I like the taxes, when they 're not too many ; 

I like a seacoal fire, when not too dearj 
I like a beef-steak, too, as well as any j 

Have no objection to a pot of beer ; 
I like the weather, when it is not rainy, 

That is, I like two months of every year. 
And so God save the Regent, Church, and King ! 
Which means that I like all and every thing. 

XLIX. 

Our standing army, and disbanded seamen. 
Poor's rate. Reform, my own, the nation's debt, 

Our little riots just to show we are free men. 
Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette, 

Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women. 
All these I can forgive, and those forget, 

And greatly venerate our recent glories. 

And wish they were not owing to the Tories. 

L. 

But to my tale of Laura, — for I find 

Digression is a sin, that by degrees 
Becomes exceeding tedious to my mind, 

And, therefore, may the reader too displease— 
The gentle reader, who may wax unkind, 

And caring little for the author's ease. 
Insist on knowing what he means, a hard 
And hapless situation for a bard. 

LI. 

Oh that I had the art of easy writing 
What should be easy reading ! could I scale 

Parnassus, where the Muses sit inditing 
Those pretty poems never known to fail. 



1 For the received accounts of the cause of Raphael' 
death, see his liveu. 

2 (In talking thus, the writer, more especially 

Of women, would be understood to say, 
He speaks as a spectator, not officially. 

And always, reader, in a modest way ; 
Perhaps, too, in no very great degree shall he 

Appear to have offended in this lay, 
Since, as all know, without the sex, our sonnets 
Would seem unfinish'd, like their untrimm'd bonnets. 
(Signed) Printer's Devil. 



How quickly would I print (the world delighting) 

A Grecian, Syrian, or Assyrian tale ; 
And sell you, mix'd with western sentimentalism, 
Some samples of the finest Orientalism. 

LII. 

But I am but a nameless sort of person, 
(A broken Dandy lately on my travels) 

And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling verse on. 
The first that Walker's Lexicon unravels, 

And when I can't find that, I put a worse on, 
Not caring as I ought for critics' cavils ; 

I 've half a mind to tumble down to prose. 

But verse is more in fashion — so here goes. 

LIIL 

The Count and Laura made their new arrangement. 
Which lasted, as arrangements sometimes do. 

For half a dozen years without estrangement ; 
They had their little differences, too ; 

Those jealous whift's, which never any change meant j 
In such affairs there probably are few 

Who have not had this pouting sort of squabble, 

From sinners of high station to the rabble. 

LIV. 

But, on the whole, they were a happy pair, 
As happy as unlawful love could make them ; 

The gentleman was fond, the lady fair. 
Their chains so slight, 't was not worth while to 
break them : 

The world beheld them with indulgent air ; 
The pious only wish'd " the devil take them !" 

He took them not ; he very often waits. 

And leaves old sinners to be young ones' baits. 

LV. 

But they were young : Oh ! what without our youth 
Would love be ! What would youth be without love I 

Youth lends it joy, and sweetness, vigour, truth, 
Heart, soul, and all that seems as from above j 

But, languishing with years, it grows uncouth — 
One of few things experience don't improve, 

Which is, perhaps, the reason why old fellows 

Are always so preposterously jealous. 

LVL 

It was the Carnival, as I have said 
Some six-and -thirty stanzas back, and so 

Laura the usual preparations made. 
Which you do when your mind 's made up to go 

To-night to Mrs. Boehm's masquerade, 
Spectator, or partaker in the show ; 

The only difference known between the cases 

Is — here, we have six weeks of " varnished faces." 

LVII. 

Laura, when dress'd, was (as I sang before) 

A pretty woman as was ever seen. 
Fresh as the Angel o'er a new inn door, 

Or frontispiece of a new Magazine, 
With all the fashions which the last month wore, 

Colour'd, and silver paper leaved between 
That and the title-page, for fear the press 
Should soil with parts of speech the parts of dress. 

LVIII. 

They went to the Ridotto ; — 't is a hall 
Where people dance, and sup, and dance again ; 

Its proper name, perhaps, were a masqued bail. 
But that 's of no importance to my strain ; 

'T is (on a smaller scale) like our Vauxhall, 
Excepting that it can't be spoilt by rain ; 

The company is " mixed " (the phrase I quote is 

As much as saying, they 're below your notice) j 

LIX. 

) ' For a " mix'd company " implies that, save 
I Yourself and friends, and half a hundred more 



../ 



154 



BEPPO. 



Whom you may bow to without looking grave, 

The rest are but a vulgar set, the bore 
Of public places, where they basely brave 

The fashionable stare of twenty score 
Of well-bred persons, call'd " The Wvrld-" but I, 
Although I know them, really don't know why. 

LX. 

This is the case in England ; at least was 

During the dynasty of Dandies, now 
Perchance succeeded by some other class 

Of imitated imitators : — how 
Irreparably soon decline, alas ! 

The demagogues of fashion : all below 
Is frail ; how easily the world is lost 
By love, or war, and now and then by frost ! 

LXI. 

Crushed was Napoleon by the northern Thor, 
Who knock'd his army down with icy hammer, 

Stopp'd by the elements, like a whaler, or 
A blundering novice in his new French grammar} 

Good cause had he to doubt the chance of war, 
And as for Fortune — but I dare not d n her, 

Because, were I to ponder to infinity, 

The more I should believe in her divinity. 

LXII. 

She rules the present, past, and all to be yet, 
She gives us luck in lotteries, love and marriage ; 

I cannot say that she 's done much for me yet ; 
Not that I mean her bounties to disparage. 

We 've not yet closed accounts, and we shall see yet 
How much she Ml make amends for past miscarriage ; 

Meantime the Goddess I '11 iio more importune, 

Unless to thank her when she 's made my fortune, 

LXIII. 

To turn, — and to return ; — the devil take it ! 

This story slips for ever through my fingers, 
Because, just as the stanza likes to make it. 

It needs must be — and so it rather lingers ; 
This form of verse began, I can't well break it. 

But must keep lime and tune like public singers ; 
But if I once get through my present measure, 
I '11 take another when I am next at leisure. 

LXIV. 

They went to the Ridotto ('t is a place 

To which I mean to go myself to-morrow, 

Just to divert my thoughts a little space, 
Because I 'm rather hippish, and may borrow 

Some spirits, guessing at what kind of face 
May lurk beneath each mask ; and as my sorrow 

Slackens its pace sometimes, I 'II make, or find, 

Something shall leave it half an hour behind.) 

LXV. 

Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd, 
Smiles in her eyes, and simpers on her lips ; 

To some she whispers, others speaks aloud ; 
To some she curtsies, and to some she dips. 

Complains of warmth, and this complaint avow'd, 
Her lover brings the lemonade, she sips ; 

She then surveys," condemns, but pities still 

Her dearest friends for being dress'd so ill. 

LXVI. 

One has false curls, another too much paint, 
A third — where did slie buy that frightful turban ? 

A fourth 's so pale she fears she 's going to faint, 
A fifth's look 's vulgar, dowdyish, and suburban, 

A sixth's white silk has got a yellow taint, 
A seventh's thin muslin surely will be her bane. 

And lo ! an eighth appears,—" I '11 see no more ! " 

For fear, like Banquo's kings, they reach a score. 



LXVII. 
Meantime, whib she was thus at others gazing, 

Otliers were levelling their looks at her ; 
She heird the men's h^if-whisper'd mode of praising, 

And, till 't was done, determined not to stir j 
The women only thought it quite amazing 

That, at her time of life, so many were 
Admirers still, — but men are so debased. 
Those brazen creatures always suit their taste. 

LXVIII. 
For my part, now, I ne'er could understand 

Why naughty women — but I won't discuss 
A thing which is a scandal to the land, 

I only don't see why it should be thus ; 
And if I were but in a goun and band, 

Just to entitle me to liiake a fuss, 
I 'd preach on this till Wilberforce and Romilly 
Should quote in their next speeches from my homily. 

LXIX. 

While Laura thus was seen, and seeing, smiling, 
Talking, she knew not why and cared not what. 

So that her female friends, with envy broiling, 
Beheld her airs and triumph, and all that ; 

And weli-dress'd males still kept before her filing, 
And passing bow'd and mingled with her chat ; 

More than the rest one person seem'd to stare 

With pertinacity that 's rather rare. 

LXX. 

He was a Turk, the colour of mahogany ; 

And Laura saw him, and at first was glad, 
Because the Turks so much admire philogyny, 

Although their usage of their wives is sad ] 
'T is said they use no better than a dog any 

Poor woman, whom they purchase like a pad : 
They have a number, though they ne'er exhibit 'em, 
Four wives by law, and concubines " ad libitum." 

LXXI. 

They lock them up, and veil, and guard them daily, 
They scarcely can behold their male relations, 

So that their moments do not pass so gayly 
As is supposed the case with northern nations; 

Confinement, too, must make them look quite palely; 
And as the Turks abhor long conversations. 

Their days are either pass'd in doing nothing, 

Or bathing, nursing, making love, and clothing. 

LXXII. 

They cannot read, and so don't lisp in criticism ; 

Nor write, and so they don't affect the muse; 
Were never caught in epigram or witticism, 

Have no romances, sermons, plays, reviews, — 
In harems learning soon would make a pretty schism ! 

But luckily these beauties are no " Blues ;" 
No bustling Botherbys have they to show 'em 
*' That charming passage in the last new poem :" 

LXXIII. 

No solemn, antique gentleman of rhyme, 
Who having angled all his life for fame. 

And getting but a nibble at a time. 
Still fussily keeps fishing on, the same 

Small " Triton of the minnows," the sublime 
Of mediocrity, the furious tame, 

The echo's echo, usher of the school 

Of female wits, boy bards — in short, a fool ! 

LXXIV. 

A stalking oracle of awful phrase. 

The approving " Good " (by no means good in law) 
Humming like flies around the newest blaze. 

The bluest of bluebottles you e'er saw, 
Teasing with blame, excruciating with praise, 

Gorging the little fame he gets all raw, 
Translating tongues he knows not even by letter, 
And sweating plays so middling, bad were better. 



BEPPO. 



155 



LXXV. 

One hates an author that 's all author, fellows 
In foolscap uniforms turn'd up with ink, 

So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous, 
One don't know what to say to them, or think, 

Unless to pnfl' them with a pair of bellows ; 
Of coxcombry's worst coxcombs e'en the pink 

Are preferable to these shreds of paper, 

These unquench'd snuifings of the njidnight taper. 

LXXVI. 

Of these same we see several, and of others, 
Men of the world, who know the world like men, 

Scott, Rogers, Moore, and all the better brothers. 
Who think of something else besides the pen ; 

But for the children of the "mighty mother's," 
The would-be wits, and can't-be gentlemen, 

I leave them to their daily " tea is ready," 

Smug coterie, and literary lady. 

LXXVII. 

The poor dear Mussulwomen whom I mention 
Have none of these instructive pleasant people, 

And one would seem to them a new invention. 
Unknown as bells within a Turkish steeple ; 

I think 't would almost be worth while to pension 
(Though best-sown projects very often reap ill) 

A missionary author, just to preach 

Our Christian usage of the parts of speech. 

LXXVIII. 

No chemistry for them unfolds her gases. 
No metaphysics are let loose in lectures, 

No circulating library amasses 
Religious novels, moral tales, and strictures 

Upon the living manners, as they pass us ; 
No exhibition glares with annual pictures ; 

They stare not on the stars from out their attics, 

Nor deal (thank God for that !) in mathematics, 

LXXIX. 

Why I thank God for that is no great matter, 
I have my reasons, you no doubt suppose, 

And as, perhaps, they'would not highly flatter, 
I '11 keep them for my life (to come) in prose ; 

I fear I have a little turn for satire, 
And yet methinks the older that one grows 

Inclines us more to laugh than scold, though laughter 

Leaves us so doubly serious shortly after. 

LXXX. 

Oh, Mirth and Innocence ! Oh, milk and water ! 

Ye happy mixtures of more happy days ! 
In these sad centuries of sin and slaughter, 

Abominable Man no more allays 
His thirst with such pure beverage. No matter, 

I love you both, and both shall have my praise : 
Oh, for old Saturn's reign of sugar-candy ! — 
Meantime I drink to your return in brandy. 

LXXXI. 

Our Laura's Turk still kept his eyes upon her, 
Less in the Mussulman than Christian way. 

Which seems to say, " Madam, I do you honour. 
And while I please to stare, you '11 please to stay." 

Could staring win a woman, this had won her, 
But Laura could not thus be led astray ; 

She had stood fire too long and well, to boggle 

Even at this stranger's most outlandish ogle. 

LXXXH. 

The morning now was on the point of breaking, 
A turn of time at which I would advise 

Ladies who have been dancing, or partaking 
In any other kind of exercise, 

To make their preparations for forsaking 
The ball-room ere the sun begins to rise. 

Because when once the lamps and candles fail, 

His blushes make them look a little pale. 



LXXXIII. 
I 've seen some balls and revels in my time. 

And stay'd them over for some silly reason, 
And then I look'd (I hope it was no crime) 

To see what lady best stood out the season ; 
And though I 've seen some thousands in their prime. 

Lovely and pleasing, and who still may please on, 
I never saw but one (the stars withdrawn), 
Whose bloom could after dancing dare the dawn. 

LXXXIV. 

The name of this Aurora I '11 not mention. 
Although I might, for she was nought to me 

More than that patent work of God's invention, 
A charming woman, whom we like to see ; 

But writing names would merit reprehension, 
Yet if you like to find out this fair she, 

At the next London or Parisian ball 

You still may mark her cheek, out-blooming all. 

LXXXV. 

Laura, who knew it would not do at all 
To meet the daylight after seven hours' sitting 

Among three thousand people at a ball, 

To make her curtsy thought it right and fitting j 

The Count was at her elbow with her shawl, 
And they the room were on the point of quitting. 

When lo ! those cursed gondoliers had got 

Just iu the very place where they should not. 

LXXXVI. 

In this they're like our coachmen, and the cause 
Is much the sanie — the crowd, and pulling, hauling, 

With blasphemies enough to break their jaws. 
They make a never intermitted bawling. 

At home, our Bow-street gemmen keep the laws, 
And here a sentry stands within your calling j 

But for all that, there is a deal of swearing, 

And nauseous words past mentioning or bearing. 

LXXXVII. 

The Count and Laura found their boat at last, 
And homeward floated o'er the silent tide, 

Discussing all the dances gone and past ; 
The dancers and their dresses, too, beside ; 

Some little scandals eke: but all aghast 
(As to their palace stairs the rowers glide) 

Sate Laura by the side of her Adorer, 

When lo ! the Mussulman was there before her. 

LXXXVIIL 

" Sir," said the Count, with brow exceeding grave, 
" Your unexpected presence here will make 

It necessary for myself to crave 
Its import ? But perhaps 't is a mistake j 

I hope it is so ; and at once to waive 
All compliment, I hope so for your sake; 

You understand my meaning, or you s/iaZZ." 

" Sir," (quoth the Turk) " 't Is no mistake at all, 

LXXXIX. 

" That lady Is my wife ' " Much wonder paints 
The lady's changing cheek, as well it might ; 

But where an Englishwoman sometimes faints, 
Italian females don't do so outright; 

They only call a little on their saints, 

And then come to themselves, almost or quite ; 

Which saves much hartshorn, salts, and sprinkling 
faces. 

And cutting stays, as usual in such cases. 

XC. 

She said, — what could she say ? Why, not a word : 

But the Count courteously invited in 
The stranger, much appeased by what he heard : 

"Such things, perhaps, we 'd best discuss within," 
Said he ; " don't let us make ourselves absurd 

In public, by a scene, nor raise a din, 
For then the chief and only satisfiiction 
Will be much quizzing on the whole transaction." 



156 



MAZEPPA. 



xci. 

They enter'd, and for coffee call'd — it came, 
A beverage for Turks and Christians both, 

Although the way they make it 's not the same. 
Now Laura, much recover'd, or less loth 

To speak, cries " Beppo ! what 's your pagan name? 
Bless me ! your beard is of amazing growth ! 

And how came you to keep away so long ? 

Are you not sensible 't was very wrong ? 

XCII. 
" And are you really, truly, now a Turk ? 

With any other women did you wive ? 
Is't true they use their fingers for a fork ? 

Well, that 's the prettiest shawl — as I 'm alive ! 
You '11 give it me ? They say you eat no pork. 

And how so many years did you contrive 
To — Bless me ! did I ever ? No, I never 
Saw a man grown so yellow ! How 's your liver ? 

XCIII. 

" Beppo ! that beard of yours becomes you not ; 

It shall be shaved before you 're a day older : 
Why do you wear it ? Oh ! I had forgot — 

Pray don't you think the weather here is colder? 
How do I look ? You sha'n't stir from this spot 

In that queer dress, for fear that some beholder 
Should find you out, and make the story known. 
How short your hair is ! Lord ! how grey it 's grown 1 

XCIV. 

What answer Beppo made to these demands 
Is more than I know. He was cast away 

About where Troy stood once, and nothing stands j 
Became a slave of course, and for his pay 

Had bread and bastinadoes, till some bands 
Of pirates landing in a neighbouring bay, 

He join'd the rogues and prosper'd, and became 

A renegado of indifferent fame. 

XCV. 
But he grew rich, and with his riches grew so 

Keen the desire to see his home again, 
He thought himself in duty bound to do so, 

And not be always thieving on the main ; 



Lonely he felt, at times, as Robin Crusoe, 

And so he hired a vessel come frorR Spain, 
Bound for Corfu : she was a fine polacca, 
Mann'd with twelve hands, and laden with tobacco. 

XCVI. 

Himself, and much (heaven knows how gotten !) cash, 
He then embark'd with risk of life and limb, 

And got clear olT, although the attempt was rash ; 
He said that Providence protected him — 

For my part, I say nothing — lest we clash 
In our opinions : — well, the ship was trim. 

Set sail, and kept her reckoning fairly on, 

Except three days of calm when off Cape Bonn. 

XCVII. 

They reach'd the island, he transferr'd his lading. 
And self and live stock to another bottom, 

And pass'd for a true Turkey-merchant, trading 
With goods of various names, but I 've forgot 'em. 

However, he got off by this evading. 
Or else the people would perhaps have shot him j 

And thus at Venice landed to reclaim 

His wife, religion, house, and Christian naune. 

XCVIIL 

His wife received, the patriarch re-baptized him, 
(He made the church a present, by the way ;) 

He then threw off the garments which disguised him, 
And borrow'd the Count's smallclothes for a day : 

His friends the more for his long absence prized him, 
Finding he'd wherewithal to make them gay, 

With dinners, where he oft became the laugh of them, 

For stories — but / don't believe the half of them. 

XCIX. 
Whate'er his youth had suffer "d, his old age 

With wealth and talking made him some amends ; 
Though Laura sometimes'put him in a rage, 

I 've heard the Count and he were always friends. 
My pen is at the bottom of a page. 

Which being finished, here the story ends j 
'T is to be wish'd it had been sooner done, 
But stories somehow lengthen when begun. 



MAZEPPA/ 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

" Celui qui remplissait alors cette place etait un geu- 
tilhomme Polonais, nomme Mazeppa, ne dans le pala. 
tinat de Podolie : il avait ete eleve page de Jean Casi- 
mir, et avait pris a sa cour quelque teinture des belles- 
lettres. Une intrigue qu'il eut dans sa jeunesse avec 
la femme d'un gentilhomme Polonais ayant ete decou- 
verte, le mari le fit lier tout nu sur un cheval farouche, 
et le laissa aller en cet etat. Le cheval, qui etait du 
pays de I'Ukraine, y retourna, et y porta Mazeppa, 
demi-mort de fatigue et de faim. Quelques paysans le 
secoururent : il resta longtems parmi eux, et se signala 
dans plusieurs courses contre les Tartares. La supe- 
riorite de ses lumieres lui donna une grande considera- 
tion parmi les Cosaques : sa reputation s'augmentant 
de iour en jour, obligea le Czar a le faire Prince de 
I'Ukraine."— VOLTAIRE, Hist, de Charles XII. p. 
196. 

" Le roi fuyant, et ponrsuivi, eut son cheval tue 
sous lui ; le Colonel Gieta, blesse, et perdant tout son 
sang, lui donna le sien. Ainsi on remit deux fois a 
cheval, dans la fuite, ce conquerant qui n'avait pu y 
monter pendant la bataille."— P. 216. 

1 Written in the autumn of 1818, at Ravenna. 



" Leroi alia par un autre chemin avec quelques cava- 
liers. Le carrosse, ou il etait, rompit dans la'marche ; 
on le remit a cheval. Pour comble de disgrace, il s'e- 
gara pendant la nuit dans un bois ; la, son courage ne 
pouvant plus suppleer a ses forces epuisees, les dou- 
leurs de sa blessure devenues plus insupportables par 
la fatigue, son cheval etant tombe de 'lassitude, il se 
coucha quelques heures aii pied d'un arbre, en danger 
d'etre surpris a tout moment par les vainqueurs, qui le 
cherchaient de tons cotes."— P. 218. 



MAZEPPA. 



I. 

'T was after dread Pultovva's day, 

When fortune left the royal Swede, 
Around a slaughter'd army lay. 

No more to "combat and" to bleed. 
The power and glory of the war. 

Faithless as their vain votaries, men, 
Had pass'd to the triumphant Czar, 

And Moscow's walls were safe again. 
Until a day more dark and drear. 
And a more memorable year, 



MAZEPPA. 


157 


Should give to slaughter and to shame 


And next the venerable man, 




A mightier host and haughtier namej 


From out his havresack and can. 




A greater wreck, a deeper fall, 


Prepared and spread his slender stock ; 




A shock to one — a thunderbolt to all. 


And to the monarch and his men 
The whole or portion offer'd then 




II. 


With far less of inquietude 




Such was the hazard of the die ; 


Than courtiers at a banquet would. 




The wounded Charles was taught to fly 


And Charles of this his slender share 




By day and night through field and flood, 
Stain'd with bis own and subjects' blood j 


With smiles partook a moment there. 




To force of cheer a greater show, 




For thousands fell that flight to aid : 


And seem above both wounds and woe ; — 




And not a voice was heard t' upbraid 


And then he said — " Of all our band, 




Ambition in his humbled hour, 


Though film of heart and strong of hand, 




When truth had nought to dread from power. 


In skirmish, march, or lorage, none 




His horse was slain, and Gieta gave 


Can less have said or more have done 




His own — and died the Russians' slave. 


Than thee, Mazeppa ! On the earth 




This too sinks after many a league 


So fit a pair had never birth, 




Of well sustain'd, but vain fatigue ; 


Since Alexander's days till now. 




And in the depth of forests, darkling 


As thy Bucephalus and thou : 




The watch-fires in the distance sparkling — 


All Scylhia's fame to thine should yield 




The beacons of surrounding foes — 


For pricking on o'er flood and field." 




A king must lay his li^j^ at length. 


Mazeppa answerd — " 111 betide 




Are these the laurels and repose 


The school wherein I learn'd to ride ! " 




For which the nations strain their strength ? 


Quoth Charles— " Old Hetman, wherefore so 


' 


They laid him by a savage tree, 


Since thou hast learn'd the art so well ? " 




In outworn nature's agony ; 


Mazeppa said — " 'T were long to tell j 




His wounds were stiff— his limbs were stark — 


And we have many a league to go. 




The heavy hour was chill and dark j 


With every now and then a blow, 




The fever in his blood forbade 


And ten to one at least the foe, 




A transient slumber's fitful aid : 


Before our steeds may graze at ease. 




And thus it was ; but yet through all, 


Beyond the swift Eofysthenes : 




Kinglike the monarch bore his fall, 


And, Sire, your limbs have need of rest. 




And made, in this extreme of ill, 


And I will be the sentinel 




His pangs the vassals of his will : 


Of this your troop." — " But I request," 




All silent and subdued were they, 


Said Sweden's monarch, " thoa wilt tell 




As once the nations round him lay. 


This tale of thine, and I may reap, 




III. 


Perchance, from this the boon of sleep ; 




For at this moment from my eyes 




A band of chiefs ! — alas ! how few. 


The hope of present slumber flies." 




Since but the fleeting of a day 






Had thinn'd it ; but this wreck was true 


" Well, Sire, with such a hope, I '11 track 




And chivalrous : upon the clay 


My seventy years of memory back : 




Each sate him down, all sad and mute. 


I think "t was in my twentieth spring,— 




Beside his monarch and his steed. 


Ay, 't was,— when Casimir was kiiig — 




For danger levels man and brute. 


John Casimir,— I was his page 




And all are fellows in their need. 


Six summers, in my earlier age : 




Among the rest, Mazeppa made 


A learned monarch, faith I was he, 




His pillow in an old oak's shade — 


And most unlike your majesty ; 




Himself as rough, and scarce less old. 


He made no wars, and did not gain 




The Ukraine's Hetman, calm and bold ; 


New realms to lose them back again ; 




But first, outspent with this long course, 


And (save debates in Warsaw's diet) 




The Cossack prince rubb'd down his horse, 


He reign'd in most unseemly quiet j 




And made for him a leafy bed. 


Not that he had no cares to vex. 




And smooth'd his fetlocks and his mane, 


He loved the muses and the sex ; 




And slack'd his girth, and stripp'd his rein. 


And sometimes these so froward are, 




And joy'd to see how well he fed j 


They made him wish himself at war; 




For until now he had the dread 


But soon his wrath being o'er, he took 




His wearied courser might refuse 


Another mistress, or new book : 




To browse beneath the midnight dews : 


And then he gave prodigious fetes — 




But he was hardy as his lord, 


All Warsaw gather'd round his gates 




And little cared for bed and board ; 


To gaze upon his splendid court, 




But spirited and docile too ; 


And dames, and chiefs, of princely port : 




Whate'er was to be done, would do. 


He was the Polish Solomon, 




Shaggy and swift, and strong of limb, 


So sung his poets, ail but one. 




All Tartar-like he carried him ; 


W^ho, being unpension'd, made a satire, 




Obey'd his voice, and came to call. 
And knew him in the midst of all : 


And boasted that he could not flatter. 




It was a court of jousts and mimes. 




Though thousands were around,— and Night, 


Where every courtier tried at rhymes ; 




Without a star, pursued her flight,— 


Even I for once produced some verses, 




That steed from sunset until dawn 


And sign'd my odes ' Despairing Thyrsis.' 




His chief would follow like a fawn. 


There was a certain Palatine, 




IV. 


A count of far and high descent, 




Rich as a salt or silver mine ; i 




This done, Mazeppa spread his cloak. 


And he was proud, ye may divine, 




And laid his lance beneath his oak. 


As if from heaven he had been sent 




Felt if his arms in order good 


He had such wealth in blood and ore 




The long day's march had well withstood — 


As few could match beneath the throne ; 




If still the powder fill'd the pan. 
And flints unloosen'd kept their lock — 






1 This comparison of a "salt-mine" may, perhaps, be 


His sabre's hilt and scabbard felt, 


permitted to a Pole, as the wealth of the country consists 


And whether they had chafed his belt — 


greatly in the Balt-minee. 


.11 



14 



158 



MAZEPPA 



And he would gaze upon his store, 
And o'er his pedigree would pore, 
Until by some confusion led, 
Which almost look'd like want of head, 

He thought their merits were his own. 
His wife was not of his opinion — 

His junior she by thirty years — 
Grew daily tired of his dominion ; 

And, after wishes, hopes, and fears, 

To virtue a few farewell tears, 
A restless dream or two, some glances 
At Warsaw's youth, some songs, and dances, 
Awaited but the usual chances, 
Those happy accidents which render 
The coldest dames so very tender. 
To deck her Count with titles given, 
'T is said, as passports into heaven ; 
But, strange to say, they rarely boast 
Of these, who have deserved them most. 

V. 
"I was a goodly stripling then; 

At seventy years I so may say. 
That there were few, or boys or men, 

Who, in my dawning time of day, 
Of vassal or of knight's degree, 
Could vie in vanities with me ; 
For I had strength, youth, gaiety, 
A port, not like" to this ye see. 
But smooth, as all is rugged now ; 

For time, and care, and war, have plough'd 
My very soul from out my brow ; 

And thus I should be disavow'd 
By all my kind and kin, could they 
Compare my day and yesterday ; 
This change was wrought, too, long ere age 
Had ta'en my features for his page : 
With years, ye know, have not declined 
My strength, my courage, or my mind, 
Or at this hour I should not be 
Telling old tales beneath a tree, 
With starless skies my canopy. 

But let me on : Theresa's form — 
Methinks it glides before me now, 
Between me and yon chestnut's bough, 

The memory is so quick and warm j 
And yet I find no words to tell 
The shape of her I loved so well : 
She had the Asiatic eye. 

Such as our Turkish neighbourhood 

Hath mingled with our Polish blood. 
Dark as above us is the sky ; 
But through it stole a tender light, 
Like the first moonrise of midnight; 
Large, dark, and swimming in the stream, 
Which seem'd to melt to its own beam; 
All love, half languor, and half fire, 
Like saints that at the stake expire, 
And lift their raptured looks on high. 
As though it were a joy to die. 
A brow like a midsummer lake, 

Transparent with the sun therein. 
When waves no murmur dare to make, 

And heaven beholds her face within. 
A cheek and lip — but why proceed ? 

I loved her then — I love her still ; 
And such as I am, love indeed 

In fierce extremes — in good and ilL 
But still we love even in our rage. 
And haunted to our very age 
With the vain shadow of the past. 
As is Mazeppa to the last 

VL 
" We met — we gazed — I saw, and sigh'd, 
She did not speak, and yet replied ; 
There are ten thousand tones and signs 
We hear and see, but none defines — 
Involuntarv sparks of thought, 
Which stri'ke from out the heart o'erwrought. 
And form a strange intelligence, 
Alike mysterious and intense. 



Which link the burning chain that binds, 
Without their will, young hearts and minds; 
Conveying, as the electric wire. 
We know not how, the absorbing fire. — 
I saw, and sigh'd — in silence wept, 
And still reluctant distance kept, 
Until I was made known to her, 
And we might then and there confer 
Without suspicion — then, even then, 

I long'd, and was resolved to speak ; 
But on my lips they died again. 

The accents tremulous and weak. 
Until one hour. — There is a game, 

A frivolous and foolish play, 

Wherewith we while away the day; 
It is — I have forgot the name — 
And we to this, it seems, were set. 
By some strange chance, which I forget : 
I reck'd not if I won or lost. 

It was enough for me to be 

So near to her, and oh ! to see 
The being whom I loved (^ most.— 
I watch'd her as a sentinel, 
(May ours this dark night watch as well !) 

Until I saw, and thus it was. 
That she was pensive, nor perceived 
Her occupation, nor was grieved 
Nor glad to lose or gain ; but still 
Play'd on for hours, as if her will 
Yet bound her to the place, though not 
That hers might be the winning lot. 

Then through my brain the thought did pass. 
Even as a flash of lightning there. 
That there was something in her air 
Which would not doom me to despair; 
And on the thought my words broke forth, 

All incoherent as they were — 
Their eloquence was little worth. 
But yet she listen'd — 't is enough — 

Who listens once will listen twice ; 

Her heart, be sure, is not of ice. 
And one refusal no rebuff. 

VII. 

" I loved, and was beloved again — 

They tell me, Sire, you never knew 

Those gentle frailties ; if 't is true, 
I shorten all my joy or pain ; 
To you 't would seem absurd as vain ; 
But all men are not born to reign. 
Or o'er their passions, or as you 
Thus o'er themselves and nations too. 
I am — or rather was — a prince, 

A chief of thousands, and could lead 

Them on where each would foremost bleed ; 
But could not o'er myself evince 
The like control — But to resume : 

I loved, and was beloved again ; 
In sooth, it is a happy doom. 

But yet where happiest ends in pain.— 
We met in secret, and the hour 
Which led me to that lady's bower 
Was fiery Expectation's dower. 
My days and nights were nothing — all 
Except that hour which doth recall 
In the long lapse from youth to age 

No other like itself — I 'd give 

The Ukraine back again to live 
It o'er once more — and be a page, 
The happy page, who was the lord 
Of one soft heart, and his own sword. 
And had no other gem nor wealth 
Save nature's gift of youth and health.— 
We met in secret— doubly sweet, 
Some say, they find it so to meet ; 
I know not that — I would have given 

My life but to have call'd her mine 
In the full view of earth and heaven; 

For I did oft and long repine 
That we could only meet by stealth. 



■ 



U 



MAZEPPA. 



159 



VIII. 
" For lovers there are many eyes, 

And such there were on us ; — the devil 

On such occasions should be civil — 
The devil ! — I'm loth to do him wrong, 

It might be some imtoward saint, 
Who would not be at rest too long, 

But to his pious bile gave vent — 
But one fair night, some lurking spies 
Surprised and seized us both. 
The Count was something more than wroth — 
I was unarm'd ; but if in steel, 
All cap-a-pie from head to heel, 
"What 'gainst their numbers could I do ? — 
'T was near his castle, far away 

From city or from succour near, 
And almost on the break of day ; 
I did not think to see another. 

My moments seem'd reduced to few; 
And with one prayer to Mary Mother, 

And, it may be, a saint or two, 
As I resign'd me to my fate. 
They led me to the castle gate : 

Theresa's doom I never knew, 
Our lot was henceforth separate. — 
An angry man, ye may opine, 
Was he,' the proud Count Palatine; 
And he had i-eason good to be. 

But he was most enraged lest such 

An accident should chance to touch 
Upon his future pedigree; 
Nor less amazed, that such a blot 
His noble 'scutcheon should have got. 
While he was highest of his line ; 

Because unto himself he seem'd 

The first r f men, nor less he deem'd 
In others' eyes, and most in mine. 
'Sdeath ! with a page — perchance a king 
Had reconciled him to the thing; 
But with a stripling of a page — 
I felt — but cannot paint his rage. 

IX. 

" ' Bring forth the horse ! ' — the horse was brought 

In truth, he was a noble steed, 

A Tartar of the Ukraine breed. 
Who look'd as though the speed of thought 
Were in his limbs ; but he was wild, 

Wild as the wild deer, and untaught, 
With spur and bridle undefiled — 

'T was but a day he had been caught ; 
And snorting, with erected mane, 
And strugglfng fiercely, but in vain, 
In the full foam of wrath and dread 
To me the desert-born was led : 
They bound me on, that menial throng, 
Upon his back with many a thong; 
Then loosed him with a sudden lash — 
Away ! — away ! — and on we dash ! — 
Torrents less rapid and less rash. 

X. 

" Away ! — away ! —My breath was gone — 

I saw not where he hurried on : 

'T was scarcely yet the break of day. 

And on he foani'd — away ! — away ! — 

The last of human sounds which rose. 

As I was darted from my foes, 

Was the wild shout of savage laughter, 

Which on the wind came roaring after 

A moment from that rabble rout : 

With sudden wrath I wrench'd my head. 

And snapp'd the cnrd, which to the mane 

Had bound my neck in lieu of rein, 
And, writhing half my form about, 
Hovvl'd back my curse ; but 'midst the tread, 
The thunder of my courser's speed. 
Perchance they did not hear nor heed : 
It vexes me — for I would fain 
Have paid their insult back again. 



I paid it well in after days : 

There is not of that castle gate, 

Its drawbridge and portcullis' weight. 

Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left; 

Nor of its fields a blade of grass. 

Save what grows on a ridge of wall, 

Where stood the hearth-stone of the hall; 
And many a time ye there might pass, 
Nor dream that e'er that fortress was ! 
I saw its turrets in a blaze. 
Their crackling battlements all cleft, 

And the hot lead pour down like rain 
From oft" the scorch'd and blackening roof, 
Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof. 

They little thought that day of pain. 
When lauch'd, as on the lightning's flash, 
They bade me to destruction dash, 

That one day I shotfld come again, 
With twice five thousand horse, to thank 

The Count for his uncourteous ride. ' 

They play'd me then a bitter prank, 

When, with the wild horse for my guide, 
They bound me to his foaming flank: 
At length I play'd them one as frank — 
For time at last sets all things even — 

And if we do but watch the hour, 

There never yet was human power 
Which could evade, if unforgiven, 
The patient search and vigil long 
Of him who treasures up a wrong. 

XI. 
" Away, away, my steed and I, 

Upon the pinions of the wind, 

All human dwellings left behind ; 
We sped like meteors through the sky. 
When with its crackling sound the night 
Is chequer'd with the northern light: 
Town — village — none were on our track, 

But a wild plain of far extent, 
And bounded by a forest black ; 

And, save the scarce seen battlement 
On distant heights of some strong hold. 
Against the Tartars built of old, 
No trace of man. The year before 
A Turkish army had march'd o'er ; 
And where the Spahi's hoof hath trod. 
The verdure flies the bloody sod : — 
The sky was dull, and dim, and grey, 

And a low breeze crept moaning by — 

I could have answer'd with a sigh — 
But fast we fled, away, away — 
And I could neither sigh nor pray ; 
And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain 
Upon the courser's bristling mane ; 
But, snorting still with rage and fear. 
He flew upon his far career : 
At times I almost thought, indeed, 
He must have slacken 'd in his speed ; 
But no — my bound and slender frame 

Was nothing to his angry might, 
And merely like a spur became : 
Each motion which I made to free 
My svvoln limbs from their agony 

Increased his fury and affright : 
I tried my voice,— 't was faint and low, 
But yet he swerved as from a blow ; 
And, starting to each accent, sprang 
As from a sudden trumpet's clang : 
Meantime my cords were wet with gore. 
Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er; 
And in my tongue the thirst became 
A something fierier far than flame. 

XII. 

" We near'd the wild wood — 't was so wide, 
I saw no bounds on either side ; 
'T was studded with old stuidy trees, 
That bent not to the roughest breeze 
Which howls down from Siberia's waste. 
And strips the forest in its haste, — 



ilfti 



_^ 



160 



MAZEPPA, 



But these were few, and far between 
Set thick with shrubs more young and green, 
Luxuriant with their annual leaves, 
Ere strewn by those autumnal eves 
That nip the forest's foliage dead, 
Discolour'd with a lifeless red, 
Which stands thereon like stitfen'd gore 
Upon the slain when battle's o'er. 
And some long winter's night hath shed 
Its frost o'er every tombless head, 
So cold and stark the raven's beak 
May peck unpierced each frozen cheek : 
'T was a wild waste of underwood, 
And here and there a chestnut stood. 
The strong oak, and the hardy pine ; 
But far apart — and well it were. 
Or else a ditferent lot were mine — 
The boughs gave way, and did not tear 
My limbs ; and I found strength to bear 
My wounds, already scarr'd with cold — 
My bonds forbade to loose my hold. 
We rustled through the leaves like wind, 
Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind; 
By night I heard them on the track, 
Their troop came hard upon our back, 
With their long gallop, which can tire 
The hound's deep hate, and hunter's fire : 
Where'er we flew they follow'd on, 
Nor left us with the morning sun ; 
Behind I saw them, scarce a rood, 
At day-break winding through the wood, 
And through the night had heard their feet 
Their stealing, rustling step repeat. 
Oh ! how I wish'd for spear or sword, 
At least to die amidst the horde. 
And perish — if it must be so — 
At bay, destroying many a foe. 
When first my courser's race begun, 
I wish'd the goal already won j 
But now I doubted strength and speed. 
Vain doubt ! his swift and savage breed 
Had nerved him like the mountain-roe ; 
Nor faster falls the blinding snow 
Which whelms the peasant near the door 
Whose threshold he shall cross no more, 
Bewilder'd with the dazzling blast. 
Than through the forest-paths he past — 
Untired, untamed, and worse than wild ; 
All furious as a favour'd child 
Balk'd of its wish ; or fiercer still — 
A woman piqued — who has her will. 

xin. 

" The wood was past ; 't was more than noon, 

But chill the air, although in June ; 

Or it might be my veins ran cold — 

Prolong'd endurance tames the bold j 

And I was then not what I seem. 

But headlong as a wintry stream, 

And wore my feelings out before 

I well could count their causes o'er : 

And what with fury, fear, and wrath, 

The tortures which beset my path. 

Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress, 

Thus bound in nature's nakedness ; 

Sprung from a race whose rising blood 

When stirr'd beyond its calmer mood, 

And trodden hard upon, is like 

The rattle-snake's, in act to strike, 

What marvel if this worn-out trunk 

Beneath its woes a moment sunk ? 

The earth gave way, the skies roll'd round, 

I seem'd to sink upon the ground; 

But err'd, for I was fastly bound. 

My heart turn'd sick, my brain grew sore. 

And throbb'd awhile, then beat no more ; 

The skies spun like a mighty wheel ; 

I saw the trees like drunkards reel. 

And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes. 

Which saw no farther: he who dies 

Can die no more than then I died. 

O'ertortured by that ghastly ride, 



I felt that blackness come and go. 
And strove to wake ; but could not make 

My senses climb up from below : 

I felt as on a plank at sea. 

When all the waves that dash o'er thee, 

At the same time upheave and whelm. 

And hurl thee towards a desert realm. 

My undulating life was as 

The fancied lights that flitting pass 

Our shut eyes in deep midnight, when 

Fever begins upon the brain ; 

But soon it pass'd, with little pain, 
But a confusion worse than such : 
I own that I should deem it much, 

Dying, to feel the same again ; 

And yet I do suppose we must 

Feel far more ere we turn to dust : 

No matter ; I have bared my brow 

Full in Death's face— before — and now. 

XIV. 

" My thoughts came back ; where was I ? Cold, 

And numb, and giddy : pulse by pulse 

Life resumed its lingering hold, 

And throb by throb : till grown a pang 

Which for a moment would convulse, 

My blood refloAv'd, though thick and chill ; 
My ear with uncouth noises rang, 

My heart began once more to thrill ; 
My sight return'd, though dim ; alas ! 
And thicken'd, as it were, with glass. 
Methought the dash of waves was nigh ; 
There was a gleam too of the sky, 
Studded with stars ; — it is no dream ; 
The wild horse swims the wilder stream ! 
The bright broad river's gushing tide 
Sweeps, winding onward, far and wide. 
And we are half-way, struggling o'er 
To yon unknown and silent shore. 
The waters broke my hollow trance, 
And with a temporary strength 

My stitfen'd limbs were rebaptized. 
My courser's broad breast proudly braves. 
And dashes off the ascending waves. 
And onward we advance ! 
We reach the slippery shore at length, 

A haven I but little prized. 
For all behind was dark and drear. 
And all before was night and fear. 
How many hours of night or day 
In those suspended pangs I lay, 
I could not tell ; I scarcely knew 
If this were human breath I drew. 

XV. 

" With glossy skin, and dripping mane. 

And reeling limbs, and reeking flank, 
The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strain 

Up the repelling bank. 
We gain the top : a boundless plain 
Spreads through the shadow of the night. 

And onward, onward, onward, seems, 

Like precipices in our dreams. 
To stretch beyond the sight ; 
And here and there a speck of white, 

Or scatter'd spot of dusky green. 
In masses broke into the lighT, 
As rose the moon upon my right : 

But nought distinctly seen 
In the dim waste would indicate 
The omen of a cottage gate ; 
No twinkling taper from afar 
Stood like a hospitnble star ; 
Not even an ignis-fatuus rose 
To make him merry with my woes: 

That very cheat had cheer'd me then ! 
Although detected, welcome still, 
Reminding me, through every ill, 

Of the abodes of men. 



i 



MAZEPPA. 



161 



XVI. 

" Onward we went — but slack and slow ; 

His savage force at length o'erspent, 
The drooping courser, faint and low, 

All feebly foaming went. 
A sickly infant had had power 
To guide him forward in that hour ; 

But useless all to me : 
His new-born tameness naught avail'd — 
My limbs were bound ; my force had fail'd, 

Perchance, had they been free. 
With feeble effort still I tried 
To rend the bonds so starkly tied — 

But still it was in vain ; 
My limbs were only wrung the more, 
And soon the idle strife gave o'er, 

Which but prolong'd their pain : 
The dizzy race seem'd almost done, 
Although no goal was nearly won : 
Some streaks announced the coming sun — 

How slow, alas ! he came ! 
Methought that mist of dawning grey 
Would never dapple into day j 
How heavily it roU'd away — 

Before the eastern flame 
Rose crimson, and deposed the stars, 
And call'd the radiance from their cars, 
And fill'd the earth, from his deep throne. 
With lonely lustre, all his own. 

XVII. 

" Up rose the sun ; the mists were curl'd 
Back from the solitary world 
Which lay around — behind — before j 
What booted it to traverse o'er 
Plain, forest, river ? Man nor brute, 
Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot, 
Lay in the wild luxuriant soil ; 
No sign of travel — none of toil ; 
The very air was mute ; 
And not an insect's shrill small horn, 
Nor matin bird's new voice was borne 
From herb nor thicket. Many a werst, 
Panting as if his heart would burst, 
The weary brute still stagger'd on j 
And still we were — or seem'd — alone : 
At length, while reeling on our way, 
Methought I heard a courser neigh, 
From out yon tuft of blackening firs. 
Is it the wind those branches stirs? 
No, no ! from out the forest prance 

A trampling troop ; I see them come ! 
In one vast squadron they advance ! 

I strove to cry — my lips were dumb. 
The steeds rush on in plunging pride ; 
But where are they the reins to guide ? 
A thousand horse — and none to ride 1 
With flowing tail, and flying mane, 
Wide nostrils — never stretch'd by pain. 
Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein, 
And feet that iron never shod, 
And flanks unscarr'd by spur or rod, 
A thousand horse, the wild, the free, 
Like waves that follow o'er the sea, 

Came thickly thundering on, 
As if our faint approach to meet ; 
The sight re-nerved my courser's feet, 
A moment staggering, feebly fleet, 
A moment, with a faint low neigh. 

He answer'd, and then fell ; 
With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, 

And reeking limbs immoveable, 
His first and last career is done ! 
On came the troop — they saw him stoop. 

They saw me strangely bound along 

His back with many a bloody thong : 
They stop — they start — they snufF the air, 
Gallop a moment here and there. 
Approach, retire, wheel round and round. 
Then plunging back with sudden bound, 



Headed by one black mighty steed, 
Who seem'd the patriarch of his breed, 

Without a single speck or hair 
Of white upon his shaggy hide j 
They snort — they foam — neigh — swerve aside, 
And backward to the forest fly, 
By instinct, from a human eye. — 

They left me there to my despair, 
Link'd to the dead and stiffening wretch, 
Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch. 
Relieved from that unwonted weight, 
From whence I could not extricate 
Nor him nor me — and there we lay 

The dying on the dead ! 
I little deem'd another day 

Would see my houseless, helpless head. 

*' And there from morn to twilight bound, 
I felt the heavy hours toil round. 
With just enough of life to see 
My last of suns go down on me. 
In hopeless certainty of mind. 
That makes us feel at length resign'd 
To that which our foreboding years 
Presents the worst and last of fears 
Inevitable — even a boon. 
Nor more unkind for coming soon; 
Yet shunn'd and dreaded with such care. 
As if it only were a snare 

That prudence might escape : 
At times both wish'd for and implored, 
At times sought with self-pointed sword, 
Yet still a dark and hideous close 
To even intolerable woes. 

And welcome in no shape. 
And, strange to say, the sons of pleasure. 
They who have revell'd beyond measure 
In beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure, 
Die calm, or calmer, oft than he 
Whose heritage was misery : 
For he who hath in turn run through 
All that was beautiful and new, 

Hath nought to hope, and nought to leave ; 
And, save the future, (which is view'd 
Not quite as men are base or good. 
But as their nerves may be endued,) 

With nought perhaps to grieve : — 
The wretch still hopes his woes must end, 
And Death, whom he should deem his friend, 
Appears, to his distemper'd eyes, 
Arrived to rob him of his prize, 
The tree of his new Paradise. 
To-morrow would have given him all. 
Repaid his pangs, repair'd his fall ,■ 
To-morrow would have been the first 
Of days no more deplored or curst, 
But bright, and long, and beckoning years, 
Seen dazzling through the mist of tea'rs, 
Guerdon of many a painful hour; 
To-morrow would have given him power 
To rule, to shine, to smite, to save — 
And must it dawn upon his grave ? 

XVIII. 
" The sun was sinking — still I lay 

Chain'd to the chill and stiffening steed, 
I thought to mingle there our clay ; 

And my dim eyes of death had need. 

No hope arose of being freed : 
I cast my last looks up the sky, 

And there between me and the sun 
I saw the expecting raven fly. 
Who scarce would wait till both should die, 

Ere his repast begun ; 
He flew, and perchi'd, then flew once more, 
And each time nearer than before ; 
I saw his wing through twilight flit, 
And once so near me he alit 

I could have smote, but lack'd the strength J 
But the slight motion of my hand. 
And feeble scratching of the sand. 



14* 



11 



162 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



The exerted throat's faint struggling noise, 
Which scarcely could be called a voice, 

Together scared him off at length. — 
I know no more — my latest dream 

Is something of a lovely star 

Which fix'd my dull eyes from afar, 
And went and cime with wandering beam, 
And of the cold, dull, swimming, dense 
Sensation of recurring sense. 
And then subsiding back to death, 
And then again a little breath, 
A little thrill, a short suspense. 

An icy sickness curdling o'er 
My heart, and sparks that cross'd my brain — 
A gasp, a throb, a start of pain, 

A sigh, and nothing more. 

XIX. 

" I woke — where was I ? — Do I see 

A human face look down on me ? 
And doth a roof above me close ? 
Do these limbs on a couch repose? 
Is this a chamber where I lie ? 
And is it mortal yon bright eye, 
That watches me with gentle' glance ? 

I closed my own again once more, 
As doubtful that my former trance 

Could not as yet be o'er. 
A slender girl, long-hair'd, and tall, 
Sate watching by the cottage wallj 
The sparkle of her eye I caught. 
Even with my first return of thought j 
For ever and anon she threw 

A prying, pitying glance on me 

With her black eyes so wild and free: 
I gazed, and gazed, until I knew 

No vision it could be, — 
But that I lived, and was released 
From adding to the vulture's feast : 
And when the Cossack maid beheld 
My heavy eyes at length unseal'd, 
She smiled — and I essay'd to speak, 

But fail'd — and she approach'd, and made 

With lip and finger signs that said, 
I must not strive as yet to break 
The silence, till my strength should be 
Enough to leave my accents free ; 
And then her hand on mine she laid, 
And smooth'd the pillow for my head, 
And stole along on tiptoe tread, 

And gently oped the door, and spake 
In whispers — ne'er was voice so sweet ! 
Even music follow'd her light feet; — 

But those she call'd were not awake, 



And she went forth ; but, ere she pass'd. 
Another look on me she cast, 

Another sign she made, to say, 
That I had nought to fear, that all 
Were near, at my command or call. 

And she would not delay 
Her due return : — while she was gone, 
Methought I felt too much alone. 

XX. 
*' She came with mother and with sire— . 
What need of more ? — I will not tire 
With long recital of the rest. 
Since I became the Cossack's guest. 
They found me senseless on the [lain — 

They bore me to the nearest hut — 
They brought me into life again — 
Me — one day o'er their realm to rei?n ! 

Thus the vain f .ol who strove to glut 
His rage, refining on my pain, 

Sent me forth to the wilderness. 
Bound, naked, bleeding, and alone, 
To pass the desert to a throne,— 

What mortal his own doom may guess? — 

Let none despond, let none despair I 
To-morrow the Borysthenes 
May see our coursers graze at ease 
Upon his Turkish bank, — and never 
Had I such welcome for a river 

As I shall yield when safely there.1 
Comrades, good night ! " — The Hetman threw 

His length beneath the oak-tree shade, 

With leafy couch already made, 
A bed nor comfortless nor new 
To him, who took his rest whene'er 
The hour arrived, no matter where : 

Hi? eyes the hastening slumbers steep. 
And if ye marvel Charles forgot 
To thank his tale, }ie. wonder'd not, — 

The king had been an hour asleep. 



1 "Charles, having perreived that the day was lost, and 
that his only chance of safety was to retire with the 
[utmost precipitation, sulTered himself to be mounted on 
• horseback, and with the remains of his army fled to a 
place called Perewolochna, situated in the angle formed by 
the junction of the Vorskla and the Borysthenes. Here, 
accompanied by Mazeppa, and a few hundreds of his fol- 
lowers, Charles swam over the latter preat river, and pro- 
ceeding over a desolate country, in danger of perishing 
with hunger, at length reached the Bog, where he was 
kindly received by the Turkish pacha. The Russian en- 
voy at the Sublime Porte demanded that Mazeppa should 
be delivered up to Peter, but the old Hetman of the Cos- 
sacks escaped this fate by taking a disease which hastened 
his death."~BARROW'S Peter the Greaf, pp. 196 — 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE 



« 'T is the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, 
And coming events cast their shadows before." 

CAMPBELL. 



DEDICATION. 

Lady ! if for the cold and cloudy clime 
Where I was born, but where I would not die. 
Of the great Poet-Sire of Italy 

I dare to build the imitative rhyme, 

Harsh Runic copy of the South's sublime, 
Thou art the cause ; and howsoever I 
Fall short of his immortal harmoay. 

Thy gentle heart will pardon me the crime. 



2 Written at Ravenna, in the summer of 1819, and pub- 
lished in May, 1821. 



Thou, in the pride of Beauty and of Youth, 

Spakest ; and for thee to speak and be obey'd 
Are one ; but only in the sunny South 

Such sounds are utter'd, and such charms display'd, 
So sweet a language from so fair a mouth — 

Ah ! to what effort would it not persuade? 

Ravenna, June 21, 1819. 



/ PREFACE. 

In the course of a visit to the city of Ravenna in the 
mmmerof 1819, it was suggested to the author that 



■■ 



au ■ 



Canto I.] 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



163 



having composed something on the subject of Tasso's 
confinement, he should do the same on Dante's exile, 
— the tomb of the poet forming one of the principal 
objects of interest in that city, both to the native and 
to the stranger. 

" On this hint I spake," and the result has been the 
following four cantos, in terza rimn, now offered to the 
reader. If they are understood and approved, it is my 
purpose to continue the poem, in various other cantos, 
to its natural conclusion in the present age. The 
reader is requested to suppose that Dante addresses him 
in the interval between the conclusion of the Divina 
Commedia and his death, and shortly before the latter 
event, foretelling the fortunes of Italy in general in the 
ensuing centuries. In adopting this plan I have had in 
my mind the Cassandra of Lycophron, and the Pro- 
phecy of Nereus by Horace, as well as the Prophecies 
of Holy Writ. The measure adopted is the terza rima 
of Dante, which I am not aware to have seen hitherto 
tried in our language, except it may be by Mr. Hayley, 
of whose translation I never saw but one extract, 
quoted in the notes to Caliph Vathek j so that — if I 
do not err — this poem may be considered as a metrical 
experiment. The cantos are short, and about the same 
length of those of the poet, whose name I have bor- 
rowed, and most probably taken in vain. 

Amongst the inconveniences of authors in the pre- 
sent day, it is difficult for any who have a name, good 
or bad, to escape translation. I have had the fortune 
to see the fourth canto of Childe Harold translated into 
Italian versi sciolti,— that is, a poem written in the 
Spensereayi stanza into blank verse, without regard to 
the natural divisions of the stanza or of the sense. If 
the present poem, being on a national topic, should 
chance to undergo the same fate, I would request the 
Italian reader to remember that when I have failed in 
the imitation of his great " Padre Alighier," I have 
failed in imitating that which all study and few under- 
stand, since to this very day it is not yet settled what 
was the meaning of the allegory in the first canto of 
the Inferno, unless Count Marchetti's ingenious and 
probable conjecture may be considered as having de- 
cided the question. 

He may also pardon my failure the more, as I am 
not quite sure that he would be pleased with my suc- 
cess, since the Italians, with a pardonable nationality, 
are particularly jealous of all that is left them as a 
nation, — their literature; and in the present bitterness 
of the classic and romantic war, are but ill disposed to 
permit a foreigner even to approve or imitate them, 
without finding some fault with his ultramontane pre- 
sumption. I can easily enter into all this, knowing 
what would be thought in England of an Italian imi- 
tator of Milton, or if^ a translatian of Monte, or Pinde- 
monte, or Arici, should be held up to the rising gene- 
ration as a model for their future poetical essays. But 
I perceive that I am deviating into an address to the 
Italian reader, when my business is with the English 
one ; and be they few or many, I must take my leave 
of both. 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE.' 



CANTO THE FIRST. 

Once more in man's frail world ! which I had left 
So long that 't was forgotten ; and I feel 
The weight of clay again, — too soon bereft 

Of the immortal vision "which could heal 



1 Dante Alighicri was bnrn in Florence, in May, 1265, 
of an ancient and honourable family. In the early part of 
his life he gained some credit in a military character, and 
distinguished hiroself by hits bravery in an action where 
the Florentines obtained a signal victory over the citizens 
of Arezzo. He became still more eminent by the acqui- 
sition of court honours; and at the age of thirty-five, he 
rose to be one of the chief magistrates of Florence, when 
that dignity was conferred by the suUrages of the people. 



My earthly sorrows, and to God's own skies 
Lift me from that deep gulf without repeal, 

Where late my ears rung with the damned cries 
Of souls in hopeless bale; and from that place 
Of lesser torment, whence men may arise 

Pure from the fire to join the angelic race; 
'Midst whom my own bright Beatrice bless'd 2 
My spirit with her light; and to the base 

Of the eternal Triad ! fi'rst, last, best, 
Mysterious, three, sole, infinite, great God ! 
Soul universal ! led the mortal guest, 

Unblasted by the glory, though he trod 
From star to star to reach the almighty throne. 
Oh Beatrice ! whose sweet limbs the sod 

So long hath press'd, and the cold marble stone, 
Thou sole pure seraphx»f my earliest love, 
Love so ineffable, and so alone, 

That nought on earth could more my bosom move, 
And meeting thee in heaven was but to meet 
That without which my soul, like the arkless dove, 

Had wander'd still in search of, nor her feet 
Relieved her wing till found ; without thy light 
My paradise had still been incomplete.3 

Since my tenth sun gave summer to my sight 
Thou wert my life, the essence of my thought. 
Loved ere I knew the name of love,4 and bright 

Still in these dim old eyes, now overwrought 
With the world's war, and years, and banishment, 
And tears for thee, by other woes untaught ; 

For mine is not a nature to be bent 
By tyrannous faction, and the brawling crowd, 
And though the long, long conflict hath been spent 

In vain, and never more, save when the cloud 
Which overhangs the Apennine, my mind's eye 
Pierces to fancy Florence, once so proud 

Of me, can I return, though but to die. 
Unto my native soil, they have not yet 
Quench'd the old exile's spirit, stern and high. 

But the sun, though not overcast, must set, 
And the night cometh ; I am old in days, 
And deeds, and contemplation, and have met 

Destruction face to face in all his ways. 
The world hath left me, what it found me, pure, 
And if I have not gather'd yet its praise, 

I sought it not by any baser lure ; 
Man wrongs, and Time avenges, and my name 
May form a monument not all obscure. 



From this exaltation the poet himself dated his principal 
misfortunes. Italy was at that time distracted by the 
contending factions of the Ghibelines andGuelphs, — among 
the latter Dante took an active part. In one of the pro- 
scriptions he was banished, his possessions confiscated, 
and he died in exile, in 1321. Boccaccio thus describes 
his person and manners : — " He was of the middle sta- 
ture, of a mild disposition, and, from the time he arrived 
at manhood, grave in his manner and deportment. His 
clothes were plain, and his dress always conformable to 
his years : his face was long; liis nose aquiline; his eyes 
rather large than otherwise. His complexion was dark, 
melancholy, and pensive. In his meals he was extremely 
moderate ; in his manners most courteous and civil; and 
both in public and private life he was admirably decor- 
ous." — E. 

2 The reader is requested to adopt the Italian pronun- 
ciation of Beatrice, sounding all the syllables. •* 

3 "Che sol per le belle opre 

Che fanno in Cielo il sole e 1' altre stelle 
Dentro di lui' si crede il Paradiso, 
Cosi se guardi ftso 
Pensar ben dei ch' ogni terren' piacere. " 

Canzone, in which Dante describes the person of Beatricei 
Strophe third. 

4 According to Boccaccio, Dante was a lover long before 
he was a soldier, and his passion for the Beatrice whom he 
has immortalized commenced while he was in his ninth 
year, and she in her eighth year. It is said that their 
first meeting was at a banquet in the house of Folco For- 
tiiiaro, her father; and ccilain it is, that the impression 
then made on the susceptible and constant heart of Dante 
was not obliterated liy her death, which happened after an 
interval of sixteen years. — CAllY.-- -E. 



164 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



[Canto I. 



Though such was not my ambition's end or aim, 
To add to the vain-glorious list of those 
Who dabble in the petLiness of fame, 

And make men's fickle'breath the wind that blows 
Their sail, and deem it glory to be class'd 
With conquerors, and virtue's other foes, 

In bloody chronicles of ages past. 
I would have h^d my Florence great and free ; 1 
Oh Florence ! Florence ! unto me thou wast 

Like that Jerusalem which the Almighty He 
Wept over, " but thou wouldst not ;" as the bird 
Gathers its young, I would have gather'd thee 

Beneath a parent pinion, hadst thou heard 
My voice ; but as the adder, deaf and fierce, 
Against the breast that cherish'd thee v/as stirr'd 

Thy venom, and my state thou didst amerce. 
And doom this body forfeit to the fire. 
Alas ! how bitter is his country's curse 

To him who for that country would expire, 
But did not merit to expire by her. 
And loves her, loves her even in her ire. 

The day may come when she will cease to err, 
The day may come she would be proud to have 
The dust she dooms to scatter, and transfer 2. 

Of him, whom she denied a home, the grave. 
But this shall not be granted ; let my dust 
Lie where it falls ; nor shall the soil which gave 

Me breath, but in her sudden fury thrust 
Me forth to breathe elsewhere, so reassume 
My indignant bones, because her angry gust 

Forsooth is over, and repeal'd her doom ; 
No, — she denied me what was mine — m.y roof. 
And shall not have what is not hers — my tomb. 

Too long her armed wrath hath kept aloof 
The breast which would have bled for her, the heart 
That beat, the mind that was temptation proof, 

The man who fought, toil'd, travel I'd, and each part 
Of a true citizen fulfill'd, and saw 
For his reward the Guelfs ascendant art 

Pass his destruction even into a law. 
These things are not made for forget fulness, 
Florence shall be forgotten first ; too raw 

The wound, too deep the wrong, and the distress 
Of such endurance too prolong'd to make 
My pardon greater, her injustice less, 

Though late repented ; yet — yet for her sake 
I feel some fonder yearnings, and for thine, 
My own Beatrice, I would hardly take 

Vengeance upon the land v/hich once was mme. 
And still is hallow'd by thy dust's return, 
Which would protect the murderess like a shrine. 

And save ten thousand foes by thy sole urn. 

Though, like old Marius from Minturnas's marsh 
And Carthage ruins, my lone breast may burn 

At times with evil feelings hot and harsh. 
And sometimes the last pangs of a vile foe 
Writhe in a dream before me, and overarch 

My brow with hopes of triumph, — let them go ! 
Such are the last infirmities of those 
Who long have sufferd more than mortal woe, 

And yet being mortal still, have no repose 



But on the pillow of Revenge — Revenge, 

Who sleeps to dream of blood, and waking glows 

With the oft-baffled, slakeless thirst of change, 
When we shall mount again, and they that trod 
Be trampled on, while Death and Ate range 

O'er humbled heads and sever'd necks Great God ! 

Take these thoughts from me — to thy hands I yield 
My many wrongs, and thine almighty rod 

Will fall oil those who smote me, — be my shield ! 
As thou hast been in peril, and in pain, 
In turbulent cities, and the tented held — 

In toil, and many troubles borne in vain 
For Florence, — I appeal from her to Thee ! 
Thee, whom I late saw in thy loftiest reign, 

Even in that glorious vision, which to see 
And live was never granted until now, 
And yet thou hast permitted this to me. 

Alas ! with what a weight upon my brow 

The sense of earth and earthly things comes back, 
Corrosive passions, feelings dull and low, 

The heart's quick throb upo'n the mental rack. 
Long day, and dreary night ; the retrospect 
Of half a century bloody and black, 

And the frail few years I may yet expect 
Hoary and hopeless, but le.-s'hard to bear, 
For I have been too long and deeply wreck'd 

On the lone rock of desolate Despair, 
To lift my eyes more to the passing sail 
Which shuns that reef so horrible and bare ; 

Nor raise my voice — for who would heed my wail ? 
I am not of this people, nor this age, 
And yet my harpings will unfold a tale 

Which shall preserve these times when not a page 
Of their perturbed annals could attract 
An eye to gaze upon their civil rage, 

Did not my verse embalm full many an act 

Worthless as they who wrought it : 't is the doom 
Of spirits of my order to be rack'd 

In life, to wear their hearts out, and consume 
Their days in endless strife, and die alone ; 
Then future thousands crowd around their tomb, 

And pilgrims come from climes where they have 
known 
The name of him — who now is but a name, 
And wasting homage o'er the sullen stone, 

Spread his — by him unheard, unheeded — famej 
And mine at least hath cost me dear : to die 
Is nothing ; but to wither thus — to tame 

My mind down from its own infinity — 
To live in narrow ways with little men, 
A common sight to every common eye, 

A wanderer, while even wolves can find a den, 
Ripp'd from all kindred, from all home, all things 
That make communion sweet, and soften pain — 

To feel me in the solitude of kings 
Without the power that makes them bear a crown — 
To envy every dove his nest and wings 

Which waft him where the Apennine looks down 
On Arno, till he perches, it may be. 
Within my all inexorable town. 

Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she, 3 



1 " L'Esilio che m' e dato onor mi tegno 
***** 
Cader tra' bouni e pur di lode degno." 

Sonnet of Dante, 
in which he represents Right, Generosity, and Temper- 
ance as banished from among men, and seeking refuge 
from Love, who inhabits his bosom. 

2"Ut8i quis predictorum ullo tempore in fortiam dicti 
communis pervenerit, talis perveniens igne comburatur, 
sic quod moriatiir." Second sentence of Florence against 
Dante, and the fourteen accused with him. The Latin is 
worthy of the sentence.— [On the 27th of January. 1302, 
Dante was mulcted eight thousand lire, and condemned to 
two years banishment; and in case the fine was not paid. 
his goods were to be confiscated. On the eleventh of 
March, the same year, he was sentenced to a punishment 
due only to the most desperate of malefactors. The de- 
cree that he and his associates in exile should be burned, 
if they fell into the hands of their enemies, was first dis- 
covered, in 1772, by the Conte Ludovico Savioli. See 
Tiraboschi, where the sentence is given at length.] —E. 



3 This lady, whose name was Gemma, sprung from one 
of the most powerful Guelf families, named Donati. Corso 
Donati was the principal adversary of the GhibelHnes. 
She is described as being " Admodum morosa, vt de Xan- 
tippe Socratis philoscphi covjuge scriptumesse legimus," 
according to Giannnzzo Manelli. But Lionardo Arelino is 
scandalised with Boccare, in his life of Dante, for saying 
that literary men should not marry. "Qui il Boccaccio 
non ha pazienza, e dice, le mogli essercontrarie agli studj; 
e non si ricorda che Socrate if piu nobile filosofo che mai 
fosse, ebbe moglie e figliuoli e uftici delta Repubblica nella 
sua Citta; e Aristotele che, <fec. &c. ebbe due mogU in 
varj tempi, ed ebbe figliuoli, e ricchezze assai. — E Marco 
Tullio— e Catone— e Varrone— e Seneca— ebbcro moglie," 
<fcc. &c. It is odd that honest Lionardo's examples with 
the exception of Seneca, and, for any thing I know, of 
Aristotle, are not the most felicitous. Tally's Terentia, 
and Socrates' Xantippe, by no means contributed to their 
' husbands' happiness, whatever they might do to their phi- 
] losophy— Cato gave away his wife— of Varro's we know 
I nothing— and of Seneca's, only that she was disposed to 



Canto II.] 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



165 



Their mother, the cold partner who hath brought 
Destruction for a dowry — this to see 

And feel, and know without repair, hath taught 
A bitter lesson ; but it leaves me free : 
I have not vilely found, nor basely sought, 

They made an Exile — not a slave of me. 



CA,NTO THE SECOND. 

The Spirit of the fervent days of Old, 

When words were things that came to pass, and 
thought 

Flash'd o'er the future, bidding men behold 
Their children's children's doom alieady brought 

Forth from the abyss of time which is to be, 

The chaos of events, where lie half-wrought 
Shapes that must undergo mortality ; 

What the great Seers of Israel wore within, 

That spirit was on them, and is on me, 
And if, Cassandra-like, amidst the din 

Of conflict none will hear, or hearing heed 

This voice from out the Wilderness, the sin 
Be theirs, and my own feelings be my meed, 

The only guerdon I have ever known. 

Hast thou not bled ? and hast thou still to bleed, 
Italia ? Ah ! to me such things, foreshown 

With dim sepulchral light, bid me forget 

In thine irreparable wrongs my own ; 
We can have but one country, and even yet 

Thou 'rt mine — my bones shall be within thy breast, 

My soul within thy language, which once set 
With our old Roman sway in the wide west; 

But I will make another tongue arise 

As ]pity and more sweet, in which express'd 
The hero's ardour, or the lover's sighs, 

Shall find alike such sounds for every theme 

That every word, as brilliant as thy skies, 
Shall realise a poet's proudest dream, 

And make thee Europe's nightingale of song ; 

So that all present speech to thine shall seem 
The note of meaner birds, and every tongue 

Confess its barbarism when compared with thine. 

This shall thou owe to him thou didst so wrong, 
Thy Tuscan b\rd, the banish'd Ghibelline. 

Woe ! woe ! the veil of coming centuries 

Is rent, — a thousand yeais which yet supine 
Lie like the ocean waves ere winds arise, 

Heaving in dark and sullen undulation, 

Float from eternity into these eyes ; 
The storms yet sleep, the clouds still keep their station. 

The unborn earthquake yet is in the womb, 

The bloody chaos yet expects creation, 
But all things are disposing for thy doom ; 

The elements await but for the'word, 

" Let there be darkness ! " and thou grow'st a tomb ! 
Yes ! thou, so beautiful, shalt feel the sword, 

Thou, Italy I so fair that Paradise, 

Revived in thee, b!o >ms forth to man restored : 
Ah ! must the sons of Adam lose it twice ? 

Thou, Italy ! whose ever golden fields, 

Plough'd by the sunbeams solely, would suffice 
For the world's granary ; thou, whose sky heaven gilds 

With brighter stars, and robes with deeper blue ; 

Thou, in whose pleasant places Summer builds 
Her palace, in whose cradle Empire grew. 

And forrn'd (he Eternal City's ornaments 

From spoils of kings whom freemen overthrew : 
Birthplace of heroes, sanctuary of saints. 

Where earthly first, then heavenly glory made 

Her home; thou, all which fondest fancy paints, 
And finds her prior vision but portray'd 

In feeble colours, when the eye — from the Alp 

Of horrid snow, and rock, and shaggy shade 
Of desert-loving pine, whose emerald scalp 



die with him, but recovered and lived several years after- 
wards. But says Lionardo, " L'liomo e animale civile, 
secondo place a tutfi i filosofl." And thence concludes 
that the greatest proof of the animal's civism is " la prima 
congiunzione, dalla quale multiplicata nasce la Citta." 



Nods to the storm — dilates and dotes o'er thee, 
And wistfully implores, as 't were, for help 

To see thy sunny fields, my Italy, 
Nearer and nearer yet, and dearer still 
The more approach'd, and dearest were they free. 

Thou — thou must wither to each tyrant's will : 
The Goth hith been,— the German, Frank, and Hun 
Are yet to come,— and on the imperial hill 

Ruin, already proud of the deeds done 
By the old barbarians, there awaits the new, 
Throned on the Palatine, while lost and won 

Rome at her feet lies bleeding ; and the hue 
Of human sacrifice and Roman slaughter 
Troubles the clotted air, of late so blue, 

And deepens into red the saffron water 

Of Tiber, thick with dead; the helpless priest, 
And still more helpless nor less holy daughter, 

Vow'd to their God, have shrieking fled, and ceased 
Their ministry : the nations take their prey, 
Iberian, Almain, Lombard, and the beast 

And bird, wolf, vulture, more humane than they 
Are ; these but gorge the flesh and lap the gore 
Of the departed, and then go their way; 

But those, the human savages, explore 
All paths of torture, and insatiate yet. 
With Ugolino hunger prowl for more. 

Nine moons shall rise o'er scenes like this and set ; l 
The chiefless army of the dead, which late 
Beneith the traitor Prince's banner met. 

Hath left its leader's ashes at (he gate; 
Had but the royal Rebel lived, perchance 
Thou hadst been spared, but his involved thy fate. 

Oh ! Rome, the spoiler or the spoil of France, 
From Brennus to the Bourbon, never, never 
Shall foreign standard to thy walls advance, 

But Tiber shall become a mournful river. 
Oh ! when the strangers pass the Alps and Po, 
Crush them, ye rocks ! floods whelm them, and for 
ever ! 

Why sleep the idle avalanches so, 
To topple on the lonely pilgrim's head? 
Why doth Eridanus but overflow 

The peasant's harvest from his turbid bed ? 
Were not ench barbarous horde a nobler prey? 
Over Cambyses' host the desert spread 

Her sandy ocean, and the sea waves' sway 
RoU'd over Pharaoh and his thousands,— why. 
Mountains and waters, do ye not as they ? 

And you, ye men ! Romans, who dare not die, 
Sons of the conquerors who overthrew 
Those who overthrew proud Xerxes, where yet lie 

The dead whose tomb Oblivion never knew, 
Are the Alps weaker than Thermopylae ? 
Their passes more alluring to the view 

Of an invader? is it they, or ye, 
That to each host the mountain-gate unbar. 
And leave the march in peace, the passage free ? 

Why, Nature's self detains the victor's car. 
And makes your land impregnable, if earth 
Could be so ; but alone she will not war, 

Yet aids the warrior worthy of his birth 
In a soil where the mothers bring forth men : 
Not so with those whose souls are little worth; 

For them no fortress can avail, — the den 
Of the poor reptile which preserves its sting 
Is more secure than walls of adamant, when 

The hearts of those within are quivering. 
Are ye not brave ? Yes, yet the Ausonian soil 
Hath hearts, and hands, and arms, and hosts to bring 

Against Oppression ; but how vain the toil, 
While still Division so\vs the seeds of woe 
And weakness, till the stranger reaps (he spoil. 

Oh ! my own beauteous land ! so long laid low, 
So long the grave of thy own children's hopes, 
When there is but required a single blow 

To break the chain, yet —vet the Avenger stops, 
And Doubt and Discord s'tep 'twixt thine and thee, 
And join their strength to that which with thee copes ; 

lSee"Sacco di Roma," generally attributed to Guicci- 
ardini. There is another written by a Jacopo Buonaparte. 



mm 



166 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. [Canto HI. 



What is there wanting then to set thee free, 
And show thy beauty in its fullest light? 
To make the Alps impassable ; and"we, 

Her sons, may do this with on& deed — — Unite. 



CANTO THE THIRD. 

From out the mass of never-dying ill, 

The Plague, the Prince, the Stranger, and the 
Sword, 

Vials of wrath but emptied to refill 
And flow again, I cannot all record 

That crowds on my prophetic eye : the earth 

And ocean written o'er would not afford 
Space for the annal, yet it shall go forth ; 

Yes, all, though not by human pen, is graven, 

There where the farthest suns and stars have birth, 
Spread like a banner at the gate of heaven, 

The bloody scroll of our millennial wrongs 

Waves, and the echo of our groans is driven 
Athwart the sound of archangel ic songs, 

And Italy, the martyr'd nation's gore. 

Will not in vain arise to where belongs 
Omnipotence and mercy evermore : 

Like to a harpstring stricken by the wind, 

The sound of her lament shall, rising o'er 
The seraph voices, touch the Almighty Mind. 

Meantime I, humblest of thy sons, and of 

Earth's dust by immortality refined 
To sense and suffering, though the vain may scoff, 

And tyrants threat, and meeker victims bow 

Before the storm because its breath is rough, 
To thee, my country ! whom before, as now 

I loved and love, devote the mournful lyre 

And melancholy gift high powers allow 
To read the future ; and if now my fire 

Is not as once it shone o'er thee, forgive ! 

I but foretell thy fortunes — then expire ; 
Think not that I would look on them and live. 

A spirit forces me to see and speak. 

And for my guerdon grants not to survive ; 
My heart shall be pour'd over thee and break : 

Yet for a moment, ere I must resume 

Thy sable web of sorrow, let me take 
Over the gleams that flash athwart thy gloom 

A softer glimpse; some stars shine through thy 
night, 

And many meteors, and above thy tomb 
Leans sculptured Beauty, which Death cannot blight; 

And from thine ashes boundless spirits rise, 

To give thee honour, and the earth delight ; 
Thy soil shall still be pregnant with the wise. 

The gay, the learn'd, the generous, and the brave. 

Native to thee as summer to thy skies. 
Conquerors on foreign shores, and the far wave,^ 

Discoverers of new worlds, which take their name ; 2 

For thee alone they have no arm to save, 
And all thy recompense is in their fame, 

A noble one to them, but not to thee — 

Shall they be glorious, and thou still the same ? 
Oh ! more than these illustrious far shall be 

The being — and even j'et he may be born — 

The mortal saviour who shall set thee free, 
And see thy diadem, so changed and worn 

By fresh barbarians, on thy brow replaced ; 

And the sweet sun replenishing thy morn, 
Thy moral morn, too long with clouds defaced, 

And noxious vapours from Avernus risen. 

Such as all they must breathe who are debased 
By servitude, and have the mind in prison. 

Yet through this centuried eclipse of woe 

Some voices shall be heard, and earth shall listen ; 
Poets shall follow in the path I show, 

And make it broader: the same brilliant sky 

Which cheers the birds to song shall bid them glow. 



1 Alexander of Parma, Spinola, Pescara, Eugene of Sa- 
voy, Montecucco. 

2 Columbus, Americus Vespucius, Sebastian Cabot. 



And raise their notes as natural and high ; 

Tuneful shall be their numbers ; they shaU sing 

Many of love, and some of liberty. 
But few shall soir upon that eagle's wing, 

And look in the sun's face with eagle's gaze. 

All free and fearless as the feather'd king. 
But fly more near the earth ; how many a phrase 

Sublime shall lavish'd be on some small prince 

In all the prodigality of praise ! 
And language, eloquently false, evince 

The harlotry of genius, which, like beauty, 

Too oft forgets its own' self-reverence, 
And looks on prostitution as a duty. 

He who once enters in a tyrant's hall 3 

As guest is slave, his thoughts become a booty, 
And the first day which sees the chain enthral 

A captive, sees his half of manhood gone* — 

The soul's emasculation saddens all 
His spirit ; thus the Bard too near the throne 

Quails from his inspiration, bound to please^ — 

How servile is the task to please alone ! 
To smooth the verse to suit his sovereign's ease 

And royal leisure, nor too much profong 

Aught save his eulogy, and find, and seize. 
Or force, or forge fit argument of song ! 

Thus trammell'd, thus condemned to Flattery's tre- 
bles. 

He toils through all, still trembling to be wrong: 
For fear some noble thoughts, like heavenly rebels. 

Should rise up in high treason to his brain. 

He sings, as the Athenian spoke, with pebbles 
In 's mouth, lest truth should stammer through his 
strain. 

But out of the long file of sonneteers 

Tliere shall be some who will not sing in vain. 
And he, their prince, shall rank among my peers,s 

And love shall be his torment ; but his grief 

Shall make an immortality of tears. 
And Italy shall hail him as the Chief . 

Of Poet-lovers, and his higher song 

Of Freedom wreathe him with as green a leaf. 
But in a farther age shall rise along 

The banks of Po two greater still than he ; 

The world which smiled on him shall do them 
wrong 
Till they are ashes, and repose with me. 

The first will make an epoch with his lyre, 

And fill the earth with feats of chivalry : 
His fancy like a rainbow, and his fire. 

Like that of Heaven, immortal, and his thought 

Borne onward with a wing that cannot tire ; 
Pleasure shall, like a butterfly new caught, 

Flutter her lovely pinions o'er his theme, 

And Art itself seem into Nature wrought 
By the transparency of his bright dream. — 

The second, of a tenderer, sadder mood. 

Shall pour his soul out o'er Jerusalem ; 
He, too, shall sing of arms, and Christian blood 

Shed where Christ bled for man ; and his high harp 

Shall, by the willow over Jordan's flood. 
Revive a song of Sion, and the sharp 

Conflict, and final triumph of the brave 

And pious, and the strife of hell to warp 
Their hearts from their great purpose, until wave 

The red-cross banners where the first red Cross 

Was crimson'd from his veins who died to save. 
Shall be his sicred argument ; the loss 

Of years, of favour, freedom, even of fame 

Contested for a time, while the smooth gloss 
Of courts would slide o'er his forgotten name ; 

And cill captivity a kindness, meant 

To shield him from insanity or shame, 
Such shall be his meet guerdon ! who was sent 

To be Christ's Laureate — they reward him well ! 

Florence dooms me but death or banishment, 



3 A verse from the Greek tragedians, with which Pom- 
pey took leave of Cornelia on entering the boat in which 
he was elain. 

4 The verse and sentiment are taken from Homer. 

5 Petrarch. 



CantoIV.] the prophecy of DANTE 



167 



Ferrara him a pittance and a cell, 
Harder to bear and less deserved, for I 
Had slung the factions which I strove to quell ; 

But this meek man, who with a lover's eye 

Will look on earth and heaven, and who will deign 
To embalm with his celestial flattery, 

As poor a thing as e'er was spawn'd to reign, 
What will he do to merit such a doom ? 
Perhaps he '11 love, — and is not love in vain 

Torture enough without a living tomb ? 
Yet it will be so — he and his compeer, 
The Bard of Chivalry, will both consume 

In penury and pain too many a year, 
And, dying in despondency, bequeath 
To the kind world, which scarce will yield a tear, 

A heritage enriching all who breathe 
With the wealth of a genuine poet's soul. 
And to their country a redoubled wreath, 

Unmatch'd by time ; not Hellas can unroll 
Through her olympiads two such names, though one 
Of hers be mighty ; — and is this the whole 

Of such men's destiny beneath the sun ? 
Must all the finer thoughts, the thrilling sense, 
The electric blood with which their arteries run, 

Their body's self-tuned soul with the intense 
Feeling of that which is, and fancy of 
That which should be, to such a recompense 

Conduct ? shall their bright plumage on the rough 
Storm be still scalter'd ? Yes, and it must be j 
For, form'd of far too penetrable stuff, 

These birds of Paradise but long to flee 
Back to their native mansion, soon they find 
Earth's mist with their pure pinions not agree. 

And die or are degraded ; for the mind 
Succumbs to long infection, and despair, 
And vulture passions flying close behind. 

Await the moment to assail and tear; 
And when at length the winged wanderers stoop, 
Then is the prey-birds' triumph, then they share 

The spoil, o'erpovvered at length by one fell swoop. 
Yet some have been untouch'd who learn'd to bear, 
Some whom no power could ever force to droop. 

Who could resist themselves even, hardest care ! - 
And task most hopeless ; but some such have been, 
And if my name amongst the number were, 

That destiny austere, and yet serene, 
Were prouder than more dazzling fame unbless'd j 
The Alp's snow summit nearer heaven is seen 

Than the volcano's fierce eruptive crest, 
Whose splendour from the black abyss is flung, 
While the scorch'd mountain, from whose burning 
breast 

A temporary torturing flame is wrung, 
Shines for a night of terror, then repels 
Its fire back to the hell from whence it sprung, 

The hell which in its entrails ever dwells. 



CANTO THE FOURTH. 

Many are poets who have never penn'd 
Their inspiration, and perchance the be?t: 
They felt, and loved, and died, but would not lend 

Their thoughts to meaner beings ; they compress'd 
The god within them, and rejoin'd the stars 
Unlaurell'd upon earth, but far more bless'd 

Than those who are degraded by the jars 
Of passion, and their frailties link'd to fame 
Conquerors of high renown, but full of scars. 

Many are poets but without the name. 
For what is poesy but to create 
From overfeeling good or ill ; and aim 

At an external life beyond our fate. 
And be the new Prometheus of new men, 
Bestowing fire from hewen, and then, too late, 

Finding the pleisure given repaid with pain, 
And vultures to the he\rt of the bestower. 
Who, having bvish'd his high gift in vain. 

Lies chain'd to his lone rock by the sea-shore ? 
So be it : we can bear. — But thus all they 
Whose intellect is an o'ermastering power 



Which still recoils from its encumbering clay 

Or lightens it to spirit, whatsoe'er 

The form which their creations may essay, 
Are bards ; the kindled marble's bust may wear 

More poesy upon its speaking brow 

Than aught less than the Homeric page may bear j 
One noble stroke with a whole life may glow, 

Or deify the canvass till it shine 

With beauty so surpassing all below. 
That they who kneel to idols so divine 

Break no commandment, for high heaven is there 

Transfused, transfigurated : and the line 
Of poesy, which peoples but the air 

With thought and beings of our thought reflected, 

Can do no more : then let the artist share 
The palm, he shares the peril, and dejected 

Faints o'er the labour unapproved — Alas! 

Despair and Genius are too oft connected. 
Within the ages which before me pass 

Art shall resume and equal even the sway 

Which with Apelles and old Phidias 
She held in Hellas' unforgotten day. 

Ye shall be taught by Ruin to revive 

The Grecian forms at least from their decay, 
And Roman souls at last again shall live 

In Roman works wrought by Italian hands, 

And temples, loftier than the old temples, give 
New wonders to the world ; and while still stands 

The austere Pantheon, into heaven shall soar 

A dome,! its image, while the base expands 
Into a fane surpassing all before. 

Such as all flesh shall flock to kneel in : ne'er 

Such sight hath been unfolded by a door 
As this, to which all nations shall repair 

And lay their sins at this huge gate of heaven. 

And the bold Architect unto whose care 
The daring charge to raise it shall be given, 

Whom all hearts shall ncknowledge as their lord, 

Whether into the marble chaos driven 
His chisel bid the Hebrew,2 at whose word 

Israel left Egypt, stop the waves in stone. 

Or hues of Hell be by his pencil pour'd 
Over the damn'd before the Judgment-throne,3 

Such as I saw them, such as all shall see, 

Or fanes be built of grandeur yet unknown, 
The stream of his great thoughts'shall spring from me,-* 

The Ghibelline, who traversed the three realms 

Which form the empire of eternity. 
Amidst the clash of swords, and clang of helms. 

The age which I anticipate, no less 

Shall be the Age of Beauty, and while whelms 
Calamity the nations with distress. 

The genius of my country shall arise, 

A Cedar towering o'er the Wilderness, 
Lovely in all its branches to all eyes, 

Fragrant as fair, and recognised afar, 

Wafting its native incense through the skies. 



1 The Cupola of St. Peter's. 

2 The statue of Moses on the monument of Julius II. 

SONETTO 
Di Giovanni Battista Zappi. 

Chi e cestui, che in dura pietra scolto, 
Siede giganle ; e le piu iilustre, e conte 
Prove deir arte avvatiza, e lia vive, e pronte 
Le labbia si, che )e parole ascolto 7 

Quest' e Mose ; ben me "1 diceva il folto 
Onor del mento, e '1 doppio raggio in fronte, 
Qnest'e Mose, quando scendea del monte, 
E gran parte del Nume avea nel volto. 

Tal era allor, che le sonanti, e vaste 
Acque ei sospe.se a se d' intorno, e tale 
Quando il mar chiuse, e ne fe toniba altrui. 

E voi sue turbe un rio vitello alzaste 7 
Alzata aveste imago a questa eguale ! 
Ch' era men fallo 1' adorar costui. 

3 The Last Judgment, in the Sistine Chapel. 

4 I have read somewhere (if I do not err, for I cannot 
recollect where,) that Dante was so great a favourite of 
Michael Angelo's. that he had designed the whole of the 
Divina Commedia; but that the voiume containing these 
studies was lost by sea. 



i 



maamm 



^OMmmmmk 



J 



168 



THE BLUES. 



Sovereigns shall pause amidst their sport of war, 
Wean'd for an hour from blood, to turn and gaze 
On canvass or on stone ; and they who mar 

All beauty upon earth, compell'd to praise. 
Shall feel the power of that which they destroy j 
And Art's mistaken gratitude shall raise 

To tyrants who but take her for a toy, 
Emblems and monuments, and prostitute 
Her charms to pontiffs proud,! who but employ 

The man of genius as the meanest brute 
To bear a burthen, and to serve a need, 
To sell his labours, and his soul to boot. 

Who toils for nations may be poor indeed. 
But free ; who sweats for monarchs is no more 
Than the gilt chamberlain, who, clothed and fee'd, 

Stands sleek and slavish, bowing at his door. 
Oh, Power that rulest and inspires! ! how 
Is it that they on earth, whose earthly power 

Is likest thine m heaven in outward show, 
Least like to thee in attributes divine, 
Tread on the universal necks that bow, 

And then assure us that their rights are thine ? 
And how is it that they, the sons of fame. 
Whose inspiration seems to them to shine 

From high, they whom the nations oftest name, 
Must pass their days in penury or pain, 
Or step to grandeur through the paths of shame, 

And wear a deeper brand and gaudier chain ? 
Or if their destiny be born aloof 
From lowliness, or tempted thence in vain, 

In their own souls sustain a harder proof, 
The inner war of passions deep and fierce ? 
Florence ! when thy harsh sentence razed my roof, 

I loved thee ; but the vengeance of my verse. 
The hate of injuries which every year 
Makes greater, and accumulates my curse, 

Shall live, outliving all thou boldest dear, 
Thy pride, thy wealth, thy freedom, and even that, 
The most infernal of all evils here, 

The sway of petty tyrants in a siate ; 
For such sway is not limited to kings. 
And demagogues yield to them but in date. 

As swept olf sooner ; in all deadly things 
Which make men hate themselves, and one another, 
In discord, cowardice, cruelty, all that springs 

From Death the Sin-born's incest with his mother, 
In rank oppression in its rudest shape, 

ISee the treatment of Michael Angelo by Julius II., and 
his neglect by Leo X. 



The faction Chief is but the Sultan's brother, 
And the worst despot's far less human ape : 

Florence I when this lone spirit, which so long 

Yearn'd, as the captive toihng at escape, 
To fly back to thee in despite of wrong, 

An exile, saddest of all prisoners. 

Who has the whole world for a dungeon strong, 
Seas, mountains, and the horizon's verge for bars. 

Which shut him from the sole small spot of earth 

Where — whatsoe'er his fate — he still were hers. 
His country's, and might die where he had birth — 

Florence ! when this lone spirit shall return 

To kindred spirits, thou wilt feel my worth. 
And seek to honour with an empty urn 

The ashes thou shalt ne'er obtain — Alas ! 

" What have I done to thee, my people ? "2 Stern 
Are all thy dealings, but in this they pass 

The limits of man's common malice, for 

All that a citizen could be I was ; 
Raised by thy will, all thine in peace or war. 

And for this thou hast warr'd with me. — "T iS done : 

I may not overleip the eternal bar 
Built up between us, and will die alone. 

Beholding with the dark eye of a seer 

The evil days to gifted souls foreshown. 
Foretelling them to those who will not hear. 

As in the old time, till the hour be come 

When Truth shall strike their eyes through many a 
tear. 
And make them own the Prophet in his tomb.3 



2" E scrisse pin volte non solamente a partlcolari citta- 
dini del reggimento, ma ancora al popolo, e intra 1' altre 
una Epistola assai lungache com'mcia :—' Popule mi, quid 
feci tibi?' " 

Vita di Dante scritta da Lionardo Aretino, 

3Dantediedat Ravenna in 1321, in the palace of his 
patron, Guido Novello da Polenta, who testified his sorrow 
and respect by the sumptuousness of his obsequies, and by 
giving orders to erect a monument, which he did not live 
to complete. His countrymen showed, too late, that they 
knew the value of what they had lost. At the beginning 
of the next century, they entreated that the mortal 
remains of their illustrious citizen anight be restored to 
them, and deposited among the tombs of their fathers. 
But the people of Ravenna were unwilling to part with the 
sad and honourable memorial of theirown hospitality. No 
better success attended the subsequent negotiations of the 
Florentines for the same purpose, though renewed under 
the auspices of Leo X., and conducted through the power- 
ful mediation of Michael Angelo.— E. 



THE BLUES:^ 

A LITERARY ECLOGUE. 

" Nimiam ne crede colori."— VIRGIL. 
O trust not, ye beautiful creatures, to hue, 
Though your hair were as red, as your stockings are blue. 



ECLOGUE FIRST. 

London — Before the Door of a Lecture Room. 

Enter Tracy, meeting Inkel. 

Ink. You 're too late. 
Tra. Is it over ? 

Ink. Nor will be this hour. 

But the benches are cramm'd, like a garden in flower. 
With the pride of our belles, who have made it the 

fashion ; 
So, instead of "beaux arts," we may say "la belle 
passion" 

4 Written in 1820, and first published in "The Liberal." 



For learning, which lately has taken the lead in 
The world, and set all the fine gentlemen reading. 

Tra. I know it too well, and have worn out my 
patience 
With studying to study your new publications. 
There 's Vamp, Scamp, and Mouthy, and Wordsv/ords 

and Co. 
With their damnable 

Ink. Hold, my good friend, do you know 

Whom you speak to ? 

Tra. Right well, boy, and " so does the Row : " 5 
You're an author — a poet — 



5 Paternoster-Row - 
bazaar of booksellers. 



long and still celebrated as a very 



_^^-_ll_^ 



in 



THE BLUES. 



169 



Ink. And think you that I 

Can stand tamely in silence, to hear you decry 
The Muses ? 

Tra. Excuse me : I meant no offence 

To the Nine ; though the number who make some 
pretence 

To their favours is such* but the subject to drop, 

I am just piping hot from a publisher's shop, 
(Next door to the pastry-conk's ; so that when I 
Cannot find the new volume I wanted to buy 
On the bibliopole's shelves, it is only two paces, 
As one finds every author in one of those places :) 
Where I just had been skimming a charming critique, 
So studded with wit, and so sprinkled with Greek ! 
Where your friend — you know who — has just got 

such a threshing, 
That it is. as the phrase goes, extremely " refreshing.^'^ 
What a beautiful word ! 

Ink. Very true ; 't is so soft 

And so cooling — they use it a little too oft ; 
And the papers have got it at last — but no matter. 
So they 've cut up our friend then ? 

Tra. Not left him a tatter — 

Not a rag of his present or past reputation, 
Which they call a disgrace to the age, and the nation. 

Ink, I 'm sorry to hear this ! for friendship, you 

know 

Our poor friend ! — but I thought it would terminate so. 
Our friendship is such, I '11 read nothing to shock it. 
You do n't hippen to have the Review in your pocket ? 

Tra. No ; I left a round dozen of authors and others 
(Very sorry, no doubt, since the cause is a brother's) 
All scrambling and jostling, like so many imps. 
And on fire with impatience to get the next glimpse. 

Ink. Let us join them. 

Tra. What, won't you return to the lecture ? 

Ink. Why, the place is so cramm'd, there's not room 
for a spectre. 
Besides, our friend Scamp is to-day so absurd — 

Tra. How can you know that till you hear him ? 

Ink. I heard 

Quite enough ; and, to tell you the truth, my retreat 
Was from his vile nonsense, no less than the heat. 

Tra. I have had no great loss then ? 

Ink. Loss ! — such a palaver ! 

I 'd inoculate sooner my wife with the slaver 
Of a dog when gone rabid, than listen two hours 
To the torrent of trash which around him he pours, 
Pump'd up with such effort, disgorged with such 
labour, 

That come — do not make me speak ill of one's 

neighbour. 

Tra. I make you ! 

Ink. Yes, you ! I said nothing until 
You compell'd me, by speaking the truth 

Tra. To speak ill ? 

Is that your deduction ? 

Ink. When speaking of Scamp ill, 

I certainly follow, not set an example. 
The fellow '3 a fool, an impostor, a zany. 

Tra. And the crowd of to-day shows that one fool 
makes many. 
But we two will be wise. 

Ink. Pray, then, let us retire. 

Tra. I would, but • 

Ink. There must be attraction much higher 

Than Scamp, or the Jew's harp he nicknames his lyre, 
To call ijou to this hotbed. 

Tra, I own it — 't is true — 

A fair lady 

Ink. A spinster ? 

Tra. Miss Lilac! 

Ink. The Blue! 

The heiress ? 

Tra. The angel ! 

Ink. The devil ! why, man ! 

Pray get out of this hobble as fast as you can. 
You wed with Miss Lilac ! 't would be your perdition : 
She 's a poet, a chymist, a mathematician. 

1 This cant phrase was first used in the Edinburgh Re- 
view,— probably by Mr. JetTrey. — E. 



15 



Tra, I say she 's an angel. 

Ink. Say rather an angle. 

If you and she marry, you '11 certainly wrangle. 
I say she's a Blue, man, as blue as the ether. 

Tra, And is that any cause for not coming together? 

Ink. Humph ! I can't say I know any happy alliance 
Which has lately sprung up from a wedlock v/ith 

science. 
She 's so learned in all things, and fond of concerning 
Herself in all matters connected with leaming, 
That 

Tra. What ? 

Ink, I perhaps may as well hold my tongue ; 

But there 's five hundred people can tell you you 're 
wrong. 

Tra. You forget Lady Lilac 's as rich as a Jew. 

Ink. Is it miss or the cash of mamma you pursue? 

Tra. Why, Jnck, I'll be frank with you — some- 
thing of both. 
The girl 's a fine girl. 

Ink. And you feel nothing loth 

To her good lady-mother's reversion ; and yet 
Her life is as good as your own, I will bet. 

Tra. Let her live, and as long as she likes; I de- 
mand 
Nothing more than the heart of her daughter and hand. 

Ink. Why, that heart 's in the inkstand — that hand 
on the pen. 

Tra. A propos —Will you write me a song now and 
then? 

Ink. To what purpose ? 

Tra. You know, my dear friend, that in prose 
My talent is decent, as far as it goes ) 
But in rhyme • 

Ink. You 're a terrible stick, to be sure. 

Tra. I own it J and yet, in these times, there's no 
lure 
For the heart of the fair like a stanza or two ; 
And so, as I can't, will you furnish a few ? 

Ink. In your name ? 

Trn. In my name. I will copy them out, 

To slip into her hand at the very next rout. 

Ink. Are you so far advanced as to hazard this ? 

Tra. Why, 

Do you think me subdued by a Blue-stocking's eye, 
So far as to tremble to tell her in rhyme 
What I 've told her in prose, at the least, as sublime? 

Ink. As sublime ! If it be so, no need of my Muse. 

T7-a. But consider, dear Inkel, she's one of the 
" Blues." 

I7ih. As sublime ! — Mr. Tracy — 1 've nothing to 
say. 
Stick to prose — As sublime ! ! — but I wish you good 
day. 

Tra. Nay, stay, my dear fellow — consider — I'm 
wrong ; 
I own it ; but, prithee, compose me the song. 

Ink. As sublime ! ! 

Tra. I but used the expression in haste. 

Ink. That may be, Mr. Tracy, but shows damn'd 
bad taste. 

Tra. I own it — I know it — acknowledge it — what 
Can I say to you more ? 

Ink. I see what you 'd be at : 

You disparage my parts with insidious abuse. 
Till you think you can turn them best to your own use. 

Tra. And is that not a sign I respect them ? 

Ink. Why that 

To be sure makes a difference. 

Tra. I know what is what : 

And you, who 're a. man of the gay world, no less 
Thin a poet of t' other, may easily guess 
That I never could mean, by a word, to offend 
A genius like you, and moreover my fnend- 

Ink. No doubt ; you by this time should know what 
is due 
To a man of' but come— let us shake hands. 

Tra. You knew, 

And you know, my dear fellow, how heartily I, 
Whatever you publish, am ready to buy. [sale; 

Ink. That 's my bookseller's business; I care not for 
Indeed the best poems at first rather fail. 



ami 



mmtgmmm 



170 



THE BLUES. 



There were Renegade's epics, and Botberby's plays,i 
And my own grand lomance 

Tra. Had its full share of praise. 

I myself saw it puff'd in the " Old Girl's Review." 2 

Ink. What Review ? 

Tra. 'T is ihe English " Journal de Trevoux j " 3 
A clerical work of our Jesuits at home. 
Have you never yet seen it ? 

Iiik. That pleasure's to come. 

Tra. Make haste then. 

In\. Why so ? 

Tra. I have heard people say 

That it threaten'd to give up the ghost t'other day. 

Ink. Well, that is a sign of some spirit, 

Tra. No doubt. 

Shall you be at the Countess of Fiddlecome's rout ? 

Ink. I 've a card, and shall go : but at present, as 
soon 
As friend Scamp shall be pleased to step down from 

the moon 
(Where he seems to be soaring in search of his wits). 
And an interval grants from his lecturing fits, 
I 'm engaged to the Lady Bluebottle's collation. 
To partake of a luncheon and learn'd conversation : 
'T is a sort of reunion for Scamp, on the days 
Of his lecture, to treat him with cold tongue and praise. 
And I own, for my own part, that 't is not unpleasant. 
Will you go ? There 's Miss Lilac will also be present. 

Tra. That " metal 's attractive." 

Ink. No doubt — to the pocket. 

Tra. You should rather encourage my passion than 
shock it. 
But let us proceed ; for I think, by the hum — 

Ink. Very true ; let us go, then, before they can 
come. 
Or else we '11 be kept here an hour at their levy. 
On the rack of cross-questions, by all the blue bevy. 
Hark ! Zounds, they '11 be on us ; I know by the drone 
Of old Botherby's spouting ex-cithedra tone. 
Ay ! there he is at it. Poor Scamp ! better join 
Your friends, or he '11 pay you back in your own coin. 

Tra. All fair ', 't is but lecture for lecture. 

Ink. That 's clear. 

But for God's sake let 's go, or the Bore will be here. 
Come, come : nay, I'm off. [Exit Inkel. 

Tra. You are right, and I '11 follow ; 

'T is high time for a "SiC me servavit .Bpollo." 
And yet we shall have the whole crew on our kibes, 
Blues, dandies, and dowagers, and second-hand scribes, 
All flocking to moisten their exquisite throttles 
With a glass of Madeira at Lady Bluebottle's. 

lExit Tracy. 



ECLOGUE SECOND. 



jin Apartment in the House of Lady Bluebottle. — A 
Table prepared. 

Sir Richard Bluebottle solus. 
Was there ever a man who was married so sorry ? 
Like a fool, I must needs do the thing in a hurry. 
My life is reversed, and my quiet destroy'd ; 
My days, which once pass'd in so gentle a void, 
Must now, every hour of the twelve, be employ'd ; 
The twelve, do I say ?— of the whole twenty-four, 
Is there one which I dare call my own any more ? 
What with driving and visiting, dancing and dining. 
What with learning, and teaching, and scribbling, and 

shining, 
In science and art, I '11 be cursed if I know 
Myself from my wife ; for although we are two, 



1 Messrs. Southey and Sotheby.~E. 

2 "My Grandmother's Review, the British." This 
heavy journal has eioce been gathered to its grandmo- 
thers.— E. 

3 The "Journal de Trevoux" (in fifty-six volumes) is 
one of the most curious collertions of literary gossip in 
the world,— and the Poet paid the British Review an ex- 
travagant compliment when he made this comparison.— E. 



Yet she somehow contrives things that all shall be 

done 
In a style which proclaims us eternally one. 
But the thing of all things which distresses me more 
Than the biils of the week (though they trouble me 

sore) 
Is the numerous, humorous, backbiting crew 
Of scribblers, wits, lecturers, white, black, and blue, 
Who are brought to my house as an inn, to my cost — 
For the bill here, it seems, is defray'd by the host — 
No pleasure ! no leisure ! no thought for my pain?, 
But to hear a vile jargon which addles my brains; 
A smatter and chatter, glean'd out of reviews, 
By the rag, tag, and bobtail, of those they call " JSZwe*;" 

A rabble who know not But soft, here they come ! 

Would to God I were deaf! as I 'm not, I '11 be dumb. 

Enter Lady Bluebottle, Miss Lilac, Lady Bluemount, 
Mr. Botherby, Inkel, Tracy, Miss Mazarine, and 
others, with Scamp the Lecturer, kc. &c. 

Lady Blueb. Ah ! Sir Richard, good morning : I 've 
brought you some fi lends. 

Sir Rich, {bows, and afterwards aside.) If friends, 
they 're the first. 

Lady Blueb. But the luncheon attends. 

I pray ye be seated, " sans ceremonie." 
Mr. Scamp, you 're fatigued ; take your chair there, 
next nie. [They all sit. 

Sir Rich, {aside) If he does, his fatigue is to come. 

Lady Blueb. Mr. Tracy — 

Lady Bluemount — Miss Lilac — be pleased, pray, to 

place ye ; 
And you, Mr. Botherby — 

Both, Oh, my dear Lady, 

I obey. 

Lady Blueb. Mr. Inkle, I ought to upbraid ye j 
You were not at the lecture. 

Ink, Excuse me, I was ; 

But the heat forced me out in the best part — alas ! 
And when 

Lady Blueb. To be sure it was broiling; but then 
You have lost such a lecture ! 

Both. The best of the ten. 

Tra. How can you know that ? there are two more. 

Both. Because 

I defy him to beat this day's wondrous applause. 
The very walls shook. 

Ink. Oh, if that be the test, 

I allow our friend Scamp has this day done his best. 
Miss Lilac, permit me to help you ; — a wing ? 

Miss Lil. No more, sir, I thank you. Who lectures 
next spring? 

Both. DickDunder. 

Ink. That is, if he lives. 

Miss Lil. And why not ? 

hik. No reason whatever, save that he 's a sot. 
Lady Bluemount ! a glass of Madeira ? 

Lady Bluem. With pleasure. 

Ink. How does your friend Wordswords, that Win- 
dermere treasure ? 
Does he stick to his lakes, like the leeches he sings, 
And their gatherers, as Homer sung warriors and 
kings ? 

Lady Blueb. He has just got a place. 

Ink. As a footman ? 

Lady Bluem. For shame ! 

Nor profarie with your sneers so poetic a name. 

Ink, Nay, I meant him no evil, but pitied his mas- 
ter ; 
For the poet of pedlars 't were, sure, no disaster 
To wear a new livery ; the more, as 't is not 
The first time he has turn'd both his creed and his coat. 

Lady Bluem. For shame ! I repeat. If Sir George 
could but hear 

Ladv Blueb. Never mind our friend Inkel; we all 
know, my dear, 
'T is his way. 

Sir Rich. But this place 

Ink, Is perhaps like friend Scamp's, 

A lecturer's. 



H 






THE BLUES. 



171 



Lady Blueb. Excuse me — 't is one in " the Stamps :" 
He is made a collector.! 

Tra. Collector I 

Sir Rich. How ? 

Miss Lil. What ? 

Ink. I shall think of him oft when I buy a new hat : 
There his works will appear 

Lady Bluem. Sir, they reach to the Ganges. 

Ink. I sha 'n't go so far — I can have them at 
Gran are's. ^ 

Lady Blueb. Oh fie ! 

Miss Lil. And for shame ! 

Lady Bluem. You 're too bad. 

Both. Very good ! 

Lady Bluem. How good? 

"lady Blueb. He means nought — 't is his phrase. 

Lady Bluem. He grows rude. 

Lady Blueb. He means nothing ; nay, ask him. 

Lady Bluem. fra}') sir ! did you mean 

What you say ? 

Ink. Never mind if he did ; 't will be seen 

That whatever he means won't alloy what he says. 

Both. Sir! 

Ink. Pray be content with your portion of praise j 
'T was in your defence. 

Both. If you please, with submission, 

I can make out my own. 

Ink. It would be your perdition. 

While you live, my dear Botherby, never defend 
Yourseff or your works; but leave both to a friend. 
Apropos — Is your play then accepted at last ? 

Both. At last ? 

Ink. Why I thought — that's to say — there had 
pass'd 
A few green-room whispers, which hinted, — you know 
That the taste of the actors at best is so so. 

Both. Sir, the green-room 's in rapture, and so 's the 
committee. 

Ink. Ay — yours are the plays for exciting our 
"pity 
And fear," as the Greek says: for "purging the 

mind," 
I doubt if you '11 leave us an equal behind. 

Both. 1 have written the prologue, and meant to 
have pray'd 
For a spice of your wit in an epilogue's aid. 

Ink. Well, time enough yet, when the play 's to be 
play'd. 
Is it cast yet? 

Both. The actors are fighting for parts, 

As is usual in that most litigious of arts. 

Lady Blueb. We '11 all make a party, and go the 
first night. 

Tra. And you promised the epilogue, Inkel. 

Ink. Not quite. 

However, to save my friend Botherby trouble, 
I '11 do what I can, though my pains must bfe double. 

Tra. Why so ? 

Lik. To do justice to what goes before. 

Both. Sir, I 'm happy to say, I 've no fears on that 
score. 

Your parts, Mr. Inkle, are • 

Ink. Never mind mine ; 

Stick to those of your play, which is quite your own 
line. 

Lady Bluem. You 're a fugitive writer, I think, sir, 

of rhymes ? 
Ink. Yes, ma'am ; and a fugitive reader sometimes. 
On Wordswords, for instance, I seldom alight. 
Or on Moulhey, his friend, without taking to flight. 
Lady Bluem. Sir, your taste is too common; but 
time and posterity 
Will right these great men, and this age's severity 
Become its reproach. 



1 Mr. -Wordsworth is collector of stamps for Cumber- 
land and Westmoreland.-- E. 

2 Grange ia or was a famous pastry-cook and fruiterer 
in Piccadilly. 



Ink. I 've no sort of objection. 

So I 'm not of the party to take the infection. 
Lady Blueb. Perhaps you have doubts that they ever 

will take ? 
Ink. Not at all ; on the contrary, those of the lake 
Have taken already, and still will continue 
To take — what they can, from a groat to a guinea, 
Of pension or place ; — but the subject 's a bore. 
Lady Bluem. Well, sir, the time 's coming. 
Ink. Scamp I don't you feel sore ? 

What say you to this ? 

Scamp. They have merit, I own ; 

Though their system's absurdity keeps it unknown. 
Ink. Then why not unearth it in one of your lec- 
tures ? 
Scamp. It is only time past which comes under my 

strictures. 
Lady Blueb. Come, a truce with all tartness : — the 
joy of my heart 
Is to see Nature's triumph o'er all that is art. 
Wild Nature ! — Grand Shakspeare ! 
Both. And down Aristotle. 

Lady Bluem. Sir George 3 thinks exactly with Lady 
Bluebottle: 
And my Lord Seventy-four,* who protects our dear 

Bard, 
And who gave him his place, has the greatest regard 
For the poet, who, singing of pedlars and asses, 
Has found out the way to dispense with Parnassus. 
Tra. And you, Scamp ! — 

Scamp. I needs must confess I 'm embarrass'd. 

Ink. Don't call upon Scamp, who's already so har- 
rass'd 
With old schools, and new schools, and no schools, and 
all schools, 
Tra. Well, one thing is certain, that some must be 
fools. 
I should like to know who. 

Ink. And I should not be sorry 

To know who are not : — it would save us some worry. 
Lady Blueb. A truce with remark, and let nothing 
control 
This " feast of our reason, and flow of the soul." 
Oh ! my dear Mr. Botherby ! sympathise ! — I 
Now feel such a rapture, I 'm ready to fly, 
I feel so elastic — " so buoyant — so buoyant ! " s 
Ink. Tracy! open the window. 
Tra. I wish her much joy on 't. 

Both. For God's sake, my Lady Bluebottle, check 
not 
This gentle emotion, so seldom our lot 
Upon earth. Give it way : 't is an impulse which lifts 
Our spirits from earth ; the sublimest of gifts ; 
For which poor Prometheus was chain'd to his moun. 

tain ; 
'T is the source of all sentiment — feeling's true foun- 
tain ; 
'T is the Vision of Heaven upon Earth : 't is the gas 
Of the soul : 't is the seizing of shades as they pass, 
And making them substance : 't is something divine : — 
Ink. Shall I help you, my friend, to a little more 

wine ? 
Both. I thank you ; not any more, sir, till I dine. 
Ink. Apropos — Do you dine with Sir Humphry 6 

to-day ? 
Tra. I should think with Duke Humphry was more 

in your way. 
Ink. It might be of j'ore ; but we authors now look 
To the Knight, as a landlord, much more than the 
Duke. 

3 The late Sir George Beaumont ~ a constant friend of 
Mr. Wordsworth. — E. 

4 It was not, the present Earl of Lonsdale, 'but James, 
the first earl, who offered to build, and completely furnish 
and man, a ship of seventy-four guns, towards the close 
of the American war, for the service of his country, at 
his own expense; — hence the soitirijMet in the text. — E. 

5 Fact from life, with the words. 

6 The late Sir Humphry Davy, President of the Royal 
Society. — E. 



^^am 



l^-r^^gu^jjggg^ 



mmmmm^M^i 



172 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



The truth is, each writer now quite at his ease is, 
And (except with his publisher) dines where he 

pleases. 
But 't is now nearly five, and I must to the Park. 

Tra. And I '11 take a turn with you there till 'tis 
dark. 
And you, Scamp — 

Scamp. Excuse me ! I must to my notes, 

For my lecture next week. 

I7ik. He must mind ^vhom he quotes 

Out of " Elegant Extracts." 

Lady Blutb. Well, now we break up ; 

But remember Miss Diddle i invites us to sup. 

IThe late Miss Lydia White, whose hospitable functions 
have not yet been supplied to the circles of London artists 
and literati — an accomplished, clever, and truly amiable, 
but very eccentric lady. The name in the text could 
only have been suggested by the jingling resemblance it 
bears to Lydia. — E. 



Ink. Then at two hours past midnight we all meet 
again. 
For the sciences, sandwiches, hock, and champaigne '. 
Tra. And the sweet lobster salad ! 
Both. I honour that meal ; 

For 't is then that our feelings most genuinely — feel. 
Ink. True ; feeling is truest thtn, far beyond ques- 
tion : 
I wish to the gods 't was the same with digestion ! 
Lady Bluet. Pshaw ! — never mind that ; for one 
moment of feeling 
Is worth — God knows what. 
Ink. 'T is iSt least worth concealing 

For itself, or what follows 'But here comes your 

carriage. 
Sir Rich, (aside). I wish all these people were 
d-»— d with my marriage 1 [Exemit. 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT, 

BY aUEVEDO REDIVIVUS. 

SUGGESTED BY THE COMPOSITION SO ENTITLED BY THE AUTHOR OF « WAT TYLER." 



' A Daniel come to judgment ! yea, a Daniel ! 
I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word. 



PREFACE. 



It hath been wisely said, that "One fool makes 
many 5" and it hath been poetically observed, 

"That fools rush in where angels fear to tread." — Pope. 

If Mr. Southey had not rushed in where he had no 
business, and where he never was before, and never 
will be again, the following poem would not have been 
written. It is not impossible that it may be as good as 
his own, seeing that it cannot, by any species of stu- 
pidity, natural or acquired, be worse. The gross flat- 
tery, the dull impudence, the renegado intolerance, and 
impious cant, of the poem by the author of " Wat 
Tyler^" are something so stupendous as to form the 
sublime of himself— containing the quintescence of 
his own att'-ibutes. 

So much for his poem — a word on his preface. In 
this preface it has pleased the magnanimous Laureate 
to draw the picture of a supposed " Satanic School," 
the which he doth recommend to the notice of the 
legislature ; thereby adding to his other laurels the am- 
bition of those of an informer. If there exists any 
where, excepting in his imagination, such a School, is 
he not sufficiently armed against it by his own intense 
vanity ? The truth is, that there are certain writers 
whom Mr. S. imagines, like Scrub, to have "talked of 
him ; for they laughed consumedly." 

I think I know enough of most of the writeis to 
whom he is supposed to allude, to assert, that they, in 
their individual capacities, have done more good, in the 
charities of life, to their fellow-creatures, in any one 
year, than Mr. Southey has done harm to himself by 
his absurdities in his whole life ; and this is saying a 
great deal. But I have a few questions to ask. 

Istly, Is Mr. Southey the author of "Wat Tyler ?" 

2dly, Was he not refused a remedy at law by the 
highest judge of his beloved England, because it was a 
blasphemous and seditious publication? 

3dly, Was he not entitled by William Smith, in full 
parliament, " a rancorous renegado ? " 

4thly, Is he not poet laureate, with his own lines on 
Martin the regicide staring him in the face? 

And, 5thly, Putting the four preceding items toge- 



ther, with what conscience dare he call the attention of 
the lav.'s to the publications of others, be they what 
they may ? 

I say nothing of the cowardice of such a proceeding ; 
its meanness speaks for itself; but I wish to touch upon 
the motive, which is neither more nor less than that 
Mr. S. has been laughed at a little in some recent pub- 
lications, as he was of yore in the "Anti-jacobin," by 
his present patrons. Hence all this " skimble scambl'e 
stuff" about " Satanic," and so forth. However, it is 
worthy of him — " qualis ab incepto.^' 

If there is any thing obnoxious to the political opi- 
nions of a portion of the public in the following poem, 
they may thank Mr, Southey. He might have written 
hexameters, as he has written every thing else, for 
aught that the writer cared — had they been upon an- 
o:her subject. But to attempt to canonise a monarch, 
who, whatever were his hou-^ehold virtues, was nei'her 
a successful nor a patriot king,— inasmuch as several 
years of his reign passed in war with America and 
Ireland, to say nothing of the aggression upon France 
— like all other exaggeration, necessarily begets oppo- 
sition. In whatever manner he may be spoken of in 
this new " Vision," his public career will not be more 
favourably transmitted by history. Of his private vir- 
tues (although a little expensive to the nation) there 
can be no doubt. 

With regard to the supernatural personages treated 
of. I can only say that 1 know as much about them, 
and (as an honest man) have a better right to talk of 
them than Robert Southey. I have also treated them 
more tolerantly. The way in which that poor insane 
creature, the Laureate, deals about his judgments in 
the next world, is like his own judgment in this. If 
it was not completely ludicrous, it would be something 
worse. I don't think that there is much more to say at 
present. QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS. 

P. S, — It is possible that some readers may object, 
in these objectionable times, to the freedom with which 
saints, angels, and spiritual persons discourse in this 
" Vision." But, for precedents upon such points, I 
must refer him to Fielding's "Journey from this 
World to the next," and to the Visions of myself, the 
said Quevedo, in Spanish or translated. The reader is 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



173 



also requested to observe, that no doctrinal tenets are 
insisted upon or discussed ; that the person of the 
Deity is carefully withheld from sight, which is more 
than can be said for the Laureate, who hath thought 
proper to make him talk, not " like a school divine," 
but like the unscholarlike Mr. Southey. The Avhole 
action passes on the outside of heaven ; and Chnucer's 
Wife of Bath, Pulci's Morgante Maggiore, Swift's 
Tale of a Tub, and the other works above referred to, 
are cases in point of the freedom with which saints, &c. 
may be permitted to converse in works not intended to 
be serious. Q. R. 

*^* Mr. Southey being, as he says, a good Christian 
and vindictiv*, threatens, I understand, a reply to this 
our answer. It is to be hoped that his visionary facul- 
ties will in the meantime have acquired a little more 
judgment, properly so called: otiierwise he will get 
himself inio new dilemmas. These apostate jacobins 
furnish rich rejoinders. Let him take a specimen. 
Mr. Southey laudeth grievously "one Mr. Landor," 
who cultivates much private renown in the shape of 
Latin verses; and not long ago, the poet laureate dedi- 
cated to him, it appeareth, one of his fugitive lyrics, 
upon the strength of a poem called Gebir. Who could 
suppose, that in this same Gebir the aforesaid Savage 
Landor (for such is his grim cognomen) putteth into 
the infernal regions no less a person than the hero of 
his friend Mr. Southey's heaven, — yea, even George 
the Third ! See also how personal Savage becometh, 
when he hath a mind. The following is his portrait 
of our late gracious sovereign : — 

(Prince Gebir having descended info the infernal regions, 
the shades of his royal ancestors are, at his request, 
called up to his view; and he exclaims to his ghostly 
guide) — 

" Aroar, what wretch that nearest us ? what wretch 
Is that with eyebrows white and slanting brow ? 
Listen! him yonder who, bound down supine. 
Shrinks yelling from that sword there, engine-hung. 
He too amongst my ancestors ! I hate 
The despot, but the dastard I despise. 
Was he our countryman 7 " 

"Alas, O king ! 
Iberia bore him, but the breed accurst 
Inclement winds blew blighting from north-east." 
" He was a warrior then, nor fear'd the gods 1 " 
"Gebir, he fear'd the demons, not the gods, 
Though them indeed his daily face adored; 
And was no warrior, yet the thousand lives 
Squander'd, as stones to exercise a sling, 
And the tame cruelty and cold caprice — 
Oh madness of mankind ! address'd, adored ' " — 

Gebir, p. 28. 

I omit noticing some edifying Ithyphallics of Sava- 
gius, wishing to keep the proper veil over them, if his 
grave but somewhat indiscreet worshipper will suffer 
it ; but certainly these teachers of " great moral les- 
sons " are apt to be found in strange company. 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate: 
His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull, 

So little trouble had been given of late ; 
Not that the place by any means was full, 

But since the Gallic era "eighty-eight" 

The devils had ta'en a longer, stronger pull, 

And "a pull altogether," as they say 

At sea — which drew most souls another way. 

n. 

The angels all were singing out of tune, 
And hoarse with having little else to do, 

Excepting to wind up the sun and moon. 
Or curb a runaway young star or two, 

Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon 
Broke out of bounds o'er the ethereal blue, 



Splitting some planet with its playful tail. 
As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale. 

in. 

The guardian seraphs had retired on high, 
Finding their charges past all care below; 

Terrestrial business fiU'd nought in the sky 
Save the recording angel's black bureau ; 

Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply 
Wiih such rapidity of vice and woe, 

That he had stripp'd off both his wings in quills, 

And yet was in arrear of human ills. 

IV. 

His business so augmented of late years, 
That he was forced, against his will no doubt, 

(Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers,) 
For some resource to turn himself about, 

And claim the help of his celebtial peers, 
To aid him, ere he should be quite worn out 

By the increased demand for his remarks : 

Six angels and twelve saints were named his clerks. 



This was a handsome board — at least for heaven j 
And yet they had even then enough to d&, 

So many conquerors' cars were daily driven. 
So many kingdoms fitted up anew j 

Each day too slew its thousands six or seven. 
Till at the crowning carnage, Waterloo, 

They threw their pens down in divine disgust — 

The page was so faesmear'd with blood and dust. 

VI. 

This by the way ; 't is not mine to record 

What angels shrink from : even the very devil 

On this occasion his own work abhorr'd, 
So surfeited with the infernal revel : 

Though he himself had sharpen'd every sword, 
It almost quench'd his innate thirst of evil. 

(Here Satan's sole good work deserves insertion — 

'T is, that he has both generals in reversion.) 

VII. 

Let 's skip a few short years of hollow peace, 
Which peopled e;irth no better, hell as wont, 

And heaven none — they form the tyrant's lease, 
With nothing but new names subscribed upon 't; 

'T will one day finish : meantime they increase, 
"With seven heads and ten horns," and all in front, 

Like Saint John's foretold beast ; but ours are born 

Less formidable in the head than horn. 

VIIL 
In the first year of freedom's second dawn 1 

Died George the Third ; although no tyrant, one 
Who shielded tyrants, till each sense wi'hdrawn 

Left him nor mental nor external sun : 
A better farmer ne'er brush'd dew from lawn, 

A worse king never left a realm undone ! 
He died — but left his subjects still behind, 
One half as mad — and t' other no less blind. 

IX. 

He died ! his death made no great stir on earth : 
His burial made some pomp ; there was profusion 

Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great dearth 
Of aught but tears — save those shed by collusion. 

For these things may be bought at their true worth j 
Of elegy there was the due infusion — 

Bought also ; and the torches, cloaks, and banners, 

Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners, 

X. 

Form'd a sepulchral melodrame. Of all 
The fools who flock'd to swell or see the show. 

Who cared about the corpse ? The funeral 
Made the attraction, and the black the woe. 



1 George III. died the 29th of January, 1820,— a year in 
which the revolutionary spirit broke out all over the south 
of Europe. — E. 



15* 



174 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



There throbb'd not there a thought which pierced the 
pall : 
And when the gorgeous coffin was laid low, 
It seem'd the mockery of hell to fold 
The rottenness of eighty years iu gold. 

XI. 

So mix his body with the dust ! It might 
Return to what it mu^l far sooner, were 

The natural compound left alone to fight 
Its way back into earth, and fire, and air; 

But the unnatural balsams merely blight 
What nature made him at his birth, as bare 

As the mere million's base unmummied clay — 

Yet all his spices but prolong decay. 

XII. 

He 's dead — and upper earth with him has done j 
He 's buried ; save the undertaker's bill, 

Or lapidary scrawl, the world is gone 
For him, unless he left a German will ; 

But where 's the proctor who will ask his son ? 
In whom his qualities are reigning still, 

Except that household virtue, most uncommon, 

Of constancy to a bad, ugly woman. 

XIII. 

" God save the king ! " It is a large economy 
In God to save the like ; but if he will 

Be saving, all the better; for not one am I 
Of those who think damnation better still: 

I hardly know too if not quite alone am I 
In this small hope of bettering future ill 

By circumscribing, with some slight restriction. 

The eternity of hell's hot jurisdiction. 

XIV. 

I know this is unpopular ; I know 

'T is blasphemous ; I know one may be damn'd 
For hoping no one else mny e'er be so ; 

I know my catechism ; I know \ve're cramm'd 
With the best doctrines till we quite o'erflow ; 

I know that all save England's church haveshamm'd, 
And that the other twice two hundred churches 
And synagogues have made a damn'd bad purchase. 



XV. 



God help us all ! God help me too ! I am, 
God knows, as helpless as the devil can wish, 

And not a whit more difficult to damn, 
Than is to brin^ to land a late-hook'd fish, 

Or to the butcher to purvey the lamb; 
Not that 1 'm fit for such a noble dish. 

As one day will be that immortal fry 

Of almost every body born to die. 

x\-i. 

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate. 

And nodded o'er his keys ; when, lo ! there came 
A wondrous noise he had not heard of late — 

A rushing sound of wind, and stream, and flame j 
In short, a roar of things extremely great, 

Which would have made aught save a saint exclaim ; 
But he, with first a start and then a wink, 
Said, " There 's another star gone out, I think ! " 

XVII. 

But ere he conld return to his repose, 
A cherub flapp'd his right wing o'er his eyes — 

At which Saint Peter yawn'd, and rubb'd his nose : 
" Saint porter," said the angel, " prithee rise ! " 

Waving a goodly wing, which glow'd, as glows 
An earthly peacock's tail, with heavenly dyes: 

To which the saint replied, " Well, what 's the matter ? 

Is Lucifer come back with all this clatter ?" 

XVIII. 

"No," quoth the cherub; "George the Third is 
dead." 
"And who is George the Third?" replied the 
apostle : 



" What George ? what Third ?" " The king of Eng- 
land," said 

The angel. " Well ! he won't find kings to jostle 
Him on his way ; but does he wear his head ? 

Because the 1 xst we saw here had a tustle, 
And ne'er would have got into heaven's good graces, 
Had he not flung his head in all our faces. 

XIX. 

" He was, if I remember, king of France ; l 
That head of his, which could not keep a crown 

On earth, yet ventured in my face to advance 
A claim to those of martyrs — like my own : 

If I had had my sword, as I had once 
When I cut ears otf, I had cut him down j 

But having but my keys, and not my brand, 

I only knock'd his head from out his hand. 

XX. 

" And then he set up such a headless howl, 
That all the saints came out and took him in ; 

And there he sits by St. Paul, cheek by jowl ; 
That fellow Paul — the parvenu ! The skin 

Of Saint Bartholomew, which makes his cowl 
In heaven, and upon earth redeem'd his sin. 

So as to make a martyr, never sped 

Better than did this ^veak and wooden head. 

XXI. 

" But had it come up here upon its shoulders, 
There would have been a different tale to tell : 

The feilow-feeling in the saints beholders 
Seems to have acted on them like a spell ; 

And so this very foolish head heaven solders 
Back on its trunk : it may be very well, 

And seems the custom here to overthrowr 

Whatever has been wisely done below." 

XXII. 

The angel answer'd, " Peter ! do not pout : 
The king who comes has head and all entire, 

And never knew much what it was about — 
He did as doth the puppet — by its wire, 

And will be judged like all the rest, no doubt : 
My business and your own is not to inquire 

Into such matters, but to mind our cue — 

Which is to act as we are bid to do." 

XXIII. 

While tl^us they spake, the angelic caravan, 

Arriving like a rush of mighty wind. 
Cleaving the fields of space, as doth the swan 

Some silver stream (say Ganges, Nile, or Inde, 
Or Thames, or Tweed), and 'midst them an old man 

With an old soul, and both extremely blind, 
Hailed before the gate, and in his shroud 
Seated their fellow-traveller on a cloud. 

XXIV. 

But bringing up the rear of this bright host 

A Spirit of a ditferent aspect waved 
His wings, like thunder clouds above some coast 

Whose barren bench with frequent wrecks is paved; 
His brow was like the deep when tempest-loss'd ; 

Fierce and unfathomable thoughts engraved 
Eternal wrath on his immortal t^ce, 
And where he gazed a gloom pervaded space. 

XXV. 

As he drew near, he gazed upon the gate 
Ne'er to be enter'd more by him or Sin, 

With such a glance of supernatural hate. 
As made Saint Peter wish himself within ; 

He patter'd with his keys at a great rate, 
And sweated through his apostolic skin: 

Of course his perspiration was but ichor, 

Or some such other spiritual liquor. 



Louis XVI., guillotined in January 1793.' 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



175 



XXVI. 

The very cherubs huddled all together, 
Like birds when soars the falcon ; and they felt 

A tin<rling to the tip of every feather, 
And form'd a circle like Orion's belt 

Around their poor old charge j who scarce knew 
whither 
His guards had led him, though they gently dealt 

With royal manes (for by many stories, 

And true, we learn the angels all are Tories). 

XXVII. 

As things were in this posture, the gate flew 

Asunder, and the (iastiing of its hinges 
Flung over space an universal hue 

Of niany-colour'd flame, until its tinges 
Reach'd even our speck of earth, and made a new 

Aurora borealis spread its fringes 
O'er the JNorth Pole ; the same seen, when ice-bound, 
By Captain Parry's crew, in " Melville's Sound." 

XXVIII. 

And from the gate thrown open issued beaming 
A beautiful and mighty Thing of Light, 

Radiant with glory, like a banner streaming 
Victorious from some world -o'erthro wing fight: 

My poor comparisons must needs be teeming 
With earthly likenesses, for here the night 

Of clay obscures our best conceptions, saving 

Johanna bouthcote,i or Bob Southey raving. 

XXIX. 

'T was the archangel Michael : all men know 
The make of angels and archangels, since 

There's scarce a scribbler has not one to show, 
From the fiends' leader to the angels' prince. 

There also are some altar-pieces, though 
I really can't say that they much evince 

One's inner notions of immortal spirits ; 

But let the connoisseurs explain ttieir merits. 

XXX. 

Michael flew forth in glory and in good ; 

A goodly work of him from whom all glory 
And good arise ; the portal pass'd — he stood ; 

Before him the young cherubs and saints hoary — 
(I say young, begging to be understood 

By looks, not years ; and should be very soriy 
To slate, they were not older than St. Peter, 
But merely that they seem'd a little sweeter). 

XXXI. 

The cherubs and the saints bow'd down before 

That arch-angelic hierarch, the first 
Of essences angelical, who wore 

The aspect of a god ; but this ne'er nursed 
Pride in his heavenly bo.iom, in whose core 

No thought, save for his Maker's service, durst 
Intrude, however glorified and high ; 
He knew him but the viceroy of the sky, 

xxxn. 

He and the sombre silent Spirit met — 
They knew each other both for good and ill ; 

Such was their power, that neither could forget 
His former friend and future foe ; but still 

There was a high, immoi tal, proud regret 
In cither's eye, as if 't were less their will 

Than destiny to make the eternal years 

Their date of war, and their '' chainp clos" the spheres. 

XXXIII. 

But here they were in neutral space : we know 
From Job, that Satan hath the power to pay 

A heavenly visit thrice a ye:ir or so ; 
And that the " sons of God," like those of clay, 

1 Johanna Soutticote, the aged lunatic, who fancied her- 
self, and was believed l)y maiiy followers, to be with child 
of a new Messiah, died in 18J5. There is a full account 
of her in the Quarterly Review, vol. xxiv. p. 496. — E. 



Must keep him company ; and we might show 

From the same book, in how polite a way 
The dialogue is held between the Powers 
Of Good and Evil — but 't would take up hours. 

XXXIV. 

And this is not a theologic tract. 

To prove with Hebrew and with Arabic, 

If Job be allegory or a fact. 
But a true narrative ; and thus I pick 

From out the whole but such and such an act, 
As sets aside the slightest thought of trick. 

'T is every tittle true, beyond suspicion, 

And accurate as any other vision. 

XXXV. 

The spirits were in neutral space, before 
The gate of heaven^ like eastern thresholds is 

The place where Death's grand cause is argned o'er, 
And souls despatch'd to that world or to this; 

And therefore Michael and the other wore 
A civil aspect: though they did not kiss, 

Yet still between his Darkness and his Brightness 

There pass'd a mutual glance of great politeness. 

XXXVI. 

The Archangel bow'd, not like a modern beau. 

But with a graceful oriental bend. 
Pressing one radiant arm just where below 

The heart in good men is supposed to tend, 
He turn'd as to an equal, not too low. 

But kindly ; Satan met his ancient friend 
With more hauteur, as might an old Castiliaa 
Poor noble meet a mushroom rich civilian. 

XXXVH. 

He merely bent his diabolic brow 

An instant ; and then raising it, he stood 
In act to assert his right or wrong, and show 

Cause why King George by no means could or should 
Make out a case to be exempt from woe 

Eternal, more than other kings, endued 
With better sense and hearts, whom history mentions, 
Who long have " paved hell with their good inten- 
tions." 

XXXVIII. 
Michael began : " What wouldst thou with this man, 

Now dead, and brought before the Lord ? What ill 
Hath he wrought since his mortal race began. 

That thou canst claim him? Speak ! and do thy will, 
If it be just: if in this earthly span 

He hath been greatly failing to fulfil 
His duties as a king and mortal, say, 
And he is thine ; if not, let him have way." 

XXXIX. 

" Michael ! " replied the Prince of Air, " even here. 
Before the Gate of him thou servest, must 

I claim my subject: and will make appear 
That as he was my worshipper in dust, 

So shall be be in spirit, although dear 
To thee and thine, because nor wine nor lust 

Were of his weaknesses ; yet on the throne 

He reign'd o'er millions to serve me alone. 

XL. 

" Look to our earth, or rather mine; it was, 
Once, more thy master's : but I triumph not 

In this poor planet's conquest ; nor, alas ! 
Need he ttiou servest envy me my lot : 

With all the myri;\ds of bright worlds which pass 
In worship round him, he may have forgot 

Yon weak creation of such paltry things : 

I think few worth damnation save their kings, — 

XLI. 

" And these but as a kind of quit-rent, to 

Assert my right as lord ; and even had 
I such an iricli nation, 't were (as you 

Well know) superfluous ; they are grown so bad, 



Ml 



i^Hm 



176 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



That hell hns nothing better left to do 

Than leave them to themselves: so much more mad 
And evil by their own internal curse, 
Heaven cannot make them better, nor I worse. 

XLII. 

" Look to the earth, I said, and say again : 
When this old, blind, mad, helpless, weak, poor 
worm 

Began in youth's first bloom and flush to reign, 
The world and he both wore a different form, 

And much of earth and all the watery plain 
Of ocean call'd him king : through many a storm 

His isles had floated on the abyss of time ; 

For the rough virtues chose them for their clime. 

XLIII. 

" He came to his sceptre young ; he leaves it old : 
Look to the state in which he found his realm, 

And left it ; and his annals too behold, 
How to a minion first he gave the helm ; 

How grew upon his heart a'thirst for gold, 
The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm 

The meanest hearts ; and for the rest, but glance 

Thine eye along America and France, 

XLIV. 
'< 'T is true, he was a tool from first to last 

(I have the workmen safe) ; but as a tool 
So let him be consumed. From out the past 

Of ages, since mankind have known the rule 
Of monarchs — from the bloody rolls amass'd 

Of sin and slaughter — from the Csesars' school, 
Take the worst pupil; and produce a reign 
More drench'd with gore, more cumber'd with the 
slain. 

XLV. 
" He ever warr'd with freedom and the free : 

Nations as men, home subjects, foreign foes, 
So that they utter'd the word ' Liberty ! ' 

Found George the Third their first opponent. Whose 
History was ever stain'd as his will be 

With national and individual woes ? 
I grant his household abstinence ; I grant 
His neutral virtues, which most monarchs want ; 

XLVI. 

" I know he was a constant consort ; own 
He was a decent sire, and middling lord. 

All this is much, and most upon a throne ; 
As temperance, if at Apicius' board. 

Is more than at an anchorite's supper shown. 
I grant him all the kindest can accord ; 

And this was well for him, but not for those 

Millions who found him what oppression chose. 

XLvn. 

" The New World shook him off: the Old yet groans 
Beneath what he and his prepared, if not 

Completed : he leaves heirs on many thrones 
To all his vices, without what begot 

Compassion for him — his tame virtues ; drones 
Who sleep, or despots who have now forgot 

A lesson which shall be re-taught them, wake 

Upon the thrones of earth ; but let them quake ! 

XLVIIL 

*' Five millions of the primitive, who hold 
The faith which makes ye great on earth, implored 

A part of that vast all they held of old, — 
Freedom to worship — not alone your Lord, 

Michael, but you, and you, Saint Feterl Cold 
Must be your souls, if you have not abhorr'd 

The foe to Catholic participation 

In all the license of a Christian nation. 

XLIX. 

" True ! he allow'd them to pray God ; but as 
A consequence of prayer, refused the law 

Which would have placed them upon the same base 
With those who did not hold the saints in awe." 



But here Saint Peter started from his place. 

And cried, "'You may the prisoner withdraw: 
Ere heaven shall ope her portals to this Guelph, 
While I am guard, may I be damn'd myself ! 

L. 

" Sooner will I with Cerberus exchange 

My office (and his is no sinecure) 
Thau see this royal Bedlam bigot range 

The azure fields of heaven, of that be sure ! " 
" Saint ! " replied Satan, " you do well to avenge 

The wrongs he made your satellites endure j i 
And if to this exchange you should be given, 
I 'II try to coax our Cerberus up to heaven ! 

LI. 

Here Michael interposed : " Good saint ! and devil ! 

Pray, not so fast; you both outrun discretion. 
Saint Peter ! you were wont to be more civil : 

Satan ! excuse this warmth of his expression, 
And condescension to the vulgar's level : 

Even saints sometimes forget themselves in session. 
Have you got more to say ? " — '* No." — " If you 

please, 
I '11 trouble you to call your witnesses." 

LIL 

Then Satan furn'd and waved his swarthy hand, 
Which stirr'd with its electric qualities 

Clouds farther off than we can understand. 
Although we find him sometimes in our skies; 

Infernal thunder shook both sea and land 
In all the planets, and hell's batteries 

Let off the artillery, which Milton mentions 

As one of Satan's most sublime inventions. 

LHI. 

This was a signal unto such damn'd souls 
As have the privilege of their damnation 

Extended far beyond the mere controls 

Of worlds past, present, or to come; no station 

Is theirs particularly in the rolls 
Of hell assign'd ;"but where their inclination 

Or business carries them in search of game. 

They may range freely — being danm'd the same. 

LIV. 

They are proud of this — as very well they may, 
It being a sort of knighthood, or gilt key 

Stuck in Their loins ; ^ or like to an " entre " 
Up the back stairs, or such free-masonry. 

I borrow my comparisons from clay. 
Being clay myself. Let not those spirits be 

Offended with such base low likenesses ; 

We know their posts are nobler far than these. 

LV. 

When the great signal ran from heaven to hell — ^ 

About ten million times the distance reckon'd 
From our sun to its earth, as we can tell 

How much time it takes up, even to a second, 
For every rav that travels to dispel 

The fogs of London, through which, dimly beacon'd. 
The weathercocks are gilt some thrice a year. 
If that the summer is not too severe : 3 

LVI. 
I say that I can tell — 't was half a minute : 

I know the solar beams take up more time 
Ere, pack'd up for their journey, they begin it j 

But then their telegraph is less sublime. 
And if they ran a race, they would not win it 

'Gainst Satan's couriers bound for their own clime. 



1 George III.'s determination against the Catholic 
claims.— E. 

2 A gold or gilt key, peeping from below the skirts of 
the coat, marks a lord chamberlain.— E. 

3 An allusion to Horace Walpole's expression in a let- 
ter— "the summer has set in with its usual seve- 
rity."— IE. 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



177 



The sun lakes up some years for every ray 
To reach its goal •»- the devil not half a day. 

LVII. 

Upon the verge of space, about the size 
Of half-a-crovvn, a little speck appear'd — 

(I 've seen a something like it in the skies 
In the ^gean, ere a squall) ; it near'd, 

And, growing bigger, took another guise ; 
Like an atrial ship it tack'd, and steer'd, 

Or was steer'd (I am doubtful of the grammar 

Of the last phrase, which makes the stanza stammer j— 

LVIII. 

But take your choice)— and then it grevr a cloud ; 

And so it was — a cloud of witnesses. 
But such a cloud ! No land e'er saw a crowd 

Of locusts numerous as the heavens saw these ; 
They sliadow'd with their myriads space ; their loud 

And varied cries were like those of wild geese 
(If nations may be liken'd to a goose), 
And realised the phrase of " hell broke loose." 

LIX. 

Here crash'd a sturdy oath of stout John Bull, 
Who damn'd away his eyes as heretofore : 

There Paddy brogued " By Jasus ! " — " What 's your 
wull?" 
The temperate Scot exclaim'd: the French ghost 
swore 

In certain terms I sha'n't translate in full, 
As the first coachman will ; and 'midst the war. 

The voice of Jonathan was heard to express, 

" Our president is going to war, I guess." 

LX. 

Besides there were the Spaniard, Dutch, and Dane ; 

In short, an universal shoal of shades, 
From Otaheite's isle to Salisbury Plain, 

Of all climes and professions, years and trades. 
Ready to swear against the good king's reign, 

Bitter as clubs in cards are against spades : 
All summon'd by this grand " subpoena," to 
Try if kings mayn't be damn'd like me or you. 

LXI. 

When Michael saw this host, he first grew pale. 
As angels can ; next, like Italian twilight, 

He turn'd all colours — as a peacock's tail, 
Or sunset streaming through a Gothic skylight 

In some old abbey, or a trout not stile, 
Or distant lightning on the horizon by night, 

Or a fresh rainbow, or a grand review 

Of thirty regiments in red, green, and blue. 

LXII. 

Then he address'd himself to Satan : " Why — 
My good old friend, for such I deem you, though 

Our different parties make us fight so shy, 
I ne'er mistake you for a -personal foe j 

Our difference is political, and I 
Trust that, whatever may occur below, 

You know my great respect for you : and this 

Makes me regret whate'er you do amiss — 

LXIIL 

" Why, my dear Lucifer, would you abuse 
My call for witnesses ? I did not mem 

That you should half of earth and hell produce ; 
'T is even superfluous, since two honest, clean, 

True testimonies are enough : we lose 
Our time, nay, our eternity, between 

The accusation and defence : if we 

Hear both, 't will stretch our immortality." 

LXIV. 

Satan replied, " To me the matter is 
Indifferent, in a personal point of view: 

I can have fifty better souls than this 
With far less trouble than we have gone through 



12 



Already ; and I merely argued his 

Late majesty of Britain's case with you 
Upon a point of form : you may dispose 
Of him ; I 've kings enough below, God knows ! " 

LXV. 

Thus spoke the Demon (late call'd "multifaced " 
By multoscribbling Southey). " Then we 'II call 

One or two persons of the myriads placed 
Around our congress, and dispense with all 

The rest," quoth Michael : " Who may be so graced 
As to speak first ? there 's choice enough — who 
shall 

It be ? " Then Satan answer'd, " There are many ; 

But you may choose Jack Wilkes as well as any." 

LXVI. 

A merry, cock-eyed, curious-looking sprite 
Upon the instant started from the throng, 

Dress'd in a fashion now forgotten quite; 
For all the fashions of the flesh stick long 

By people in the next world ; where unite 
All the costumes since Adam's, right or wrong, 

From Eve's fig-leaf down to the petticoat, 

Almost as scanty, of days less remote. 

LXVII. 

The spirit look'd around upon the crowds 
Assembled, and exclaim'd, "My friends of all 

The spheres, we shall catch cold amongst these clouds : 
So let 's to business : why this general call ? 

If those are freeholders I see in shrouds, 
And 't is for an election that they bawl. 

Behold a candidate with unturn'd coat ! 

Saint Peter, may I count upon your vote ? » 

LXVIII. 

" Sir," replied Michael, " you mistake ; these things 

Are of a former life, and what we do 
Above is more august j to judge of kings 

Is the tribunal met : so now" you know." 
" Then I presume those gentlemen with wings," 

Said Wilkes, " are cherubs ; and that soul below 
Looks much like George the Third, but to my mind 
A good deal older — Bless me ! is he blind } " 

LXIX. 

" He is what you behold him, and his doom 
Depends upon his deeds," the Angel said. 

" If you have aught to arraign in him, the tomb 
Gives license to the humblest beggar's head 

To lift itself against the loftiest." — " Some," 
Said Wilkes, " don't wait to see them laid in lead, 

For such a liberty — and I, for one, 

Have told them what I thought beneath the sun." 

LXX. 

" .Shove the sun repeat, then, what thou hast 
To urge against him," said the Archangel. " Why," 

Replied the spirit, " since old scores are past, 
Must I turn evidence ? In faith, not I. 

Besides, I beat him hollow at the last. 

With all his Lords and Commons : in the sky 

I don't like ripping up old stories, since 

His conduct was but patural in a prince. 

LXXI. 

" Foolish, no doubt, and wicked, to oppress 
A poor unlucky devil without a shilling ; 

But then I blame the man himself much less 
Than Bute and Grafton, and shall be unwilling 

To see him punish'd here for their excess, 
Since they were both damn'd long ago, and still in 

Their place below : for me, I have forgiven. 

And vote his ' habeas corpus ' into heaven." 

LXXIL 

•'Wilkes," said the Devil, *' I understand all this; 
You turn'd to half a courtier ere you died,* 



1 For the political history of John Wilkes, who died 



178 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



And seem to think it would not be amiss 
To grow a whole one on the other side 

Of Charon's ferry ; you forget that his 
Reign is concluded; whatsoe'er betide, 

He won't be sovereign more : you 've lost your labour, 

For at the best he will but be your neighbour. 

LXXIII. 

" However, I knew what to think of it, 
When I beheld \ou in your jesting way. 

Flitting and whispering round about the spit 
Where Belial, upon duty for the day, 

With Fox's lard was basting William Pitt, 
His pupil; I knew what to think, I say : 

That fellow even in hell breeds farther ills ; 

1 '11 have him gagged — 't was one of his own bills. 

LXXIV. 

" Call Junius ! " From the crowd a shadow stalk'd, 
And at the name there was a general squeeze, 

So that the very ghosts no longer walk'd 
In comfort, at their own aerial ease. 

But were all ramm'd, and jaram'd (but to be balk'd, 
As we shall see), and jostled hands and knees, 

Like wind compress'd and pent within a bladder, 

Or like a human colic, which is sadder. 

LXXV. 
The shadow came — a tall, thin, grey-hair'd figure, 

That look'd as it had been a shade on earth ; 
Quick in its motions, with an air of vigour. 

But nought to mark its breeding or its birth; 
Now it wax'd little, then again grew bigger. 

With now an air of gloom, or savage mirth ; 
But as you gazed upon its features, they 
Changed every instant — to what, none could say. 

LXXVI. 

The more intently the ghosts gazed, the less 

Could they distinguish whose the features were; 
The Devil himself seem'd puzzled even to guess; 

They varied like a dream — now here, now there ; 
And several people swore from out the press, 

They knew him perfectly ; and one could swear 
He was his father : upon which another 
Was sure he was his mother's cousin's brother: 

LXXVII. 
Another, that he was a duke, or knight, 

An orator, a lawyer, or a priest, 
A nabob, a man-midwife ; i but the wight 

Mysterious changed his countenance at least 
As oft as they their minds : though in full sight 

He stood, the puzzle only was increased; 
The man was a phantasmagoria in 
Himself — he was so volatile and thin. 

LXXVIII. 
The moment that you had pronounced him one, 

Presto ! his face changed, and he was another; 
And when that change was hardly well put on, 

It varied, till I don't think his own mother 
(If that he had a mother) would her son 

Have known, he shifted so from one to t' other ; 
Till guessing from a pleasure grew a task, 
At this epistolary " Iron Mask." * 



chamberlain of the city of London, we must refer to any 
history of the reign of George III. Hia profligate per- 
Bonal character is abuDdantly displayed in the collection of 
his letters, published by his daughter ! since his death.— E. 

lAmoni? the various persons to whom the Letters of 
Junius have been attributed we find the Duke of Portland, 
Lord George Sackville, Sir Philip Francis, Mr. Burke, Mr. 
Dunning, the Rev. John Home Tooke, Mr. Hugh Boyd, 
Dr. Wilmot, &;c.— E. 

2The mystery of "I'homme au masque de fer," the 
everlasting puzzle of the last century, has at length, in 
general opinion, been cleared up, by a French work pub- 
lished in 1825, and which formed the basis of an entertain- 
ing one in English by Lord Dover. Seethe Quarterl;/ 
Review, vol. xxxiv. p. 19.— E. 



LXXIX. 

For sometimes he like Cerberus would seem — 
" Three gentlemen at once" (as sagely says 

Good Mrs. Malaprop) ; then you might deem 
That he was not even one; now many rays 

Were flashing round him ; and now a thick steam 
Hid him from sight — like fogs on London days : 

Now Burke, now Tooke, he grew to people's fancies, 

And certes often like Sir Philip Francis.a 

LXXX. 

I 've an hypothesis — 't is quite my own ; 

I never let it out till now, for fear 
Of doing people harm about the throne, 

And injuring some minister or peer, 
On whom the stigma might perhaps be blown ; 

It is — my gentle public, lend thine ear ! 
'Tis, that what Junius we are wont to call 
Was really, truly, nobody at all. 

LXXXL 

I don't see wherefore letters should not be 
Written without hands, since we daily view 

Them written without heads ; and books, we see, 
Are fiird as well without the latter too : 

And really till we fix on somebody 
For certain sure to claim them as his due. 

Their author, like the Niger's mouth, will bother 

The world to say if there be mouth or author. 

LXXXII. 

" And who and what art thou ? " the Archangel said. 

" For that you may consult my title-page," 
Replied this mighty shadow of a shade : 

" If I have kept my secret half an age, 
I scarce shall tell it now." — "Canst thou upbraid," 

Continued Michael, " George Rex, or allege 
Aught further ? " Junius answered, " You had better 
First ask him for his answer to my letter : 

LXXXIIL 

" My charges upon record will outlast 
The brass of both his epitaph and tomb." 

'* Repent'st thou not," said Michael, " of some past 
Exaggeration? something which may doom 

Thyself if false, as him if true ? Thou wast 
Too bitter — is it not so ? — in thy gloom 

Of passion ? " — " Passion ! " cried the phantom dim, 

" I loved my country, and I hated him. 

LXXXIV. 
" What I have written, I have written : let 

The rest be on his head or mine ! " So spoke 
Old " Nominis Umbra ;" * and while speaking yet. 

Away he melted in celestial smoke. 
Then Satan said to Michael, " Don't forget 

To call George Washington, »nd John Home Tooke, 
And Franklin ;" — but at this time there was heard 
A cry for room, though not a phantom stirr'd. 

LXXXV. 

At length with jostling, elbowing, and the aid 

Of cherubim appointed to that post. 
The devil Asmodeus to the circle made 

His way, and look'd as if his journey cost 
Some trouble. When his burden down he laid, 

"What's this?" cried Michael; "why, 'tis not a 
ghost ? " 
" I know it," quoth the incubus ; " but he 
Shall be one, if you leave the affair to me. 

3 That the work entitled "The Identity of Junius with 
a distinguished Living Character established" proves Sir 
Philip Francis to be Junius, we will not affirm; but this 
we can safely assert, that it accumulates such a mass of 
circumstantial evidence, as renders it extremely difficult 
to believe he is net, and that, if so many coincidences shall 
be found to have misled us in this case, our faith in all 
conclusions drawn from proofs of a similar kind may 
henceforth be shaken.— MACKINTOSH.— E. 

4 The well known motto of Junius is, " Stat nominis 
umbra." — K. 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



179 



LXXXVI. 

" Confound the renegado ! I have sprain'd 
My left wing, he's so heavy ; one would think 

Some of his works about his neck were chain'd. 
But to the point ; while hovering o'er the brink 

Of Skiddavv i (where as usual it still rain'd), 
I saw a taper, far below me, wink, 

And stooping, caught this fellow at a libel — 

No less on history than the Holy Bible. 

LXXXVII. 

" The former is the devil's scripture, and 
The latter yours, good Michael : so the affair 

Belongs to all of us, you understand. 
I snatch'd him up just as you see him there, 

And brought him off for sentence out of hand : 
I 've scarcely been ten minutes in the air — 

At least a quarter it can hardly be : 

I dare say that his wife is still at tea." 

LXXXVIII. 
Here Satan said, " I know this man of old, 

And have expected him for some time here; 
A sillier fellow you will scarce behold, 

Or more conceited in his petty sphere : 
But surely it was not worth while to fold 

Such trash below your wing, Asmodeus dear: 
We had the poor wretch safe (without being bored 
With carriage) coming of his own accord. 

LXXXIX. 

" But since he 's here, let 's see what he has done." 
" Done ! " cried Asmodeus, " he anticipates 

The very business you are now upon, 
And scribbles as if head clerk to the Fates. 

Who knows to what his ribaldry may run. 
When such an ass as this, like Balaam's, prates? " 

" Let 's hear," quoth Michael, " what he has to say : 

You know we 're bound to that in every way." 

XC. 

Now the bard, glad to get an audience, which 

By no means often was his case below, 
Began to cough, and hawk, and hem, and pitch 

His voice into that awful note of woe 
To all unhappy hearers within reach 

Of poets when the tide of rhyme 's in flow ; 
But stuck fast with his first hexameter. 
Not one of all whose gouty feet would stir. 

XCI. 

But ere the spavln'd dactyls could be spurr'd 

Into recitative, in great dismay 
Both cherubim and seraphim were heard 

To murmur loudly through their long array ; 
And Michael rose ere he could get a word 

Of all his founder'd verses under way. 
And cried, " For God's sake stop, my friend ! 't were 

best — 
Non Di, non homines — you know the rest." 

XCII. 
A general bustle spread throughout the throng. 

Which seem'd to hold all verse in detestation j 
The angels had of course enough of song 

When upon service ; and the generation 
Of ghosts had heard too much in life, not long 

Before, to profit by a new occasion : 
The monarch, mute till then, exclaim'd, " What ! 

what ! "2 
Pye 3 come again ? No more — no more of that ! " 

] Mr. Southey's residence is on the shore of Derwent- 
water, near the mountain of Skiddnw.— E. 

2 The king's trick of repeating his words in this way 
was a fertile source of ridicule to Peter Pindar.— E. 

3 Henry Jaraes Pye, the predecessor of Mr. Southey in 
the poet-laureateship, died in 1813.— E. 



xcin. 

The tumult grew ; an universal cough 
Convulsed the skies, as during a debate, 

When Castlereagh has been up long enough 
(Before he was first minister of state, 

I mean — the slaves hear now) ; some cried "Off, off!'' 
As at a farce ; till, grown quite desperate, 

The bard Saint Peter pray'd to interpose 

(Himself an author) only for his prose. 

XCIV. 
The viirlet was not an ill-favour'd knave ; 

A good deal like a vulture in the face. 
With a hock nose and a hawk's eye, which gave 

A smart and sharper-looking sort of grace 
To his whole aspect, which, though rather grave, 

Was by no means so ugly as his case ; 
But that, indeed, was hopeless as can be, 
Quite a poetic felony " de se." 

XCV. 
Then Michael blew his (rump, and still'd the noise 

With one still greater, as is yet the mode 
On earth besides ; except some grumbling voice, 

Which now and then will make a slight inroad 
Upon decorous silence, few will twice 

Lift up their lungs when fairly overcrow'd ; 
And now the bard could plead his own bad cause, 
With all the attitudes of self-applause. 

XCVL 
He said — (I only give the heads) — he said, 

He meant no harm in scribbling j 't was his way 
Upon all topics ; 't was, besides, his bread. 

Of which he butter'd both sides ; 't would delay 
Too long the assembly (he was pleased to dread), 

And take up rather more time than a day, 
To name his works — he would but cite a few — 
«' Wat Tyler"—" Rhymes on Blenheim"—" Waterloo." 

XCVIL 
He had written praises of a regicide ; 

He had written praises of all kings whatever j 
He had written for republics far and wide. 

And then against them bitterer than ever; 
For pantisocracy he once had cried 

Aloud, a scheme less moral than 't was clever j 
Then grew a hearty anti-jacobin — 
Had turn'd his coat — and would have tum'd his skin. 

xcvin. 

He had sung against all battles, and again 
In their high praise and glory ; he had call'd 

Reviewing 4 " the ungentle craft," and then 
Became as base a critic as e'er crawl'd — 

Fed, paid, and pamper'd by the very men 
By whom his muse and morals had been maul'd : 

He had written much blank verse, and blanker prose, 

And more of both than any body knows. 

xcix. 

He had written Wesley's life: — here turning round 
To Satan, " Sir, 1 'm ready to write yours, 

In two octavo volumes, nicely bound. 
With notes and preface, all that most allures 

The pious purchaser ; and there's no ground 
For fear, for I can choose my own reviewers : 

So let me have the proper documents. 

That I may add you to my other saints." 

C. 

Satan bow'd, and was silent. " Well, if you, 

With amiable modesty, decline 
My otfer, v\ hat says Michael ? There are few 

Whose memoirs could be render'd more divine. 
Mine is a pen of all work ; not so new 

As it was once, but I would make you shine 



4 See "Life of Henry Kirke White." 



ittH 



^^^^M 



r 



ri 



180 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



Like your own trumpet. By the way, my own 
Has more of brass iu it, and 'is as well blown. 
CI. 

" But talking about trumpets, here 's my Vision ! 

Now you shill judge, all people ; yes, you shall 
Judge with my judgment, and by my decision 

Be guided who shall enter hewen or fall. 
I settle all these thiugs by intuition, 

Times present, past, to come, heaven, hell, and all, 
Like King Alfonso. i When I thus see double, 
I save the Deity some worlds of trouble." 

CIL 

He ceased, and drew forth an MS. ; and no 
Persuasion on the part of devils, or saints, 

Or angels, now could stop the torrent ; so 
He read the first three lines of the contents ; 

But at the fourth, the whole spiritual show 
Had vanished, with variety of scents. 

Ambrosial and sulphureous, as they sprang, 

Like lightning, olf from his " melodious twang." 3 

cni. 

Those grand heroics acted as a spell ; 

The angels stopp'd their ears and plied their pinions ; 
The devils ran howling, deafen'd, down to hell; 

The ghosts fled, gibbering, for their own domin- 
ions — 
(For 't is not yet decided where they dwell, 

And I leave every man to his opinions) j 

1 Alfonso, speaking of the Ptoloraean system, said that, 
"had he been consulted at the creation of the world, he 
would have spared the Maker some absurdities." 

2 See Aubrey's account of the apparition which disap- 
peared, "with a curious perfume, and a moft melodious 
twang ; " or see the "Antiquary," vol. i. p. 225. 



Michael took refuge in his trump — but, lo ! 
His teeth were set on edge, he could not blow ! 

CIV. 

Saint Peter, who has hitherto been known 
For an impetuous saint, upraised his keys, 

And at the fifth line knock'd the poet down; 
Who fell like Phaeton, but more at ease, 

Into his lake, for there he did not drown ; 
A different web being by the Destinies 

Woven for the Liureate's final wreaih, whene'er 

Reform shall happen either here or there. 

CV. 

He first sank to the bottom — like his works, 
But soon rose to the surface — like himself; 

For all corrupted things are buoy'd like corks,3 
By their own rottenness, light as an elf. 

Or wisp that fiits o'er a morass : he lurks, 
It may be, still, like dull books on a shelf, 

In his own den, to scrawl some " Life " or "Vision," 

As Welborn says — " the devil turn'd precisian." 

CVI. 

As for the rest, to come to the conclusion 
Of this true dre^im, the telescope is gone 

Which kept my optics free from all delusion, 
And show'd me what I in my turn have shown ; 

All I saw farther, in the last confusion, 

Was, that King George slipp'd into heaven for one; 

And when the tumult dwindled to a calm, 

I left him practising the hundredth psalm. 

3 A drowned body lies at the bottom till rotten ; it then 
floats, as most people know. 



THE AGE OF BRONZE; 

OR, CARMEN SECULARE ET ANNUS HAUD MIRABILIS.* 



Impar Congretsus Achilli." 



I. 



The 



'good old times" — all times when old are 

good — 
Are gone ; the present might be if they would ; 
Great things have been, and are, and greater still 
Want little of mere mortals but their will : 
A wider space, a greener field, is given 
To those who play their " tricks before high heaven." 
I know not if the angels weep, but men 
Have wept enough — for what ? — to weep again ! 

II. 

All is exploded — be it good or bad. 
Reader ! remember when thou wert a lad, 
Then Pitt was all ; or, if not all, so much. 
His very rival almost deem'd him such. 
We, we have seen the intellectual race 
Of giants stand, like Titans, face to face — 
Athos and Ida, with a dashing sea 
Of eloquence between, which flow'd all free. 
As the deep billows of the ^gean roar 
Betwixt the Hellenic and the Phrygian shore. 
But where are they — the rivals ! a few feet 
Of sullen earth divide each winding sheet. s 



4 This poem was written by Lord Byron, at Genoa, in 
the early part of the year 1823: and published in London, 
by Mr. John Hunt. Its authenticity was much disputed 
at the time. — E. 

5 The grave of Mr. Fox, in Westminster Abbey, is 
within eighteen inches of that of Mr. Pitt. — E. 



How peaceful and how~powerful is the grave. 
Which hushes all ! a calm, unstormy wnve. 
Which overs weeps the world. The theme is old 
Of " dust to dust ; " but half its tale untold : 
Time tempers not its terrors — still the worm 
Winds its cold folds, the tomb preserves its form. 
Varied above, but still alike below ; 
The urn may shine, the ashes will not glow. 
Though Cleopatra's mummy cross the sea 
0"er which from empire she lured Anthony ; 
Though Alexander's urn a show be grown 
On shores he wept to conquer, though unknown — 
How vain, how worse than vain, at length appear 
The madman's wish, the Macedonian's tear ! 
He wept for worlds to conquer — half the earth 
Knows not his name, or but his death, and birth. 
And desolation ; while his native Greece 
Hath all of desolation, save its peace. 
He " wept for worlds to conquer ! " he who ne'e^" 
Conceived the globe, he panted not to spare ! 
With even the busy Northern Isle unknown. 
Which holds his urn, and never knew his throne. 

IIL 

But where is he, the nnodern, mightier far, 
Who, born no king, made monarchs draw his car; 
The new Sesostris, whose unharness'd kings, 
Freed from the bit, believe themselves with wings. 
And spurn the dust o'er which they crawl'd of late, 
Chain'd to the chariot of the chieftain's state? 
Yes ! where is he, the champion and the child 
Of all that 's great or little, wise or wild ; 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



181 



Whose game was empires, and whose stakes were 

thrones ; 
Whose table earth — whose dice were human bones ? 
Behold the grand result in yon lone isle,! 
And, as thy nature urges, weep or smile. 
Sigh to behold the eagle's lofty rage 
Reduced to nibble at liis narrow cage ; 
Smile to survey the queller of the nations 
Now daily squ 'bbiing o'er disputed rations; 
Weep to peiceive him mourning, as he dines, 
O'er curtail'd dishes and o'er stinted wines; 
O'er petty quarrels upon petty things. 
Is this the man who scourged or feasted kings ? 
Behold the scales in which his fortune hangs, 
A surgeon's ^ statement, and an earl's 3 harangues ! 
A bust delay'd,4 a book refused, can shake 
The sleep of him who kept the world awake. 
Is this indeed the tamer of the great, 
Now slave of all could tease or irritate — 
The paltry gaoler 5 and the prying spy, 
The staring stranger with his notebook nigh? 6 
Plunged in a dungeon, he had still been great; 
How low, how little was this middle state. 
Between a prison and a palace, where 
How few could feel for what he had to bear ! 
Vain his complaint, — my lord presents his bill. 
His food and wine were doled out duly still ; 
Vain was his sickness, never was a clime 
So free from homicide — to doubt 's a crime ; 
And the stiff surgeon, who maintain'd his cause, 
Hath lost his place, and gain'd the world's applause. 
But smile — though all the pangs of brain and heart 
Disdain, defy, the tardy aid of art ; 
Though, save the few fond friends and imaged face 
Of that fair boy his sire shall ne'er embrace, 
None stand by his low bed — though even the mind 
Be wavering, which long awed and awes mankind : 
Smile — for the felter'd eagle breaks his chain, 
And higher worlds than this are his again."' 

IV. 

How, if that soaring spirit still retain 

A conscious twilight of his blazing reign, 

How must he smile, on looking down, to see 

The little that he was and sought to be ! 

What though his name a wider empire found 

Than his ambition, though with scarce a bound ; 

Though first in glory, deepest in reverse, 

He tasted empire's blessings and its curse ; 

Though kings, rejoicing in their late escape 

From chains, would gladly be their tyrant's ape ; 

How must he smile, and turn to yon lone grave. 

The proudest sea-mark that o'ertops the wave ! 

What though his gaoler, duteous to the last, 

Scarce deem'd the coffin's lead could keep him fast. 

Refusing one poor line along the lid. 

To date the birth and death of all it hid ; 

That name shall hallow the ignoble shore, 

A talisman to all save him who bore : 

The fleets that sweep before the eastern blast 

Shall hear their sea-boys hail it from the mast ; 

When Victory's Gallic column shall but rise. 

Like Pompey's pillar, in a desert's skies, 

The rocky isle that holds or held his dust 

Shall crown the Atlantic like the hero's bust, 

And mighty nature o'er his obsequies 

Do more than niggard envy still denies. 

But what are these to him ? Can glory's lust 

Touch the freed spirit or the fetter'd dust ? 

Small care hath he of what his tomb consists ; 

Nought if he sleeps — nor more if he exists : 



1 St. Helena. — E. 2 Mr. Barry O'Meara. — E. 

3 Earl Bathurat. — E. 4 The bust of his son. — E. 

5 Sir Hudson Lowe. --E. 

6 Captain Basil Hall's interesting account of his inter- 
view with the ex-einperor occurs in his " Voyage to LoO' 
choo."— E. 



7 Buonaparte died the 6th of May, 1821. 

16 



Alike the better-seeing shade will smile 

On the rude cavern of the rocky isle, 

As if his ashes found their latest home 

In Rome's Pantheon or Gaul's mimic dome. 

He wants not this ; but France shall feel the want 

Of this last consolation, though so scant ; 

Her honour, fame, and faith demand his bones 

To rear above a pyramid of thrones ; 

Or carried onward in the battle's van, 

To form, like Guesclin's dust, her talisman. 

But be it as it is — the time may come 

His name shall beat the alarm, like Ziska's drum. 

V. 

Oh heaven ! of which he was in power a feature ; 

Oh earth ! of which he was a noble creature ; 

Thou isle ! to be remember'd long and well. 

That savv'st the unfledg'd eaglet chip his shell ! 

Ye Alps, which vievv'd him in his dawning flights 

Hover, the victor of a hundred fights ! 

Thou Rome, who saw'st thy Caesar's deeds outdone ! 

Alas ! why pass'd he too the Rubicon — 

The Rubicon of man's awaken'd rights. 

To herd with vulgar kings and parasites ? 

Egypt I from whose all dateless tombs arose 

Forgotten Pharaohs from their long repose. 

And shook within their pyramids to hear 

A new Cambyses thundering in their ear ; 

While the dark shades of forty ages stood 

Like startled giants by Nile's famous flood; 

Or from the pyramid's tall pinnacle 

Beheld the desert peopled, as from hell. 

With clashing hosts, who strew'd the barren sand, 

To remanure the uncultivated land ! 

Spain ! which, a moment mindless of the Cid, 

Beheld his banner flouting thy Madrid ! 

Austria! which saw thy twice-ta'en capital 

Twice spared to be the traitress of his fall ! 

Ye race of Frederic ! — Frederics but in name 

And falsehood — heirs to all except his fame ; 

Who, crushed at Jena, crouch'd at Berlin, fell 

First, and but rose to follow ! Ye who dwell 

Where Kosciusko dwelt, remembering yet 

The unpaid amount of Catherine's bloody debt ! 

Poland ! o'er which the avenging angel past, 

But left thee as he found thee, still a waste. 

Forgetting all thy still enduring claim, 

Thy lotted people and extinguish'd name, 

Thy sigh for freedom, thy long-flowing tear, 

That sound that crashes in the tyrant's ear — 

Kosciusko ! On — on — on — the" thirst of war 

Gasps for the gore of serfs and of their czar. 

The half barbaric Moscow's minarets 

Gleam in the sun, but 't is a sun that sets \ 

Moscow ! thou limit of his long career, 

For which rude Charles had wept his frozen tear 

To see in vain — he saw thee — how ? with spire 

And palace fuel to one common fire. 

To this the soldier lent his kindling match, 

To this the peasant gave his cottage thatch. 

To this the merchant flung his hoarded store, 

The prince his hal! — and Moscow was no more ! 

Sublimest of volcanos ! Etna's flame 

Paies before thine, and quenchless Hecla 's tame; 

Vesuvius shows his blaze, an usual sight 

For gaping tourists, from his hackney'd height : 

Thou stand's! alone unrivall'd, till the fire 

To come, in which all empires shall expire ! 

Thou other element ! as strong and stern, 
To teach a lesson conquerors will not learn ! — 
Whose icy wing flapp'd o'er the faltering foe, 
Till fell a hero with each flake of snow ; 
How did thy numbing beak and silent fang, 
Pierce, till hosts perish'd with a single pang ! 
In vain shall Seine look up along his banks 
For the gay thousands of his dashing ranks ! 
In vain shall France recall beneath her vines 
Her youth — their blood flows faster than her wines; 
Or stagnant in their human ice remains 
In frozen mummies on the Polar plains. 



1^ 



iasai 



i^Mii 



im 



182 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



In vain will Italy's broad sun awaken 

Her oflFspring chill'd ; its beams are now forsaken. 

Of all the trophies gather'd from the war, 

What shall return ? — the conqueror's broken car ! 

The conqueror's yet unbroken heart ! Again 

The horn of Roland sounds, and not in vain. 

Lutzen, where fell the Swede of victory,! 

Beholds him conquer, but, alas ! not die : 

Dresden surveys three despots fly once more 

Before their sovereign, — sovereign as before; 

But there exhausted Fortune quits the field, 

And Leipsics treason bids the un vanquish d yield, 

The Saxon jackal leaves the lion's side 

To turn the bear's, and wolf's, and fox's guide; 

And backwaid to the den of his despair 

The forest monarch shrinks, but finds no lair ! 

Oh ye! and eich, and all ! Oh France ! who found 

Thy long fair fields plough'd up as hostile ground, 

Disputed foot by foot, till treason, s:ill 

His only victor, from Montmartre's hill 

Look'd down o'er tramjjled Paris! and thou Isle,3 

Which seest Etruria from thy ramparts smile, 

Thou momentary shelter of his pride, 

Till woo'd by danger, his yet weeping bride I 

Oh, France ! retaken by a single march. 

Whose path was through one long triumphal arch ! 

Oh, bloody and most bootless Waterloo ! 

Which proves how fools may have their fortune too, 

Won half by blunder, half by treachery : 

Oh, dull Saint Helen ! with thy gaoler nigh — 

Hear ! hear Prometheus 3 from his rock appeal 

To earth, air, ocean, all that felt or feel 

His power and glory, all who yet shall hear 

A name eternal as the rolling year ; 

He teaches them the lesson taught so long, 

So oft, so vainly — learn to do no wrong ! 

A single step into the right had made 

This man the Washington of worlds betray'd : 

A single step into the wrong has given 

His name a doubt to all the winds of heaven j 

The reed of Fortune, and of thrones the rod, 

Of Fame the Moloch or the demigod ; 

His country's Caesar, Europe's Hannibal, 

Without their decent digniiy of fall. 

Yet Vanity herself had better taught 

A surer path even to the fame he sought, 

By pointing out on historj''s fruitle s page 

Ten thousand conquerors for a single sage. 

While Franklin's quiet memory climbs to heaven. 

Calming the lightning which he thence hath riven, 

Or drawing from the no less kindled earth 

Freedom and peace to that which boasts his birth ; 

While Washington 's a watchword, such as ne'er 

Shill sink while there 's an echo left to air : 

While even the Spaniard's thirst of gold and war 

Forgets Pizarro to shout Bolivar ! 

Alas ! why must the same Atlantic wave 

Which wafted freedom gird a tyrant's grave — 

The king of kings, and yet of slaves the slave, 

Who burst the chains of millions to renew 

The very fetters which his arm broke through. 

And crush'd the rights of Europe and his own. 

To fiit between a dungeon and a throne? 

VI. 

But 't will not be — the spark 's awaken'd — lo ! 
The swarthy Spaniard feels his former glow ; 
The same high spirit which beat back the Moor 
Through eight long ages of alternate gore 
Revives — and where? in that avenging clime 
Where Spain was once synonymous with crime, 
Where Cortes' and Pizarro's banner flew, 
The infant world redeems her name of " iVeio." 

1 Gustavus Adolphus fell at the great battle of Lutzen, 
in November, 1632. ~E. 

2 The Isleof Elba.— E. 

S I refer the reailer to the first address of Prometheus 
in Eschylus, when he is left alone by his attendants, and 
before the arrival of the chorus of Sea-nymphs. 



'T is the old aspiration breathed afresh, 

To kindle souls within degraded flesh, 

Such as repulsed the Persian from the shore 

Where Greece was — No ! she still is Greece once 

more. 
One common cause makes myriads of one breast, 
Slaves of the East, or helots of the West : 
On Andes' and on Athos' peaks unfurl'd, 
The selfsame standard streams o'er either world : 
The Athenian wears again Harmodius' sword; 
The Chili chief abjures his foreign lord ; 
The Spartan knows himself once more a Greek, 
Young Freedom plumes the crest of each cacique; 
Debating despots, henim'd on either shore, 
Shrmk vainly from the roused Atlantic's roar; 
Through Cafpe's strait the rolling tides advance, 
Sweep slightly by the h If-ianied land of France, 
Dash o'er the old Spaniard's cradle, and would fain 
Unite Ausonia to the mighty main : 
But driven from thence awhile, yet not for aye, 
Break o'er th' iEgean, mindful of the day 
Of Salamis ! — there, there the waves arise, 
Not to be luird by tyrant victories. 
Lone, lost, abandon'd in their utmost need 
By Christians, unto w hom they gave their creed, 
The desolated lands, the ravaged isle. 
The foster'd feud encouraged to beguile. 
The aid evaded, and the cold delay, 
Prolong'd but in the hope to make a prey ; — 
These, these shall tell the tale, and Greece can show 
The false friend worse than the infuriate foe. 
But this is well : Greeks only should free Greece, 
Not the barbarian, with bis mask of peace. 
How should the autocrat of bondage be 
The king of serfs, and set the nations free ? 
Better still serve the haughty Mussulman, 
Than swell the Cossaque's prowling caravan ; 
Better still toil for masters, than await. 
The slave of slaves, before a Russian gate, — 
Number'd by hordes, a human capital, 
A live estate, existing but for thrall, 
Lotted by thousands, as a meet reward 
For the first courtier in the Czar's regard ; 
While their immediate owner never tastes 
His sleep, sans dreaming of Siberia's wastes. 
Better succumb even to their own despair. 
And drive the camel than purvey the bear. 

VII. 

But not alone within the hoariest clime 

Where Freedom dates her birth with that of Time, 

And not alone where, plunged in night, a crowd 

Of Incas darken to a dubious cloud, 

The dawn revives : renown'd, romantic Spain 

Holds back the invader from her soil again. 

Not now the Roman tribe nor Punic horde 

Demand her fields as lists to prove the sword; 

Not now the Vandal or the Visigoth 

Pollute the plains, alike abhorring both ; 

Nor old Pelayo on his mountain rears 

The warlike fathers of a thousand years. 

That seed is sown and reap'd, as oft the Moor 

Sighs to remember on his dusky shore. 

Long in the peasant's song or poet's page 

Has dwelt the memory of Abencerrage ; 

The Zegri, and the captive victors, flung 

Back to the barbarous realm from whence they sprung. 

But these are gone — their faith, their swords, their 

sway, 
Yet left more antichristian foes than they. 
The bigot monarch and the butcher priest, 
The Inquisition, with her burning feast. 
The faith's red " auto," fed with human fuel, 
While sate the catholic Moloch, calmly cruel, 
Enjoving, with inexorable eye. 
That fiery festival of agony ! 
The stern or feeble sovereign, one or both 
By turns ; the haughtiness whose pride was sloth J 
The long degenerate noble ; the debased 
Hidalgo, and the peasant less disgraced, 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



183 



But more degraded ; the unpeopled realm ; 

The once proud nav}' which forgot the helm ; 

The once impervious phalanx disamy'd ; 

The idle forge that form'd Toledo's blade ; 

The foreign wealth that tlow"d on ev'ry shore, 

Save hers who earn'd it with the natives' gore ; 

The very language which might vie with Rome's, 

And once was known to nations like their homes, 

Neglected or forgotten : — such was Spain j 

But such she is not, nor shall be again. 

These worst, these home invaders, felt and feel 

The new Numantine soul of old Castile, 

Up ! up again ! undaunted Tauridor ! 

The bull of Phalaris renews his roar; 

Mount, chivalrous Hidalgo ! not in vain 

Revive the cry — " lago ! and close Spain ! " i 

Yes, close her with your armed bosoms round, 

And form the barrier which Napoleon found, — 

The exterminating war, the desert plain, 

The streets without a tenant, save the slain ; 

The wild sierra, with its wilder troop 

Of vulture-plumed guerrillas, on the stoop 

For their incessant prey ; the desperate wall 

Of Saragossa, mightiest in her fallj 

The man nerved to a spirit, and the maid 

Waving her more than Amazonian blade 3 ^ 

The knife of Arragon,3 Toledo's steel ; 

The famous lance of chivalrous Castile j 

The unerring rifle of the Catalan ; 

The Andalusian courser in the van ; 

The torch to make a Moscow of Madrid ; 

And in each heart the spirit of the Cid : — 

Such have been, such shall be, such are. Advance, 

And win — not Spain 1 but thine own freedom, France ! 

VIII. 

But lo ! a Congress ! * What ! that hallow'd name 

Which freed the Atlantic ? May we hope the same 

For outworn Europe ? With the sound arise, 

Like Samuel's shade to Saul's monarchic eyes, 

The prophets of young Freedom, summon'd far 

From climes of Washington and Bolivar j 

Henry, the forest-born Demosthenes, 

Whose thunder shook the Philip of the seas ; s 

And stoic Franklin's energetic shade. 

Robed in the lightnings which his hand allay'd ; 

And Washington, the tyrant-tamer, wake. 

To bid us blush for these old chains, or break. 

But who compose this senate of the few 

That should redeem the many ? IVho renew 

This consecrated name, till now assign'd 

To councils held to benefit mankind ? 

Who now assemble at the holy call? 

The blest Alliance, which says three are all I 

An earthly trinity ! which wears the shape 

Of heaven's, as man is mimick'd by the ape. 

A pious unity ! in purpose one — 

To melt three fools to a Napoleon, 

Why, Egypt's gods were rational to these; 

Their dogs and oxen knew their own degrees. 

And, quiet in their kennel or their shed. 

Cared little, so that they were duly fed ; 

But these, more hungry, must have something more — 

The power to bark and bite, to toss and gore. 

1" Santiago y serra Espana ! " the old Spanish war- 
cry.-- E. 

2 See Childe Harold, c. i. 8. liv.— E. 

3 The Arragonians are peculiarly dexterous in the use 
of thi8 weapon, and displayed it particularly in former 
French wars. 

4 The Congress of the Sovereigns of Russia, Austria, 
Prussin, &c. <fec. (fee, which assembled at Verona, in the 
autumn of 1622.-- E. 

6 Patrick Henry, of Virginia, a leading member of the 
American Congress, died in J\ine, 1797. Lord Byron 
alludes to his famous speech in 1765, in whicli.on sayinp, 
"Cesar had his Brutus — Charles the First had his Crom- 
well—and George the Third " Henry was inter- 
rupted with a shout of "Treason! treason!!" — but 
coolly finished the sentence with — "George the Third 
may profit by their example." — E. 



Ah, how much happier were good ^sop's frogs 
Than we ! for ours are animated logs. 
With ponderous malice swaying to and fro, 
And crushing nations with a stupid blow ; 
All dully anxious to leave little work 
Unto the revolutionary stork. 

IX. 

Thrice blest Verona ! since the holy three 

With their imperial presence shine on thee ; 

Honour'd by them, thy treacherous site forgets 

The vaunted tomb of " all the Capulets ;" 

Thy Scaligers — for what was " Dog the Great," 

" Can Grande," (which I venture to translate,) 

To these sublimer pugs ? Thy poet too, 

Catullus, whose old laurels yield to new; 

Thine amphitheatre, where Romans sate ; 

And Dante's exile shelter'd by thy gate ; 

Thy good old man, whose world was all within 

,Thy wall, nor knew the country held him in : 

Would that the royal guests it girds about 

Were so far like, as never to get out ! 

Ay, shout ! inscribe 1 rear monuments of shame. 

To tell Oppression that the world is tame ! 

Crowd to the theatre with loyal rage. 

The comedy is not upon the stage ; 

The show is rich in ribandry and stars. 

Then gaze upon it through thy dungeon bars ; 

Clap thy permitted palms, kiiid Italy, 

For thus much still thy fetter'd hands are free ! 

X. 

Resplendent sight ! Behold the coxcomb Czar,G 

The autocrat of waltzes and of war ! 

As eager for a plaudit as a realm, 

And just as fit for flirting as the helm ; 

A Calmuck beauty with a Cossack wit, 

And generous spirit, when 't is not frost-bit j 

Now half dissolving to a liberal thaw. 

But harden'd back whene'er the morning 's raw ; 

With no objection to true liberty, 

Except that it would make the nations free. 

How well the imperial dandy prates of peace ! 

How fain, if Greeks would be his slaves, free Greece ! 

How nobly gave he back the Poles their Diet, 

Then told pugnacious Poland to be quiet ! 

How kindly would he send the mild Ukraine, 

With all her pleasant pulks, to lecture Spain ! 

How royally show oft' in proud Madrid 

His goodly person, from the South long hid ! 

A blessing cheaply purchased, the world knows, 

By having Muscovites for friends or foes. 

Proceed, thou namesake of great Philip's son ! 

La Harpe, thine Aristotle, beckons on ; 

And that which Scythia was to him of yore 

Find with thy Scythians on Iberia's shore. 

Yet think upon, thou somewhat aged youth, 

Thy predecessor on the banks of Pruth ; 

Thou hast to aid thee, should his lot be thine, 

Many an old woman, but no Catherine. 1 

Spain, too, hath rocks, and rivers, and defiiles — 

The bear may rush into the lion's toils. 

Fatal to Goths are Xeres' sunny fields ; 

Think'st thou to thee Napoleon's victor yields ? 

Better reclaim thy deserts, turn thy swords 

To ploughshares,'shave and wash thy Bashkir hordes, 

Redeem thy realms from slavery and the knout, 

Than follow headlong in the fatal route, 

To infest the clime whose skies and laws are pure 

With thy foul legions. Spain wants no manure : 

Her soil is fertile, but she feeds no foe : 

Her vultures, too, were gorged not long ago ; 

And wouldst thou furnish them with fresher prey? 

Alas ! thou wilt not conquer, but purvey. 

6 The Emperor Alexander; who died in 1825.— E. 

7The dexterity of Catherine extricated Peter (called 
the Great by courtesy), when surrounded by the ^Iu88ul- 
raans on the banks of the river Pruth. [For particulars 
of this transaction, see Barrow's " Peler the Great," 
p. 220.]— E. 



iiiMilii 



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184 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



I am Diogenes, though Russ and Hua 
Stand between mine and many a myriad's sun ; 
But were I not Diogenes, I 'd wander 
Rather a worm than such an Alexander ! 
Be slaves who will, the cynic shall be free ; 
His tub hath tougher walls than Sinope : 
Still will he hold his lantern up to scan 
The face of monarchs for an " honest man." 

XL 

And what doth Gaul, the all-prolific land 
Of 7ie phis ultra ultras and their band 
Of mercenaries ? and her noisy chambers 
And tribune, which each orator first clambers 
Before he finds a voice, and when 't is found, 
Hears " the lie " echo for his answer round ? 
Our British Commons sometimes deign to " hear ! " 
A Gallic senate hath more tongue than earj 
Even Constant, their sole master of debate', 
Must fight next day his speech to vindicate. 
But this costs little to true Franks, who'd rather 
Combat than listen, were it to their father, 
Whit is the simple standing of a shot, 
To listening long, and interrupting not ? 
Though this was not the method of old Rome, 
When TuUy fulmined o'er each vocal dome, 
Demosthenes has sanction'd the transaction. 
In saying eloquence meant "Action, action ! " 

XII. 

But where 's the monarch ? hath he dined ? or yet 

Groans beneath indigestion's heavy debt ? 

Have revolutionary pates risen, 

And turn'd the royal entrails to a prison ? 

Have discontented movements stirr'd the troops ? 

Or have no movements follow'd traitorous soups ? 

Have Carbonaro i cooks not carbonadoed 

Each course enough ? or doctors dire dissuaded 

Repletion ? Ah ! in thy dejected looks 

I read all France's treason in her cooks ! 

Good classic Louis ! is it, canst thou say, 

Desirable to be the " Desire ? " 

Why wouldst thou leave calm Hartwell's green abode,a 

Apician table, and Horatian ode. 

To rule a people who will not be ruled, 

And love much rather to be scourged than school'd ? 

Ah ! thine was not the temper or the taste 

For thrones ; the table sees thee better placed : 

A mild Epicurean, form'd, at best. 

To be a kind host and as good a guest, 

To talk of letters, and to know by heart 

One half the poet's, all ihe gourmand's art ; 

A scholar always, now and then a wit, 

And gentle when digestion may permit ; — 

But not to govern lands enslaved or free ; 

The gout was martyrdom enough for thee. 

xni. 

Shall noble Albion pass without a phrase 

From a bold Briton in her wonted praise ? 

"Arts — arms — and George — and glory — and the 

isles — 
And happy Britain — wealth — and Freedom's smiles — 
White cliffs, that held invasion far aloof — 
Contented subjects, all alike tax-proof — 
Proud Wellington, with eagle beak so curl'd, 
That nose, the hook where he suspends the world ! 3 

And Waterloo — and trade — and (hush ! not yet 

A syllable of imposts or of debt) 



1 According to Botta, the Neapolitan republicans who, 
during the reign of King Joachim, fled to the recesses of 
the Abruzzi, and there formed a secret confederacy, were 
the first that assumed the designation, since familiar all 
over Italy, of "Carbonari" (colliers. )--E. 

2 Hartwell, in Buckinghamshire — the residence of 
Louis XVIII. during the latter years of the Emigra- 
tion.— E. 

3 " Naso suspendit adunco."-- - HORACE. 

The Roman applies it to one who merely was imperious 
to his acquaintance. 



And ne'er (enough) lamented Castlereagh, 
Whose penknife slit a goose-quill t' other day — 
And ' pilots who have weather'd every storm ' — 4 
(But, no, not even for rhyme's sake, name Reform)." 
These are the themes thus sung so oft before, 
]\Iethinks we need not sing them any more 3 
Found in so many volumes far and near, 
There 's no occasion you should find them here. 
Yet something may remain perchance to chime 
With reason, and, what 's stranger still, vviih rhyme. 
Even this thy genius, Canning ! may permit. 
Who, bred a statesman, still wast born a wit, 
And never, even in that dull House, couldst tame 
To unleaven'd prose thine own poetic flame j 
Our last, our best, our only orator. 
Even I can praise thee — Tories do no more : 
Nay, not so much ; — they hate thee, man, because 
Thy spirit less upholds them than it awes. 
The hounds will gather to their huntsman's hollo, 
And where he leads the duteous pack will follow; 
But not for love mistake their yelling cry j 
Their yelp for game is not an eulogy ; 
Less faithful far than the four-footed pack, 
A dubious scent would lure the bipeds back. 
Thy saddle-girths are not yet quite secure. 
Nor royal stallion's feet extremely sure ; 
The unwieldy old white horse is apt at last 
To stumble, kick, and now and then stick fast 
With his great self and rider in the mud ; 
But what of that ? the animal shows blood. 

XIV. 

Alas, the country ! how shall tongue or pen 

Bewail her now uncountry gentlemen ? 

The last to bid the cry of warfare cease, 

The first to make a malady of peace. 

For what were all these country patriots born ? 

To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn ? 

But corn, like every mortal thing, must fall. 

Kings, conquerors, and markets most of all. 

And must ye fall with every ear of grain ? 

Why would you trouble Buonaparte's reign ? 

He was your great Triptolemus; his vices 

Destroy'd but realms, and still maintain'd your prices; 

He amplified to every lord's content 

The grand agrarian alchymy, high rent. 

■Why did the tyrant stumble" on the Tartars, 

And lower wheat to such desponding quarters ? 

Why did you chain him on yon isle so lone ? 

The man was worth much more upon his throne. 

True, blood and treasure boundlessly were spilt, 

But what of that ? the Gaul may bear the guilt; 

But bread was high, the farmer paid his way, 

And acres told upon the appointed day. 

But where is now the goodly audit ale? 

The purse-proud tenant, never known to fail ? 

The farm which never yet was left on hand? 

The marsh reclaim'd to most improving land ? 

The impatient hope of the expiring lease ? 

The doubling rental ? What an evil 's peace ! 

In vain the prize excites the })loughman's skill, 

In vain the Commons pass their patriot bill ; 

The landed interest — (you may understand 

The phrase much better'leaving out the land) — 

The land self-interest gronns from shore to shore, 

For fear that plenty should attain the poor. 

Up, up again, j-e rents ! exalt your notes, 

Or else the ministry will lose their votes. 

And patriotism, so delicately nice, 

Her loaves will lower to the mirket price ; 

For ah ! " the loaves and fishes," once so high. 

Are gone — their oven closed, their ocean dry. 

And nought remains of all the millions spent, 

Excepting to grow moderate and content. 

They who are not so, had their turn — and turn 

About still flows from Fortune's equal urn ; 

Now let their virtue be its own reward, 

And share the blessings which themselves prepared. 

4 " The Pilot that weather'd the storm" is the burthen 
of a song, in honour of Titt, by Canning. — E. 



utm^^Muac^ 



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rit^ 



Mr 



.^.r^r.^... 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



185 



See these inglorious Cincinnati swarm, 

Farmers of war, dictators of the farm ^ 

Their ploughshare was the sword in hireling hands, 

Thdr fields manured by gore of other lands j 

Safe in their barns, Xhe^e Sabine tillers sent 

Their brethren out to battle — why ? foi rent ! 

Year after year they voted cent, per cent., 

Blood, sweat, and tear-wrung millions — why ? for 

rent ! 
They roar'd, they dined, they drank, they swore they 

meant 
To die for England — why then live ? — for rent ! 
The peace has made one general malcontent 
Of these high-market patriots ; war was rent ! 
Their love of country, millions all mis-spent, 
How reconcile ? by reconciling rent ! 
And will they not repay the treasures lent ? 
No : down with every thing, and up with rent ! 
Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, or discontent. 
Being, end, aim, religion — rent, rent, rent ! 
Thou sold'st thy birthright, Esau 1 for a mess ; 
Thou shouldst have gotten more, or eaten less j 
Now thou hast swill'd thy pottage, thy demands 
Are idle ; Israel says the bargain stands. 
Such, landlords ! was your appetite for war, 
And, gorged with blood, you grumble at a scar ! 
What ! would they spread their earthquake even o'er 

cash ? 
And when land crumbles, bid firm paper crash ? 
So rent may rise, bid bank and nation fall, 
And found on 'Change a Fund line: Hospital ? 
Lo, Mother Church, while all religion writhes, 
Like Niobe, weeps o'er her offspring. Tithes ; 
The prelates go to — where the saints have gone, 
And proud pluralities subside to one ! 
Church, state, and faction wrestle in the dark, 
Toss'd by the deluge in their common ark. 
Shorn of her bishops, banks, and dividends. 
Another Babel soars — but Britain ends. 
And why ? to pamper the self-seeking wants, 
And prop the hill of these agrarian ants. 
" Go to these ants, thou sluggard, and be wisej" 
Admire their patience through each sacrifice, 
Till taught to feel the lesson of their pride, 
The price of taxes and of homic de ; 
Admire their justice, which would fain deny 
The debt of nations : — pray who made it high P 

XV. 

Or turn to sail between those shifting rocks, 

The new Symplegades — the crushing Stocks, 

Where Midas might again his wish behold 

In real paper nr imagined gold. 

That magic palace of Alcina shows 

More wealth than Britain ever had to lose, 

Were all her atoms of unleaven'd ore, 

And all her pebbles from Pactolus' shore. 

There Fortur.e plays, while Rumour holds the stake. 

And the world trembles to bid brokers break. 

How rich is Britain ! not indeed in mines. 

Or peace or plenty, corn or oii, or wines ; 

No land of C maan, full of milk and honey, 

Nor (save in paper shekels) ready money : 

But let us not to own the truth refuse, 

Was ever Christi »n land so rich in Jews ? 

Those parted with their teeth to good King John, 

And now, ye kings ! they kindly draw your own ; 

All states, all things, all sovereigns they control, 

And waft a loan " from Indus to the pole." 

The banker — broker — baron i — brethren, speed 

To aid these bankrupt tyrants in their need. 

Nor these alone ; Columbia feels no less 

Fresh speculations follow each success ; 

And philanthropic Israel deigns to drain 

Her mild per centage from exhausted Spain. 



1 The head nf the illuBtrious house of Montmorenci hng 
usually been designated "le premier baron Chretien;" his 
ancestor havinp, it is snppoBed, been the first noble con- 
vert to Christianity in France.— -E. 



Not without Abrahams seed can Russia march ; 
'T is gold, not steel, that rears the conqueror's arch. 
Two Jews, a chosen people, can command 
In every realm their scripture-promised land : — 
Two Jews keep down the Romans, and uphold 
The accursed Hun, more brutal than of old : 
Two Jews — but not Samaritans — direct 
The world, with all the spirit of their sect. 
What is the happiness of earih to them ? 
A congress forms their " New Jerusalem," 
Where baronies and orders both invite — 
Oh, holy Abraham ! dost thou see the sight ? 
Thy followers mingling with these royal swine, 
Who spit not " on their Jewish gaberdine,^' 
But honour them as portion of the show — 
(Where now, oh pope ! is thy forsaken toe ? 
Could it not favour Judah with some kicks? 
Or has it ceased to " kick ugainst the pricks ? ") 
On Shylock's shore behold them stand afresh, 
To cut from nations' hearts their '< pound of flesh." 

XVI. 

Strange sight this Congress ! destined to unite 

All that 's incongruous, all that 's opposite. 

I speak not of the Sovereigns — they 're alike, 

A common coin as ever mint could strike; 

But those who sway the puppets, pull the strings. 

Have more of motley than their heavy kings. 

Jews, authors, generals, charlatans, combine. 

While Europe wonders at the vast design : 

There Metternich, power's foremost parasite, 

Cajoles ; there Wellington forgets to fight ; 

There Chateaubriand forms new books of martyrs j5i 

And subtle Greeks 3 intrigue for stupid Tartars ; 

There Montmorenci, the sworn foe to charters,* 

Turns a diplomatist of great eclat, 

To furnish articles for the " Debats ;" 

Of war so certain — yet not quite so sure 

As his dismissal in the "Moniteur." 

Alas ! how could his cabinet thus err ? 

Can peace be worth an ultra-minister? 

He fills indeed, perhaps to rise again, 

"Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain." • 

XVII. 

Enough of this — a sight more mournful woos 
The averted eye of the reluctant muse. 
The imperial daughter, the imperial bride. 
The imperial victim — sacrifice to pride; 
The mother of the hero's hope, the boy, 
The young Astyanax of Modern Troy ; 6 
The still pale shadow of the loftiest queen 
That earth has yet to see, or e'er hath seen; 
She flits amidst the phantoms of the hour. 
The theme of pity, and the wreck of power. 
Oh, cruel mockery ! Could not Austria spare 
A daughter? What did France's widow there? 
Her fitter place was by St. Helen's wave, 
Her only throne is in Napoleon's grave. 
But, no.— she still must hold a petty reign, 
Flank'd by her formidable chamberlain ; 
The martial Argus, whose not hundred eyes 
Must watch her through these paltry pageantries.7 

2 Monsieur Chateaubriand, who has rot forpotten the 
author in the miiiistt-r, received a handsome compliment 
at Verona from a literary sovereign : "Ah ! Monsieur C, 
are you related to that Chateaubriand who — who — who 
has written sotncthing ? (eciit quelque chose !)" It is 
said that the author of Atala repented him for a moment 
of his legitimacy. 

3 Count Capo d'Istrias — afterwards President of Greece. 
The count was murdered, in September, 1831, by the bro- 
ther and son of a Mainote chief whom he had impri- 
soned. — E. 

4 The Duke de Montmorenci-Laval. — E. 

5 From Pope's verses on Lord Peterborough.— E. 

6 Napoleon Francois Charles Joseph, Duke of Reich* 
stadt. died at the pnlace of Schonbrunn, July 22, 1832, hav- 
ing just attained his twenty-first year.-- - E. 

7 Count Neipperg, chamberlain and second husband to 



MlilHMItti 



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aataiittiii^ 



186 



THE ISLAND. 



[Canto I. 



What though she share no more, and shared in vain, 

A sway surpassing that of Charlemagne, 

Which swept from Moscow to the southern seas j 

Yet still she rules the pastoral realm of cheese, 

Where Parma views the traveller resort, 

To note the trappings of her mimic court. 

But she appears 1 Verona sees her shorn 

Of all her beams — while nations gize and mourn — 

Ere yet her husband's ashes hwe had time 

To chill in their inlio pitable clime; 

(If e'er those awful ashes can grow cold ; — 

But no, — their embers soon will burst the mould ;) 

She comes ! — the Andromache (but not Racine's, 

Nor Homer's,) — Lo ! on Pyrrhus' arm she leans ! 

Yes ! the right arm, yet red from Waterloo, 

Which cut her lord's halfshatter'd sceptre through, 

Is ofFer'd and accepted ! Could a slave 

Do more ? or less ? — and tie in his new grave I 

Her eye, her cheek, betray no inward strife, 

And the ez-empress grows as ex a wife ! 

So much for human ties in royal breasts ! 

Why spare men's feelings, when their own are jests J 

XV in. 

But, tired of foreign follies, I turn home, 

And sketch the group — the picture 's yet to come. 



My muse 'gan weep, but, ere a tear was spilt, 
She caught Sir William Curtis in a kilt 1 1 
While throng'd the chiefs of every Highland clan 
To hail their brother, Vich Ian Alderman ! 
Guildhall grows Gael, and echoes with Erse roar. 
While all the Common Council cry "Claymore !" 
To see proud Albyn's tartans as a belt 
Gird the gross sirloin of a city Celt, 
She burst into a laughter so extreme, 
Ihat 1 awoke — and lo ! it was no dream ! 

Here, reader, will we pause : — if there 's no barm in 
This first — you '11 have, perhaps, a second " Carmen." 

Maria-Louisa, had but one eye. The count died in the 
year lt31.— E. 

1 George the Fourth is said to have been somewhat an- 
noyed on entering the levee-room at Holyrood, (Aug. 
If22), in full Stuait tartan, to see only one figure similarly 
attired (and of similar bulk) — that of Sir William Curtis. 
The cily knight had every thing complete — even the 
knife stuck in the garter. He asked the King, if he did 
not think him well dressed. " Yes ! " replied his Majesty, 
"only you have no spoon in your hose." The devourer 
of turtle had a fine engraving executed of himself in hie 
Celtic attire.— E. 



THE ISLAND; 

OR, CHRISTIAN AND HIS COMRADES. « 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The foundation of the following story will be found 
partly in Lieutenant Bligh's " Narrative of the Mutiny 
and Seizure of the Bounty, in the South Seas, in 
1789 ; " and partly in " Mariner's Account of the 
Tonga Islands." 

Genoa, 1823. 



THE ISLAND. 



CANTO THE FIRST. 



The morning watch was come ; the vessel lay 
Her course, and gently made her liquid way ; 
The cloven billow tlash'd from off her prow 
In furrows form'd by that majestic plough ; 
The waters with their world were all before; 
Behind, the Souih Sea 's many an islet shore. 
The quiet nisjht, now dippling, 'gan to wane. 
Dividing darkness from the dawning main j 
The dolphins, not unconscious of the day, 
Swam high, as eager of the coming ray ; 
The stars from broader beams beg-in to creep. 
And lift their shining eyelids from the deep ; 
The sail resumed its lately shadow'd while, 
And the wind tlutter'd with a freshening flight ; 
The purpling ocean owns the coming sun. 
But ere he break — a deed is lo be done. 

II. 

The gallant chief within his cabin slept, 

Secure in those by whom the watch was kept : 

His dreams were of Old England's welcome shore, 

Of toils rewarded, and of dangers o'er ; 

His name was added to the glorious roll 

Of those who search the storm-surrounded Pole. 

2 "The Island " was written at Genoa, early in the 
year 1623, and published in the June following. — E. 



I The worst was over, and the rest seem'd sure, 

And why should not his slumber be secure? 

Alas ! his deck was trod by unwilling feet, 

And wilder hands would hold the vessel's sheet; 

Young hearts, which languish'd for some sunny isle, 

Where summer years and summer women smile; 

Men without country, who, too long estranged, 
I Had found no native' home, or found it changed, 

And, half uncivilised, preferr'd the cave 
' Of some soft savage to the uncertain wave — 
; The gushing fruits that nature gave untill'd ; 

The wood without a path but where they will'd ; 

The field o'er which promiscuous Plenty pour'd 
I Her horn ; the e^ual land without a lord ; 
} The wish — which ages have not yet subdued 
i In man — to have no master save his mood ; 
I The earth, whose mine was on its face, unsold, 

The glowing sun and produce all its gold ; 

The freedom which can call each grot a home; 

The general garden, where all steps may roam, 

Where Nature owns a nation as her child. 

Exulting in the enjoyment of the wild ; 

Their shells, their Vuits, the only wealth they know, 
i Their unexploring navy, the canoe ; 
' Their sport, the dashing breakers and the chase; 
I Their strangest sight, an European face : — 
i Such was the country which these strangers yearn'd 

To see again ; a sight they dearly earn'd. 

III. 

Awake, bold Bligh ! the foe is at the gate ! 

Awake ! awake ! Alas ! it is too late ! 

Fiercely beside thy cot the mutineer 

Stands, and proclaims the reign of rage and fear. 

Thy limbs are bound, the bayonet at thy breast; 

The hands, which trembled at thy voice, arrest ; 

Dragg'd o'er the deck, no more at thy command 
i The^'obedient helm shall veer, the sail expand ; 
i That savage spirit, which would lull by wrath 
' Its desperate escape from duty's path, 
I Glares round thee, in the scarce believing eyes 
I Of those who fear the chief they sacrifice : 

For ne'er cm man his conscience all assuage, 
, Unless he drain the wine of passion — rage. 



'iHeL 



^TaiiTir "'"' 



m^t:^ 



■rjiBi 



■tfME^^itfb 



Canto L] 



THE ISLAND, 



187 



IV. 

In vain, not silenced by the eye of death. 

Thou call'st the loyal with ttiy meniced breath : — 

They come not ; they are few, and, overawed, 

Must acquiesce, while steiner hearts applaud. 

In vain thou dost demand the cause : a curse 

Is all the answer, with the threat of worse. 

Full in thine eyes is waved the glittering blade, 

Close to thy throat the pointed bayonet laid. 

The levell'd muskets circle round thy breast 

In hands as steel'd to do the deadly rest. 

Thou darest them to their worst, exclaiming - 

" Fire : " 
But they who pitied not could yet admire ; 
Some lurking remnant of their former awe 
Restrain'd them longer than their broken law ; 
They would not dip their souls at once in blood, 
But left thee to the mercies of the flood. 

V. 
" Hoist out the boat ! " was now the leader's cry ; 
And who dare answer " No !" to Mutiny, 
In the first dawning of the drunken hour,' 
The Saturnalia of unhoped-for power ? 
The boat is lower'd with all the histe of hate. 
With its slight plank between thee and thy fate; 
Her only cargo such a scant supply 
As promises the death their hands deny; 
And just enough of water and of bread 
To keep, some days, the dying from the dead : 
Some cordage, canvass, sails, and lines, and twine, 
But treasures all to hermits of the brine, 
Were added after, to the earnest prayer 
Of those who saw no hope, save sea and air; 
And last, that trembling vassal of the Pole — 
The feeling compass — Navigation's soul. 

VI. 

And now the self-elected chief finds time 

To stun the first sensation of his crime, 

And raise it in his followers — " Ho ! the bowl !" 

Lest passion should return to reason's shoal. 

" Brandy for heroes ! " Burke could once exclaim — 

No doubt a liquid path to epic fame ; 

And such the new-born heroes found it here, 

And drain'd the draught with an applauding cheer. 

" Huzza ! for Otaheite ! " was the cry. 

How strange such shouts from sons of Mutiny ! 

The gentle' island, and the genial soil, 

The friendly hearts, the feasts without a toil, 

The courteous manners but from nature caught, 

The wealth unhoarded, and the love unbought ; 

Could these have ch irms for rudest sea-boys, driven 

Before the mast by every wind of heaven ? 

And now, even now prepared with others' woes 

To earn mild virtue's vain desire, repose ? 

Alas ! such is our nature ! all but aim 

At the same end by pathways not the same ; 

Our means, our birth, our nation, and our name, 

Our fortune, temper, even our outward frame. 

Are far more potent o'er our yielding clay 

Than aught we know beyond our little day. 

Yet still there whispers the small voice within, 

Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din : 

Whatever creed be taught, or land be trod, 

Man's conscience is the oracle of God. 

VII. 

The launch is crowded with the faithful few 
Who wait their chief, a melancholy crew : 
But some remain'd reluctant on the deck 
Of that proud vessel — now a moral wreck — 
And view'd their captain's fate with piteous eyes; 
While others scoff' d his augur'd miseries, 
Sneer'd at the prospect of his i)igmy sail, 
And the slight bark so laden and so frail. 
The tender'nautilus, who steers his prow, 
The sea-born sailor of his shell canoe. 
The ocean Mab, the fairy of the sea, 
Seems far less fragile, and, alas ! more free. 



He, when the lightningwing'd tornadoes sweep 

The surge, is safe — his port is in the deep — 
And triumphs o'er the armadas of mankind, 
Which shake the world, yet crumble in the wind. 

vni. 

When all was now prepared, the vessel clear, 
Which hail'd her master in the mutineer — 
A seaman, less obdurate than his mates, 
Showd the vain pity which but irritates; 
Watch'd his late chieftain with exploring eye. 
And told, in signs, repentant sympathy ; 
Held the moist shaddock to his parched mouth, 
Whi'^h felt exhaustion's deep and bitter drouth. 
But soon observed, this guardian was withdrawn, 
Nor further mercy clouds rebellion's dawn. 
Then forward stepp'd the bold and fro ward boy 
His chief had cherish'd only to destroy, 
And, pointing to the helpless prow beneath, 
Exclaim'd, " Depart at once ! delay is death ! " 
Yet then, even then, his feelings ceased not all : 
In that last moment could a word rec ill 
Remorse for the black deed as yet half done, 
And what he hid from ii.any shovv'd to one : 
When Bligh in stern reproach demanded where 
Was now his grateful sense of former care ? 
Where all his hopes to see his name aspire. 
And blazon Britain's thousand glories higher? 
His feverish lips thus broke their gloomy spell, 
" 'T is that; 't is that ! I am in hell ! in hell ! » 
No more he said ; but urging to the bark 
His chief, commits him to his fragile ark ; 
These the sole accents from his tongue that fell. 
But volumes lurk'd below his fierce farewell. 

IX. 

The arctic sun rose broad above the wave ; 

The breeze now sank, now whisper'd from his cave ; 

As on the iEolian harp, his fitful wings 

Now svvell'd, now tlutter'd o'er his ocean strings. 

With slow, despairing oar, the abandon'd skilF 

Ploughs its drear progress to the scarce-seen cliff, 

Which lifts its peak a cloud above the main: 

That boat and ship shall never meet again ! 

But 't is not mine to tell their tale of grief. 
Their constant peril, and their scant relief; 
Their days of danger, and their nights of pain ; 
Their manly courage even when deem'd in vain; 
The sapping famine, rendering scarce a son 
Known to his mother in the skeleton ; 
The ills that lessen'd still their little store. 
And starved even Hunger till he wrung no more : 
The varying frowns and favours of the deep, 
That now almost ingulfs, then leaves to creep 
With crazy oar and shatter'd strength along 
The tide that yields reluctant to the strong; 
The incessant fever of that arid thirst 
Which welcomes, as a well, the clouds that burst 
Above their naked bohes, and feels delight 
In the cold drenching of the stormy night, 
And from the outspread canvass gladly wrings 
A drop to moisten life's all-gasping spi ings ; 
The savage foe escaped, to seek again 
More hospitable shelter from the main ; 
The ghastly spectres which were doom'd at last 
To tell as true a tale of dangers past. 
As ever the dark annals of the deep 
Disclosed for man to dread or woman weep. 

X. 

We leave them to their fate, but not unknown 
Nor unredress'd. Revenge may have her own ; 
Roused discipline aloud proclaims their cause, 
And injured navies uige their broken laws. 
Pursue we on his track the mutineer. 
Whom distant vengeance had not taught to fear. 
Wide o'er the wave — away ! away ! away ! 
Once more his eyes shall hail the welcome bay ; 
Once more the happy shores without a law 
Receive the outlaws whom they lately saw ; 



■■■ 



■■MiiiMHMMHiiiiikBMiiiaa 



188 



THE ISLAND. 



[Canto II. 



Nature, and Nature's goddess — woman — woos ; Forgotten is the rapture, or unknown, 

To lands where, save iheir conscience, none accuse j Of wandering with the moon and love alone. 
Where all partake the earth without dispute, ' But be it so -.—they taught us how to wield 

And bread itself is gather'd as a fruit j i The club, and rain our irrows o'er the field : 

Where none comest the fields, the woods, the Now le; them reap the harvest of their art! 



streams : — 
The goldless age, where gold disturbs no dreams, 
Inhabits or inhabited tiie shore, 
Till Europe taught them better than before : 
Bestow'd her customs, and amended theirs, 
But left her vices also to their heirs. 
Away with this ! behold them as they were, 
Do good with Nature, or with Nature err. 
" Huzza ! for Otaheile ! " was the cry, 
As stately swept the gallant vessel by. 
The breeze springs up ; the lately flapping sail 
Extends its arch before the growing gale ; 
In swifter ripples stream aside the seas. 
Which her bold bow flings off with dashing ease. 
Thus Argo 2 plough'd the Euxine's virgin foam ; 
But those she waited still look'd back to home— 
These spurn their country with their rebel bark, 
And fly her as the raven fled the ark ; 
And yet they seek to nestle with the dove, 
And tame their fiery spirits down to love. 



CANTO THE SECOND. 
I. 

How pleasant were the songs of Toobonai,3 

When summer's sun went down the coral bay ! 

Come, let us to the islet's softest shade. 

And hear the warbling birds ! the damsels said : 

The wood-dove from the forest depth shall coo, 

Like voices of the gods from Bolotoo ; 

We '11 cull the flowers that grow above the dead. 

For these most bloom where resis the warrior's head ; 

And we will sit in twilight's face, and see 

The sweet moon glancing through the tooa tree, 

The lofty accents of whose sighing bough 

Shall sad'ly please us as we lean below ; 

Or climb the steep, and view the surf in vain 

Wrestle with rocky giants o'er the main, 

Which spurn in colunms back the baffled spray. 

How beautiful are these ! how happy they. 

Who, from the toil and tumult of their lives, 

Steal to look down where nought but ocean strives ! 

Even he too loves at times the'blue bgoon, 

And smooths his ruffled mane beneath the moon. 

n. 

Yes — from the sepulchre we '11 gather flowers, 

Then feast like spirits in their promised bovvers, 

Then plunge and revel in the rolling surf. 

Then lay our limbs along the tender turf, 

And, wet and shining from the sportive toil, 

Anoint our bodies with the fragrant oil. 

And plait our garlands gather'd from the grave, 

And wear the wreaths that sprung from out the brave. 

But lo ! night comes, the Mooa woos us back, 

The sound of mats is heard along our track ; 

Anon the torchlight dance shall fling its sheen 

In flashing mazes o'er the Marly's green ; 

And we too will be there ; we too recall 

The memory bright with many a festival, 

Ere Fiji blew the shell of war, when foes 

For the first time were wafted in canoes. 

Alas ! for them the flower of mankind bleeds ; 

Alas ! for them our fields are rank with weeds : 

IThe now cerebrated bread-fruit, to transplant which 
Captain Bligh's expedition was undertaken. 

2 The vessel in which Jason embarked in quest of the 
golden fleece.— E. 

3 The first three sections are taken from an actual song 
of the Tonga Islanders, of which a prose translation is 
given in "Mariner's Account of the Tonga Islands." 
Toobonai is not however one of them ; but was one of 
those where Christian and the mutineers took refuge. I 
tiave altered and added, but have retained as much as pos- 
Kible of the original. 



But feast to-night! to-morrow we depart, 
i Strike up the dance ! the cava bowl till high ! 
i Drain every drop ! — to-morrow we may die. 
j In summer garments be our limbs array'd j 
I Around our waists the tappa's white display'd; 
1 Thick wreaths shall form our coronal, like spring's, 
I And round our necks shall glance the hooni strings ; 
j So shall their brighter hues contrast the glow 

Of the dusk bosoms that beat high below. 

III. 

But now the dance is o'er — yet stay awhile ; 

j Ah, pause ! nor yet put out the social smile. 

I To-morrow for the Mooa we depart. 
But not to-night — to-night is for the heart. 
Again bestow the wreaths we gently woo. 
Ye young enchantresses of gay Licoo ! 
How lovely are your forms ! how every sense 
Bows to your beauties, soften'd, but intense, 
Like to the flowers on Mataloco's steep, 
Which fling their fragrance far athwart the deep ! — 
We too will see Licoo ; but — oh ! my heart 1 — 
What do I say ? — to-morrow we depart ! 



IV. 

Thus rose a song — the harmony of times 
Before the winds blew Europe o'er these climes. 
True, they had vices — such are Nature's growth — 
But only the barbarian's — we have both ; 
The sordor of civilisation, mix'd 
With all the savage which man's fall hath fix'd. 
Who hath not seen Dissimulation's reign. 
The prayers of Abel link'd to deeds of Cain ? 
Who such would see may from his lattice view 
The Old World more degraded than the New, — 
Now new no more, save where Columbia rears 
Twin giants, born by Freedom to her spheres, 
VVhere Chimborazo, over air, earth, wave, 
Glares with his Titan eye, and sees no slave. 



Such was this ditty of Tradition's diys, 

Which to the dead a lingering fame conveys 

In song, where fame as yet hath left no sign 

Beyond the sound whose charm is half divine j 

Which leaves no record to the sceptic eye, 

But yields young history all to harmony j 

A boy Achilles, with the centaur's lyre 

In hand, to teach him to surpass his sire. 

For one long-cherish'd ballad's simple stave, 

Rung from the rock, or mingled with the wave. 

Or from the bubbling streamlet's grassy side, 

Or gathering mountain echoes as they glide. 

Hath greater power o'er each true heart and ear, 

Than all the columns Conquest's minions rear; 

Invites, when hieroglyphics are a theme 

For sages' labours, or ihe student's dream ; 

Attracts, when History's volumes are a toil, — 

The first, the freshest bud of Feeling's soil. 

Such was this rude rhyme — rhyme is of the rude — 

But such inspired the Norsemati's solitude. 

Who came and conquer'd ; such, wherever rise 

Lands which no foes destroy or civilise. 

Exist : and what can our accomplish 'd art 

Of verse do more than reach the awaken'd heart ? 

VL 

And sweetly now those untaught melodies 
Broke the luxurious silence of the skies, 
The sweet siesta of a summer day, 
The tropic afternoon of Toobonai, 
When every flower was bloom, and air was balm, 
And the first breath began to stir the palm, 
The first yet voiceless wind to urge the wave 
All gently to refresh the thirsty cave, 



^^'— '^'"-^-^— ^ ^ ^^ 



gaatatmuii^ 



Canto II.] 



THE ISLAND. 



189 



Where sat the songstress with the stranger boy, 
Who taught her passion's desolating joy, 
Too powerful over every heart, but most 
O'er those who know not how it may be lost; 
O'er those who, burning in the new-born fire, 
Like martyrs revel in their funeral pyre, 
With such devotion to their ecstasy, 
That life knows no such rapture as to die ; 
And die they do ; for earthly life has nought 
Match'd with that burst of nature, even in thought; 
And all our dreams of better life above 
But close in one eternal gush of love. 

VII. 

There sat the gentle savage of the wild, 

In growth a woman, though in years a child, 

As childhood dates within our colder clime, 

Where nought is ripen'd rapidly save crime ; 

The infant of an infant world, as pure 

From nature — lovely, warm, and premature; 

Dusky like night, but night with all her stars; 

Or cavern sparklmg willi its native spars; 

With eyes that were a language and a spell, 

A form like Aphrodite's in her shell, 

With all her loves around her on the deep, 

Voluptuous as the first approach of sleep ; 

Yet full of life — for through her tropic cheek 

The blush would make its way, and all but speak; 

The sun-born blood sutfused her neck, and threw 

O'er her clear nut-brown skin a lucid hue. 

Like coral reddening through the darken'd wave, 

Which draws the diver to the crimson cave. 

Such was this daughter of the southern seas, 

Herself a billow in her energies, 

To bear the bark of others' happiness. 

Nor feel a sorrow till their joy grew less : 

Her wild and warm yet faithful bosom knew 

No joy like what it gave ; her hopes ne'er drew 

Aught from experience, that chill touchstone, whose 

Sad proof reduces all things from their hues : 

She fear'd no ill, because she knew it not, 

Or what she knew was soon — too soon — forgot : 

Her smiles and tears had pass'd, as light winds pass 

O'er lakes to ruffle, not destroy, their glass, 

Whose depths unsearch'd, and fountains from the hill, 

Restore their surface, in itself so still. 

Until the earthquake tear the naiad's cave, 

Root up the spring, and trample on the wave, 

And crush the living waters to a mass. 

The amphibious desert of the dank morass ! 

And must their fate be hers ? The eternal change 

But grasps humanity with quicker range ; 

And they who fall but fall as worlds will fall. 

To rise, if just, a spirit o'er them all. 

VIIL 

And who is he ? the blue-eyed northern child 

Of isles more known to man, but scarce less wild ; 

The fair-hair"d offspring of the Hebrides, 

Where roars the Pentland with its whirling seas ; 

Rock'd in his cradle by the roaring wind. 

The tempest-born in body and in mind, 

His young eyes opening on the ocean-foam. 

Had from that moment deem'd (lie deep his home, 

The giant comrade of his pensive moods. 

The sharer of his craggy solitudes. 

The only Mentor of his youth, where'er 

His bark was borne ; the sport of wave and air ; 

A careless thing, who placed his choice in chance, 

Nursed by the legends of his land's romance; 

Eager to hope, but not less firm to bear. 

Acquainted with all feelings save despair. 

Flaced in the Arab's clime, he would have been 

As bold a rover as the sands have seen. 

And braved their thirst with as enduring lip 

As Ishmael, wafted on his desert ship ; i 



IThe "ship of the desert" is the Oriental figure for the 
camel or dromedary; and they deserve the meiaphor well, 
— the former for his endurance, the latter for his swift- 



Fix'd upon Chili's shore, a proud cacique ; 
On Hellas' mountains, a rebellious Greek; 
Born in a lent, perhaps a Tamerlane ; 
Bred to a throne, perhaps unfit to reign. 
For the same soul that lends its path to sway, 
If rear'd to such, can find no further prey 
Beyond itself, and must retrace its way,2 
Plunging for pleasure into pain : the same 
Spirit which made a Nero, Rome's worst shame, 
A humbler staie and discipline of heart, 
Had form'd his glorious namesake's counterpart ; 3 
But grant his vices, grant them all his own, 
How small their theatre without a throne ! 

IX. 

Thou smilest : —these comparisons seem high 

To those who scan all things with dazzled eye; 

Link'd with the unknown name of one whose doom 

Has nought to do vvi;h glory or with Rome, 

With Chili, Hellas, or with Araby ; — 

Thou smilest ? — Smile ; 't is belter thus than sigh ; 

Yet such he might have been ; he was a man, 

A soaring spirit, ever in the van, 

A patriot hero or despotic chief, 

To form a nation's glory or its grief. 

Born under auspices which make us more 

Or less than we delight to ponder o'er. 

But these are visions ; say, what was he here ? 

A blooming boy, a truant mutineer. 

The fair-haird Torquil, free as ocean's spray. 

The husband of the bride of Toobonai. 

X. 

By Neuha's side he sate, and watch'd the waters, — 

Neuha, the sunflower of the island daughters, 

Highborn, (a birth at which the herald smiles, 

Without a scutcheon for these secret isles,) 

Of a long race, the valiant and the free, 

The nnked knights of savage chivalry, 

Whose grassy cairns ascend along the shore ; 

And thine — I 've seen — Achilles ! do no more. 

She, when the thunder-bearing strangers came, 

In vast canoe-, begirt with bolts of fiame, 

Topp'd with tall trees, which, loftier than the palm, 

Seem'd rooted in the deep amidst its calm : 

But when the winds awaken'd, shot forth wings 

Broad as the cloud along the horizon flings, 

And swayd the waves, like cities of the sea. 

Making the very billows look less free ; — 

She, with her paddling oar and dancing prow, 

Shot through the surf, like reindeer through the snow, 

Swift-gliding o'er the breaker's whitening edge. 

Light as a nereid in her ocean sledge. 

And gazed and wonder'd at the giant hulk. 

Which heaved from wave to wave its trampling bulk: 

The anchor dropp'd ; it lay along the deep, 

Like a huge lion in the sun asleep, 

While round it swarm'd the proas' flitting chain, 

Like summer bees that hum around his mane. 

XI. 

The white man landed ! — need the rest be told ? 
The New World strelch'd its dusk hand to the Old ; 
Each was to each a marvel, and the tie 
Of wonder warni'd to better sympathy. 
Kind was the welcome of the sun-born sires. 
And kinder still their daughters' gentler fires. 



2 " Lucullus, when frugality could charm. 

Had roasted turnips in the Sabine farm." — POPE. 

3 The consul Nero, wlio made the unequalled march 
which deceived Hannibal, and defeated Asdrub;il ; thereby 
accomplishing an achievement almost unrivalled in mili- 
tary annals. The first intelligence of his return, to Han- 
nibal, was the sight of Asdiubal's head thrown into his 
camp. When Hannibal saw this, he exclaimed with a 
sigh, that "Rome would now be the mistress of the 
world." And yet to this victory of Nero's it might be 
owing that his imperial namesake reigned at all. But the 
infamy of the one has eclipsed the glory of the other. 
When the name of " Nero" is heard, who thinks of the 
consul 7 — But auch are human things ! 



190 



THE ISLAND. 



[Canto II. 



n 



Their union grew: the children of the storm 

Found beauty link'd wih many a dusky form ; 

While these in turn admired the paler glow, 

Which seem'd so white in climes that knew no snow. 

The chase, the race, the liberty to roam, 

The soil where every cottage show'd a home ; 

The sea-spread net, the lish'ly launch'd canoe, 

Which stemm'd the studded archipelago, 

O'er whose blue bosom rose the starry isles ; 

The healthy slumber, earn'd by sportive toils; 

The palm, the loftiest dryad of the woods, 

Within whose bosom infant Bacchus broods, 

While eagles scarce build higher than the crest 

Which shadows o'er the vineyard in her breast ; 

The cava feast, the yam, the cocoa^s root. 

Which bears at once the cup, and milk, and fruit ; 

The bread tree, which, without the ploughshare, 

yields 
The unreap'd harvest of unfnrrow'd fields, 
And tnikes its unadulterated loaves 
Witliout a furnace in unpurchased groves, 
And tlings off famine from its fertile breast, 
A priceless market for the gathering guest ; — 
These, with tlie luxuries of seas and woods, 
The airy joys of social solitudes, 
Tamed e ich rude wanderer to the sympathies 
Of those who were more happy, if less wise, 
Did more than Europe's discipline had done, 
And civilised Civilisation's son ! 

XII. 

Of these, and there was many a willing pair, 

Neuha and Torquil were not the least fair : 

Both children of the isles, though distant far ; 

Both born beneath a sea-presiding star j 

Both nourish'd amidst nature's native scenes, 

Loved to the last, whatever intervenes 

Between us and our childhood's sympathy, 

Which still reverts to what first caught the eye. 

He who first met the Highlands' swelling blue 

Will love each peak that shows a kindred hue, 

Hail in each crag a friend's familiar face. 

And clasp the mountain in tiis mind's embrace. 

Long have I roam'd through lands which are not 

mine, 
Adored the Alp, and loved the Apennine, 
Revered Parnas-us, and beheld the steep 
Jove's Ida and Olympus crown the deep: 
But 't was not all long ages' lore, nor all 
Their nature held me in their thrilling thrall ; 
The infant rapture still survived he boy. 
And Loch-na-gar with Ida look'd o'er Troy,l 
Mix'd Celtic memories w ith the Phrygian mount, 
And Highland linns with Castalie's clear fount. 
Forgive me. Homer's universal shade ! 
Forgive me, Phoebus! that my fancy stray'd ; 
The north and nature taught me to adore 
Your scenes sublime, from those beloved before. 

XIII. 

The love which maketh all things fond and fair, 
The youth which makes one rainbow of the air, 
The dangers past, that make even man enjoy 
The pause in which he ceases to destroy. 
The mutual beauty, which the sternest feel 
Strike to their hearts like lightnin? to the steel, 
United the half savage and the whole. 
The maid and boy, in one absorbing soul. 



1 When very youne, about eight years of age, after an 
attack of the scarlet fever at Aberdeen. I was removed by 
medical advice into the Highlands. Here I passed occa- 
sionally some .summers, and from this period 1 dale my 
love of mountain')Us countries. I can never forget the 
efifect, a few years afterwards, in England, of the only 
thing I had long seen, even in miniature, of a mountain, 
in the Malvern Hills. After I returned to Cheltenham, I 
used to watch them every afternoon, at sunset, with a 
sensation which I cannot describe. This was boyish 
enough : but I was then only thirteen years of age, and it 
was in the holidays. 



No more the thundering memory of the fight 

Wrapp'd his wean'd bosom in its dark delight; 

No more the irksome restlessness of rest 

Disturb'd him like the eagle in her nest. 

Whose whetted beak and far-pervading eye 

Darts for a victim over all the sky : 

His heart was tamed to that voluptuous state, 

At once Elysian and effeminate, 

Which leaves no laurels oer the hero's urn ; — 

These wither when for aught save blood they bum; 

Yet when their ashes in their nook are laid, 

Doih not the myrtle leave as sweet a shade ? 

: Had Csesar known but Cleopatra's kiss, 

j Rome had been free, the world had not been his. 

j And what have Caesar's deeds and Caesar's fame 
Done for the earth ? We feel them in our shame : 
The gory sanction of his glory stains 
The rust which tyrants cherish on our chains. 
Though Glory, Nature, Reason, Freedom, bid 
Roused millions do what single Brutus did — 
Sweep these mere mock-birds of the despot's song 

j From the tall bough where they have perch'd so 

I long,— 

Still are we hawk'd at by such mousing owls, 
And take for falcons those ignoble fowls, 
When but a word of freedom would dispel 
These bugbears, as their terrors show too well. 

XIV. 

Rapt in the fond forgetfulness of life, 
Neuha, the South Sea girl, was all a wife. 
With no distracting world to call her off - 

j From love ; with no society to scoff 
At the new transient flame ; no babbling crowd 

I Of coxcombry in admiration loud, 

I Or with adulterous whisper to alloy 

I Her duty, and her glory, and her joy : 

j With fai^h and feelings naked as her form, 
She s*ood as stands a rainbow in a storm, 
Changing its hues with bright variety. 
But still expanding lovelier o'er the sky, 
Howe'er its arch may swell, its colours move, 
The cloud-compelling harbinger of love. 

' XV. 

Here, in this grotto of the wave-worn shore. 
They pass'd the tropic's red meridian o'er ; 
Nor long the hours — they never [>aused o'er time. 
Unbroken by the clock's funereal chime, 
V/hich deals the daily pittance of our span. 
And points and mocks with iron laujh at man. 

I What deem'd they of the future or the past ? 

1 The present, like a tyrant, held them fast : 

I Their hour-glass was the sea-sand, and the tide, 
Like her smooth billow, saw their moments glide j 

I Their clock the sun, in his unbounded tower j^ 

i They reckon'd not, whose day was but an hourj 

1 The nightingale, their only vesper-bell. 
Sung sweetly to the rose the day's farewell; 2 

i The broad sun set, but not with lingering sweep, 
As in the north he mellows o'er the deep ; 

I But fiery, full, and fierce, as if he left 

■ The world for ever, earth of life bereft, 

; Plunged with red forehead down along the wave, 

; As dives a hero headlong to his grave. 

1 Then rose they, looking first along the skies. 
And then for lisht into each other's eyes. 
Wondering that summer show'd so brief a sun, 

' And asking if indeed the day were done. 

! XVI. 

And let not this seem strange : the devotee 
Lives not in earth, but in his ecstasy ; 
Around him days and worlds are heedless driven, 
His soul is gone before his dust to heaven. 
Is love less potent ? No — his path is trod. 
Alike uplifted gloriously to (Jod; 



2 The now well-known story of the loves of the night- 
ingale and rose need not be more than alluded to, being 
sufficiently familiar to the Western aa to the Eastern 
reader. 



igggfi-Miii 



Canto II.] 



THE ISLAND. 



191 



Or link'd to all we know of heaven below, 

The other better self, whose joy or woe 

Is more than ours ; the all-absorbing flame 

Which, kindled by another, grows the same, 

Wrapt in one blaze ; the pure, yet funeral pile, 

Where gentle hearts, like Bramins, sit and smile. 

How often we forget all time, when lone, 

Admiring Nature's universal throne. 

Her woods, her wilds, her waters, the intense 

Reply of Tiers to our intelligence ! 

Live not the stars and mountains ? Are the waves 

Without a spirit ? Are the dropping caves 

Without a feeling in their silent tears ? 

No, no ; — they woo and clasp us to their spheres. 

Dissolve this clog and clod of clay before 

Its hour, and merge our soul in the great shore. 

Strip off this fond and false identity ! — 

Who thinks of self, when gazing on the sky? 

And who, though gazing lower, ever thought, 

In the young moments ere the heart is taught 

Time's lesson, of man's baseness or his own ? 

All nature is his realm, and love his throne. 

XVII. 

Neuha arose, and Torquil : twilight's hour 
Came sad and softly to their rocky bower, 
Which, kindling; by degrees its dewy spars. 
Echoed their dim light to the mustering stars. 
Slowly the pair partaking nature's calm. 
Sought out their cottage, built beneath the palm ; 
Now smiling and now silent, as the scene ; 
Lovely as Love — the spirit ! — when serene. 
The Ocean scarce spoke louder with his swell. 
Than br&ithes his mimic murmurer in the shell,* 
As, far divided from his parent deep, 
The sea-born infant cries, and will not sleep, 
Raising his little plaint in vain, to rave 
For (he broad bosom of his nursing wave : 
The woods droop'd darkly, as inclined to rest, 
The tropic bird wheel'd rockvvard to his nest. 
And the blue sky spread round them like a lake 
Of peace, where Piety her thirst might slake. 

XVIII. 

But through the palm and plantain, hark, a voice ! 

Not such as would have been a lover's choice, 

In such an hour, to break the air so still ; 

No dying night-breeze, harping o'er the hill. 

Striking the strings of nature, rock and tree. 

Those best and earliest lyres of harmony, 

With Echo for their chorus ; nor the alarm 

Of the loud war-whoop to dispel the charm ; 

Nor the soliloquy of the hermit owl, 

Exhaling all his solitary soul. 

The dim though large-eyed winged anchorite. 

Who peals his^dreary paean o'er the night; — 

But a loud, long, and naval whistle, shrill 

As ever started through a sea-bird's bill ; 

And then a pause, and then a hoarse " Hillo ! 

Torquil ! my boy ! what cheer ? Ho ! brother, ho ! " 

'• Who hails ?" cried Torquil, following with his eye 

The sound. " Here 's one," was all the brief reply. 

XIX. 
But here the herald of the self-same mouth 
Came breathing o'er the aromatic south, 
Not like a " bed of violets" on the gale. 
But such as wafts its cloud o'er grog or ale, 



1 If the reader will apply to his ear the sea-shell on his 
chimney-piece, he will be iiware of what is alluded to. 
If the text should appear obscure, he will find in " Gebir" 
the same idea better expressed in two lines. The poem I 
never read, but have heard the lines quoted by a more 
recondite reader — who seems to be of a ditferent opinion 
from the editor of the (iuarterly Review, who qualified it, 
in his aiiswer to the Critical Reviewer of his Juvenal, as 
trash of the worst and most insane description. It is to 
Mr. Landor, the author of "Gebir," so qualified, and of 
some Latin poems, which vie with Martial or Catullus in 
obscenity, that the immaculate Mr. Southey addresses his 
declamation against impurity '. 



Borne from a short frail pipe, which yet had blown 

Its gentle odours over either zone. 

And, putf'd where'er winds rise or waters roll, 

Had wafted smoke from Portsmouth to the Pole, 

Opposed its vapour as the lightning flash'd. 

And reek'd, 'midst mountain-billows, unabash'd. 

To ^olus a constant sacrifice. 

Through every change of all the varying skies. 

And what was he who bore it ? — I may err. 

But deem him sailor or philosopher.2 

Sublime tobacco ! which from east to west 

Cheers the tar's labour or the Turkman's rest ; 

Which on the Moslem's ottoman divides 

His hours, and rivals opium and his brides j 

Magnificent in Stamhoul, but less grand, 

Though not less loved, in Wapping or the Strand ; 

Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe, 

When tipp'd with amber, mellow, rich, and ripe; 

Like other charmers, wooing the caress 

More dazzlingly when daring in full dress ; 

Yet thy true lovers more admire by far 

Thy naked beauties — Give me a cigar ! 

XX. 

Through the approaching ddirkness of the wood 
A human figure broke the solitude. 
Fantastically, it may be, array-d, 
A seaman in a savage masquerade ; 
Such as appears to rise out from the deep 
When o'er the line the merry vessels sweep, 
And the rough saturnalia of the tar 
Flock o'er the deck, in Neptune's borrow'd car ; 3 
And, pleased, the god of ocean sees his name 
Revive once more, though but in mimic game 
Of his true sons, who riot in the breeze 
Undreamt of in his na'ive Cyclades. 
Still the old god delights, from out the main, 
To snatch some glimpses of his ancient reign. 
Our sailor's jacket, though in ragged trim. 
His conslant pipe, which never yet burn'd dim, 
His foremast air, and somewhat rolling gait. 
Like his dear vessel, spoke his former state; 
But then a sort of kerchief round his head. 
Not over-lightly bound, nor nicely spread ; 
And, 'stead of trowsers (ah ! too early torn ! 
For even the mildest woods will have their thorn) 
A curious sort of somewhat scanty mat 
Now served for inexpressibles and hat ; 
His naked feet and neck, and sunburnt face, 
Perchance might suit alike with either race. 
His arms were all his own, our Europe's growth. 
Which two worlds bless for civilising both ; 
The musket swung behind his shoulders broad. 
And somewhat stoop"d by his marine abode. 
But brawny as the boar's ; and hung beneath, 
His cutlass droop'd, unconscious of a sheath. 
Or lost or worn away ; his pistols were 
Link'd to his belt, a matrimonial pair — 
(Let not this metaphor appear a scoff. 
Though one miss'd fire, the other would go off); 
These, with a bayonet, not so free from rust 
As when the armchest held its brighter trust, 
Completed his accouirements, as Night 
Survey'd him in his garb heteroclite. 

XXL 

"What cheer, Ben Bunting?" cried (when in full 

view 
Our new aqquaintance) Torquil. "Aught of new ?" 
'' Ey, ey ! " quoth Ben, " not new, but news enow ; 
A strange sail in the offing." — "Sail ! and how ? 
What ! could you make her out ? It cannot be ; 
I 've seen no rag of canvass on the sea." 



2 Hobbes, the fr.ther of Locke's and other philosophy, 
was an inveterate smoker, — even to pipes beyond compu- 
tation. 

3 This ronsh but jovial ceremony, used in crossinp the 
line, has been so often and so well described, that it need 
not be more than alluded to. 



192 



THE ISLAND. 



[CaxNTO III. 



" Belike," said Ben, " you might not from the bay, 

But from the bluff-head, where I vvatch'd to-day, 

I saw her in the doldrums ; for the wind 

Was light and baffling.''— »' When the sun declined 

Where lay she? had she anchor'd ? "— •' No.iut still 

She bore down on us, till the wind grew sill." 

" Her flag ?"— " I hid no glass : but fore and aft, 

Egad ! she seem'd a wicked looliing craft." 

" Arm'd ?"— " I expect so ; — sent on the look-out: 

'T is time, belike, to put our helm about." 

" About ? — Whatever may have us now in chase, 

We 'II make no running ti^ht, for that were base ; 

We will die at our quarters, like true men." 

" Ey, ey ! for that 't is all the same to Ben." 



Their better feelings, if such were, were thrown 
Back on themselves, — their sins remain'd alone. 
Proscribed even in their second country, they 
Were lost ; in vain the woild before them lay ; 
All outlets seem'd secured. Their new allies 
H.id fought and bled in mutual sacrifice ; 
But what avail'd the club and spear, and arm 
Of Hercules, against the sulphury charm, 
The magic of the thunder, which destroy'd 
The warrior ere his strength could be employ'd ? 
Dug, like a spreading pestilence, the grave 
No less of human bravery than the brave '.3 
Their own scant numbers acted all the few 
inst the many oft will dare and do ; 



"Does Christian know this ? "— " Ay ; he has piped But though the choice seems native to die free, 



all hand: 

To quarters. They are furbishing the stands 
Of arms ; and we have got some guns to bear. 
And scaled them. You are wanted."— " That's but 

fair; 
And if it were not, mine is not the soul 
To leave my comrades helpless on the shoal. 
My Neuha ! ah ! and must my fate pursue 
Not me alone, but one so sweet and true ? 
But whatsoe'er betide, ah, Neuha '. now 
Unman me not; the hour will not allow 
A tear ; I am thine whatever intervenes ! " 
" Right," quoth Ben, " that will do for the marines." 1 



CANTO THE THIRD. 

The fight was o'er ; the flashing through the gloom, 

Which robes the cannon as he wings a tomb, 

Had ceased ; and sulphury vapours upward driven 

Had left the earth, and but polluted heaven : 

The rattling roar which rung in every volley 

Had left the echoes to their melancholy ; 

No more they shriek'd their horror, boom for boom; 

The strife was done, the vanquish'd had their doom ; 

The mutineers were crush 'd, dispersed, or ta'en, 

Or lived to deem the happiest were the slain. 

Few, few escaped, and these were hunted o'er 

The isle they loved beyond their native shore. 

No further home was theirs, it seem'd, on earth. 

Once renegades to that which gave them birth ; 

Track'd like wild beasts, like them they sought the 

wild. 
As to a mother's bosom flies the child ; 
But vainly wolves and lions seek their den, 
And still more vainly men escape from men. 

II. 

Beneath a rock whose jutting base protrudes 

Far over ocean in its fiercest moods. 

When scaling his enormous crag the wave 

Is hurl'd down headlong, like the foremost brave, 

And falls back on the foaming crowd behind, 

Which fight beneath the banners of the wind, 

But now at rest, a little remnant drew 

Together, bleeding, thirsty, faint, and few ; 

But still their weapons in their hands, and still 

With something of the pride of former will. 

As men not all unused to meditate, 

And strive much more than wonder at their fate. 

Their present lot was what they had foreseen. 

And dared as what was likely to have been ; 

Yet still the lingering hope, which deem'd their lot 

Not pardon'd, but unsought for or forgot, 

Or trusted that, if sought, their distant caves 

Might still be miss'd amidst the world of waves, 

Had wean'd their thoughts in part from what they saw 

And felt, the vengeance of their country's law. 

Their sea-green isle, their guilt-won paradise. 

No more could shield their virtue or their vice : 



l"That will do for the marines, but the sailors won't 
believe it," is an old saying; and one of the few frag- 
ments of former jealousies which still survive (in jest 
only) between these gallant services. 



Even Greece can boast but one Thermopylae, 
Till now, when she has forged her broken cbaia 
Back to a sword, and dies and lives again ! 

III. 

Beside the jutting rock the few appear'd, 

Like the last remnant of the red-deer's herd ; 

Their eyes were feverish, and their aspect worn, 

But still tlie hunters blood was on their horn, 

A little stream came tumbling from the height. 

And straggling into ocean as it might, 

Its bounding crystal frolick'd in the ray, 

And gu^h'd from cliff to cmg with sal'tless spray ; 

Close on the wild, wide ocean, yet as pure 

And fresh as innocence, and more secure. 

Its silver torrent glitter'd o'er the deep, 

As the shy chamois' eye o'erlooks the steep. 

While fir below the vast and sullen swell 

Of ocean's alpine azure rose and fell. 

To this young spring they rush'd,— all feelings first 

Absorb'd in passion's and in nature's thirst — 

Drank as they do who drink their last, and threw 

Their arms aside to revel in its dew ; 

Cool'd their scorch'd throats, and wash'd the gory 

stains 
From wounds whose only bandage might be chains ; 
Then, when their drought was quench'd, look'd sadly 

round. 
As wondering how so many still were found 
Alive and fetterless : — but silent all, 
Each sought his fellow's eyes, as if to call 
On him for language which his lips denied, 
As though their voices with their cause bad died. 

IV. 

Stern, and aloof a little from the rest, 
Stood Christian, with his arms across his chest. 
The ruddy, reckless, dauntless hue once spread 
Along his cheek was livid now as lead ; 
His light-brown locks, so graceful in their flow, 
Now rose like startled vipers o'er his brow. 
Still as a statue, with his lips comprest 
To stifle even the breath within his breast, 
Fast by the rock, all menacing, but mute, 
He stood ; and. save a slight beat of his foot, 
Which deepen'd now and then the sandy dint 
Beneath his heel, his form seem'd turn'd to flint. 
Some paces further Torquil lean'd his head 
Against a batik, and spoke not, but he bled, — 
Not mortally : — his worst wound was within ; 
His brow was pale, his blue eyes sunken in, 
And blood-drops, sprinkled o'er his yellow hair, 
Shovv'd that his faintness came not from despair, 
But nature's ebb. Beside him was another. 
Rough as a bear, but w illing as a brother, — 
Ben Bunting, who essay'd to wash, and wipe. 
And bind his wound — then calmly lit his pipe, 
A trophy which survived a hundred fights, 
A beacon which had cheer'd ten thousand nights. 



2 Archidamus, king of Sparta, and son of Agesilans, 
when he saw a machine invented for the casting of stones 
and darts, exclaimed that it was the "grave of valour." 
The same story has been told of some knights on the first 
application of gunpowder; but the original anecdote is in 
Plutarch. 



Canto III.] 



THE ISLAND. 



193 



The fourth and last of this deserted group 

Walk'd up and down — at times would stand, then 

stoop 
To pick a pebble up — then let it drop — 
Then hurry as in haste — then quickly stop — 
Then cast his eyes on his companions — then 
Half whistle half a tune, and pause again — 
And then his former movements would redouble, 
With something between carelessness and trouble. 
This is a long description, but applies 
To scarce five minutes pass'd before the eyes ; 
But yet what minutes ! Moments like to these 
Rend men's lives into immortaliiies. 

V. 

At length Jack Skyscrape, a mercurial man, 
Who flutter'd over all things like a fan, 
More brave than firm, and more disposed to dare 
And die at once than wrestle with despair, 
Exclaim'd, "G — d damn!" — those syllables in- 
tense, — 
Nucleus of England's native eloquence, 
As the Turk's " Allah ! " or Ihe Roman's more 
Pagan " Proh Jupiter I " was wont of yore 
To give their first impressions such a vent, 
By way of echo to embarrassment. 
Jack was embarrass'd,— never hero more. 
And as he knew not what to say, he swore : 
Nor swore in vain ; the long congenial sound 
Revived Ben Bunting from his pipe profound ; 
He drew it from his mouth, and look'd full wise, 
But merely added to the oath his eyes ; 
Thus rendering the imperfect phrase complete, 
A peroration I need not repeat. 

VI. 

But Christian, of a higher order, stood 

Like an extinct volcano in his mood ; 

Silent, and sad, and savage, — with the trace 

Of passion reeking from his clouded face ; 

Till lifting up again his sombre eye, 

It glanced on Torquil, who lean'd faintly by. 

" And is it thus ? " he cried, " unhappy boy ! 

And thee, too, thee — my madness must destroy ! 

He said, and strode to where young Torquil stood, 

Yet dabbled with his lately flowing blood; 

Seized his hand wistfully, but did not press, 

And shrunk as fearful of his own caress ; 

Enquired into his state ; and when he heard 

The wound was slighter than he deem'd or fear'd, 

A moment's brightness pass'd along his brow. 

As much as such a moment would allow. 

" Yes," he exclaim'd, " we are taken in the toil. 

But not a coward or a common spoil ; 

Dearly they have bought us— dearly still may buy, — 

And I must fall ; but have you strength to fly ? 

'T would be some comfort still, could you survive ; 

Our dwindled band is now too few to strive. 

Oh ! for a sole canoe ! though but a shell, 

To bear you hence to where a hope may dwell ! 

For me, my lot is what 1 sought ; to be, 

In life or death, the fearless and the free." 

VII. 

Even as he spoke, around the promontory. 
Which nodded o'er the billows high and hoary, 
A dark speck dotted ocean : on it Hew- 
Like to the shadow of a roused sea-mew ; 
Onward it came — and, lo ! a second follow'd — 
Now seen — now hid— where ocean's vale was hol- 

low'd ; 
And near, and nearer, till the dusky crew 
Presented well-known aspects to the view. 
Till on the surf their skimming piddles play, 
Buoyant as wings, and flitting through the spray ; — 
Now perching on the wave's high curl, and now 
Dash'd downward in the thundering foam below. 
Which flings it broad and boiling sheet on sheet. 
And slings its high flakes, shiver'd into sleet : 
But floating still through surf and swell, drew nigh 
The barks, like small birds through a lowering sky. 



Their art seem'd nature — such the skill to sweep 
The wave of these born playmates of the deep. 

vin. 

And who the first that, springing on the strand,, 
Leap'd like a nereid from her shell to land. 
With dark but brilliant skin, and dewy eye 
Shining with love, and hope, and constancy ? 
Neuha — the fond, the faithful, the adored — 
Her heart on Torquil's like a torrent pour'd ; 
And smiled, and wept, and near, and nearer clasp'd. 
As if to be assured 't was him she grasp'd ; 
Shudder'd to see his yet warm wound, and then, 
To find it trivial, smiled and wept again. 
She was a warrior's daughter, and could bear 
Such sights, and feel, and mourn, but not despair. 
Her lover lived,— nor foes nor fears could blight 
That full-blown moment in its all delight: 
Joy trickled in her tears, joy fill'd the sob 
That rock'd her heart till almost heard to throb j 
And paradise was breathing in the sigh 
Of nature's child in nature's ecstasy. 

IX. 

The sterner spirits who beheld that meeting 
Were not unmoved j who are, when hearts are greet- 
ing? 
Even Christian gazed upon the maid and boy 
With fearless eye, but yet a gloomy joy 
Mix'd with those bitter thoughts the soul arrays 
In hopeless visions of our better days. 
When all 's gone — to the rainbow's latest ray. 
" And but for me ! " he said, and turn'd away ; 
Then gazed upon the pair, as in his den 
A lion looks upon his cubs again ; 
And then relapsed into his sullen guise, 
As heedless of his further destinies. 



But brief their time for good or evil thought J 
The billows round the promontory brought 
The plash of hostile oars. — Alas ! who made 
That sound a dread ? All round them seem'd array'd 
Against them, save the bride of Toobonai : 
She, as she caught the first glimpse o'er the bay 
Of the arm'd boats, which hurried to complete 
The remnant's ruin with their flying feet, 
Beckon'd the natives round her to their prows, 
Embark'd their guests and launch'd their light canoes; 
In one placed Christian and his comrades twain ; 
But she and Torquil must not part again. 
She fix'd him in her own. — Away ! away ! 
They clear the breakers, dart along the bay, 
And towards a group of islets, such as bear 
The sea-bird's nest and seal's surf-hoUow'd lair. 
They skim the blue tops of the billows ; fast 
They flew, and fast their fierce pursuers chased. 
They gain upon them — now they lose again,^ 
Again make way and menace o'er the main ; 
And now the two canoes in chase divide. 
And follow different courses o'er the tide, 
To baffle the pursuit. — Away ! away ! 
As life is on each paddle's flight to-day. 
And more than life or lives to Neuha : Love 
Freights the frail bark and urges to the cove — 
And now the refuge and the foe are nigh — 
Yet, yet a moment ! Fly, thou light ark, fly ! 



CANTO THE FOURTH. 



White as a white sail on a dusky sea, 
When half the horizon 's clouded and half free, 
Fluttering between the dun wave and the sky, 
Is hope's last gleam in man's extremity. 
Her anchor parts ; but still her snowy sail 
Attracts our eye amidst the rudest gale : 
Though every wave she climbs divides us more, 
The heart still follows from the loneliest shore. 



17 



13 



194 



THE ISLAND. 



[Canto IV. 



II. 

Not distant from the isle of Toobonai, 
A black rock rears its bosom o'er the spray, 
The haunt of birds, a desert to mankind, 
Where the rough seal reposes from the wind, 
And sleeps unwieldy in his cavern dun, 
Or gambols with huge frolic in the sun : 
There shrilly to the passing oar is heard 
The startled jcho of the ocean bird, 
Who rears on iis bare breast her callow brood, 
The feather'd fishers of the solitude. 
A narrow segment of the yellow sand 
On one side forms the outline of a strand ; 
Here the young turtle, crawling from his shell, 
Steals to the deep wherein his parents dwell ; 
Chipp'd by the beam, a nursling of the day, 
But hatch'd for ocean by the fostering ray j 
The rest was one bleak precipice, as e'er 
Gave mariners a shelter and despair ; 
A spot to make the saved regret the deck 
Which late went down, and envy the lost wreck. 
Such was the stern asylum Neuha chose 
To shield her lover from his following foesj 
But all its secret was not told ; she knew 
In this a treasure hidden from the view. 

III. 

Ere the canoes divided, near the spot, 

The men that maun'd what held her Torquil's lot, 

By her command removed, to strengthen more 

The skiff which wafted Christian from the shore. 

This he would have opposed ; but with a smile 

She pointed calmly to the craggy isle, 

And bade him " speed and prosper." She would take 

The rest upon herself for Torquil's sake. 

They parted with this added aid ; afar 

The proa darted like a shooting star, 

And gain'd on the pursuers, who now steer'd 

Right on the rock which she and Torquil near'd. 

They pull'd ; her arm, though delicate, was free 

And firm as ever grappled with the sea. 

And yielded scarce to Torquil's manlier strength. 

The prow now almost by within its length 

Of the crag's s!eep, inexorable fice, 

With nought but soundless waters for its basej 

Within a hundred boats' length was the foe, 

And now what refuge but their frail canoe? 

This Torquil ask'd with half upbraiding eye, 

Which said — " Has Neuha brought me here to die? 

Is this a place of safety, or a grave, 

And yon huge rock the tombstone of the wave ? " 

IV. 

They rested on their paddles, and uprose 

Neuha, and pointing to the approaching foes. 

Cried, " Torquil, follow me. and fearless follovT^!" 

Then plunged at once into the ocean's hollow. 

There was no time to pause — the foes were near — 

Chains in his eye, and menace in his ear; 

With vigour they pull'd on, and as they came, 

Hail'd him to yield, and by his forfeit name. 

Headlong he leapt — to him the swimmer's skill 

Was naiive, and now all his hope from ill : 

But how, or where ? He dived, and rose no more ; 

The boat's crew look'd amazed o'er sea and shore. 

There was no landing on that precipice, 

Steep, harsh, and slippery as a berg of ice. 

They watch'd awhile to see him float again. 

But not a trace rebubbled from the main : 

The wave roll'd on, no ripple on its face 

Since their first plunge recall'd a single trace ; 

The little whirl which eddied, and slight foam, 

That whiten 'd o'er what seem'd their latest home. 

White as a sepulchre above the pair 

Who left no m irble (mournful as an heir) 

The quiet proa wavering o'er the tide 

Was all that told of Torquil and his bride; 

And but for this alone the whole might seem 

The vanish'd phantom of a seaman's dream. 

They paused and search'd in vain, then pull'd away; 

Even superstition now forbade their stay. 



Some said he had not plunged into the wave, 
But vanish'd like a corpse-light from a grave; 
Others, that something supernatural 
Glared in his figure, more than mortal tall ; 
While all agreed th^t in his cheek and eye 
There was a dead hue of eternity. 
Still as their oars receded from the crag. 
Round every weed a moment would they lag, 
Expectant of some token of their prey ; " 
But no — he had melted from them like the spray. 

V. 

And where was he the pilgrim of the deep. 
Following the nereid ? Had they ceased to weep 
For ever ? or, received in coral caves, 
Wrung life and pity from the softening waves? 
Did they with ocean's hidden sovereigns dwell. 
And sound with mermen the fantastic shell? 
Did Neuha with the mermaids comb her hair 
Flowing o'er ocean as it stream'd in air? 
Or had they perish'd, and in silence slept 
Beneath the gulf wherein they boldly leapt ? 

VI. 

Young Neuha plunged into the deep, and he 

FoUow'd : her track beneath her native sea 

Was as a native's of the element, 

So smoothly, bravely, brilliantly she went, 

Leaving a streak of light behind her heel, 

Which struck and flash'd like an amphibious steel. 

Closely, and scarcely less exjiert to trace 

The depths where divers hold the pearl in chase, 

Torquil, the nursling of the northern seas. 

Pursued her liquid steps with heart and ease. 

Deep — deeper for an instant Neuha led 

The way — then upward soar'd — and as she spread 

Her arms, and flung the foam from off her locks, 

Laugh'd, and the sound was answer'd by the rocks. 

They had gain'd a central realm of earth again, 

But iook'd for tree, and field, and sky, in vain. 

Around she pointed to a spacious cave. 

Whose only portal was the keyless wave,i 

(A hollow archway by the sun unseen, 

Save through the billows' glassy veil of green, 

In some transparent ocean holiday. 

When all the finny peojile are at play,) 

Wiped with her hair the brine from Torquil's eyes, 

i And clapp'd her hands with joy at his surprise; 
Led him to where the rock appear'd to jut, 
And form a something like a Tri!on's hut; 
For all was darkness for a space, till day, 
Through clefts above let in a sober'd ray ; 

I As in some old cathedral's glimmering aisle 
The dusty monuments from light recoil, 
Thus sadly in their refuge submarine 
The vault drew half her shadow from the scene, 

VII. 

Forth from her bosom the young savage drew 
A pine torch, s'rongly girded with gnatoo; 
A plantain-leaf o er all, the more to keep 
Its latent sparkle from the sapping deep. 
This mantle kept it dry ; then from a nook 
Of the same plantain-leaf a flint she took, 
A few shrunk wither'd twigs, and from the blade 
Of Torquil's knife struck fire, and thus array'd 
The grot with torchlight. Wide it was and high, 
And show'd a self-born Gothic canopy ; 
The arch uprear'd by nature's architect, 
The archi'rave some earthquake might erect ; 
The buttress from some mountain's bosom huri'd. 
When the poles crash 'd, and water was the world; 
Or harden'd from some eirth-absorbing fire, 
While yet the globe reek'd from its funeral pyre; 



1 Of this cave fwhich is no fiction) the original will be 
found in the ninth chapter of "Mariner's Account of the 
Tonga Islands." I have taken the poetical liberty to 
transplant it to Toobonai, the last island where any dis- 
tinct account is left of Christian and his comrades. 



\] 



Canto IV.] 



THE ISLAND 



195 



The fretted pinnacle, the aisle, the nave,i 

Were there, all scoop'd by Darkness from her cave. 

There, with a Utile tinge of phantasy, 

Fantastic faces moped and mow'd on high, 

And then a mitre or a shrine would fix 

The eye upon its seeming crucifix. 

Thus Nature play'd with the stalactites, 

And built herself a chapel of the seas. 

VIII. 

And Neuha took her Torquil by the hand, 
And waved along the vault her kindled brand, 
And led him into each recess, and show'd 
The secret places of their new abode. 
Nor these alone, for all had been prepared 
Before, to soothe the lover's lot she shared : 
The mat for rest ; for dress the fresh gnatoo, 
And sandal oil to fence against the dew ; 
For food the cocoa-nut, the yam, the bread 
Borne of the fruit ; for board the plantain spread 
With its broad leaf, or turtle-shell which bore 
A banquet in the flesh it cover'd o'er ; 
The gourd with water recent from the rill, 
The ripe banana from the mellow hill ; 
A pine-torch pile to keep undying light, 
And she herself, as beautiful as night, 
To tiing her shadowy spirit o'er the scene, 
And make their subterranean world serene. 
She had foreseen, since first the stranger's sail 
Drew to their isle, that force or flight might fail, 
And form'd a refuge of the rocky den 
For Torquil's safety from his coun'rymen. 
Each dawn had wafted there her light canoe. 
Laden with all the golden fruits that grew; 
Each eve had seen her gliding through the hour 
With all could cheer or deck their sparry bower ; 
And now she spread her little store with smiles. 
The happiest daughter of the loving isles. 

IX. 

She, as he gazed with grateful wonder, press'd 
Her shelter 'd love to her impassion'd breast j 
And suited to her soft caresses, told 
An olden tale of love,— for love is old, 
Old as eternity, but not outworn 
With each new being born or to be born : 2 
How a young chief, a thousand moons ago. 
Diving for turtle in the depths below, 
Had risen, in tracking fast his ocean prey, 
Into the cave which round and o'er them lay j 
How in some desperate feud of after-time 
He shelter'd there a daughter of the clime, 
A foe beloved, and offspring of a foe, 
Saved by his tribe but for a captive's woe; 
How, when the slorm of war was still'd, he led 
His island clan to where the waters spread 
Their deep-green shadow o'er the rocky door, 
Then dived — it seem'd as if to rise no more : 
His wondering mates, amazed within their bark, 
Or deem'd him mad, or prey to the blue shark; 
Row'd round in sorrow the sea-girded rock, 
Then paused upon their paddles from the shock; 
When, fresh and springing from the deep, they saw 
A goddess rise — so deem'd they in their awe; 
And their companion, glorious by her side, 
Proud and exulting in his mermaid bride ; 



1 This may seem too minute for the general outline (in 
Mariner's Account) from which it istakt-ii. But few men 
have travelled without seeing somethiiiK of the kind — on 
land, that is. Without adverting to Ellor.i, in Mungo 
Park's last journal, he mentions having met with a rock 
or mountain so exactly resembling a Gothic cathedral, 
that only minute inspection could convince him that it 
was a work of nature. 

2 The reader will recollect the epigram of the Greek 
anthology, or its translation into most of the luodern lan- 
guages : — 

"Whoe'er thou art, thy master see — 
He was, or is, or is to be." 



And how, when undeceived, the pair they bore 

With sounding conchs and joyous shouts to shore ; 

How they had gladly lived and calmly died, 

And why not also Torquil and his bride ? 

Not mine to tell the rapturous caress 

Which foUow'd wildly in that wild recess 

This tale ; enough that all within that cave 

Was love, though buried strong as in the grave 

Where Abelard, through twenty years of death. 

When Eloisa's form was lower'd beneath 

Their nuptial vault, his arms outstretch'd, and press'd 

The kindling ashes to his kindled breast.3 

The waves without sang round their couch, their roar 

As much unheeded as if life were o'er ; 

Within, their hearis made all their harmony, 

Love's broken murmur and more broken sigh. 

X. 

And they, the cause and sharers of the shock 
Which left them exiles of the hollow rock, 
Where were they ? O'er the sea for life they plied. 
To seek from Heaven the shelter men denied. 
Another course had been their choice — but where ? 
The wave which bore them still their foes would bear, 
Who, disappointed of their former chase, 
In search of Christian now renew'd their race. 
Eager with anger, their strong arms made way, 
Like vultures bafHed of their previous prey. 
They gain'd upon them, all whose safety lay 
In some bleak crag or deeply-hidden bay : 
No further chance or choice remain'd ; and right 
For the first further rock which met their sight 
They steer'd, to take their latest view of land. 
And yield as victims, or die sword in hand ; 
Dismiss'd the natives and their shallop, who 
Would still have battled for that scanty crew; 
But Christian bade them seek their shore again. 
Nor add a sacrifice which were in vain; 
For what were simple bow and savage spear 
Against the arms which must be wielded here ? 

XI. 

They landed on a wild but narrow scene, 

Where few but Nature's footsteps yet had been; 

Prepared their arms, and with that gloomy eye, 

Stern and sustain'd, of man's extrenTity, 

When hope is gone, nor glory's self remains 

To cheer resistance against death or chains,— 

They stood, the three, as the three hundred stood 

Who dyed Thermopyl^ with holy blood. 

But, ah ! how different ! 't is the cause makes all, 

Degrades or hallows courage in its fall. 

O'er them no fame, eternal and intense. 

Blazed through the clouds of death, and beckon'd 

hence ; 
No grateful country, smiling through her tears, 
Begun the praises of a thousand years ; 
No nation's eyes would on their tomb be bent, 
No heroes envy them their monument ; 
However boldly their warm blood was spilt, 
Their life was shame, their epitaph was guilt. 
And this they knew and felt, at least the one. 
The leader of the band he had undone ; 
Who, born perchance for better things, had set 
His life upon a cast which linger'd yet: 
But now the die was to be thrown, and all 
The chances were in favour of his fall : 
And such a fall ! But still he faced the shock, 
Obdurate as a portion of the rock 
Whereon he stood, and fix'd his levell'd gun, 
Dark as a sullen cloud before the sun. 

XII. 

The boat drew nigh, well arm'd, and firm the crew 
To act whatever duty bade them do ; 

3 The tradition is attached to the story of Eloiea, that 
when her body was lowered into the grave of Abelard 
(who had been buried twenty years,) he opened bis arms 
to receive her. 



J 



196 



THE ISLAND. 



[Canto IV. 



Careless of danger, as the onward wind 

Is of the leaves it strews, nor looks behind. 

And yet perhaps they rather wish'd to go 

Against a nation's than a native foe, 

And felt that this poor victim of self-will, 

Briton no more, had once been Britain's still. 

They hail'd him to surrender — no reply ; 

Their arms were poised, and glitterd in the sky. 

They hail'd again — no answer ; yet once more 

They oflfer'd quarter louder than before. 

The echoes only, from the rocks rebound. 

Took their last'farewell of the dying sound. 

Then flash'd the flint, and blazed the volleying flame, 

And the smoke rose between them and their aim, 

While the rock rattled with the bullets' knell. 

Which peal'd in vain, and fiatten'd as they fell ; 

Then flew the only answer to be given 

By those who had 'lost all hope in earth or heaven, 

After the first fierce peal, as they pull'd nigher, 

They heard the voice of Christian shout, " Now, fire ! " 

And ere the word upon the echo died. 

Two fell ; the rest assail'd the rock's rough side, 

And, furious at the madness of their foes, 

Disdain'd all further etforts, save to close. 

And steep the crag, and all without a path, 

Each step opposed a bastion to their wrath. 

While, placed 'midst clefts the least accessible, 

Which Christian's eye was train'd to mark full well, 

The three maintain'd a strife which must not yield, 

In spots where eagles might have chosen to build. 

Their every shot told ; while the assailant fell, 

Dash'd on the shingles like the limpet shell ; 

But still enough survived, and mounted still, 

Scattering their numbers here and there, until 

Surrounded and commanded, though not nigh 

Enough for seizure, near enough to die, 

The desperate trio held aloof their fate 

But by a thread, like sharks who have gorged the bait ; 

Yet to the very last they battled well, 

And not a groan inform'd their foes who fell. 

Christian died last — twice wounded ; and once more 

Mercy was offer'd when they saw his gore ; 

Too late for life, but not too late to die. 

With, though a hostile hand, to close his eye. 

A limb was broken, and he droop'd along 

The crag, as doth a falcon reft of young. 

The sound revived him, or appear'd to wake 

Some passion which a weakly gesture spake : 

He beckon'd to the foremost, who drev.' nigh, 

But, as they near'd, he rear'd his weapon high — 

His last ball had been aim'd, but from his breast 

He tore the topmost button from his vest,i 

Down the tube dash'd it, levell'd, fired, and smiled 

As his foe fell ; then, like a serpent, coil'd 

His wounded, weary form, to where the steep 

Look'd desperate as himself along the deep j 

Cast one glance back, and clench'd his hand, and 

shook 
His last rage 'gainst the earth which he forsook ; 
Then plunged : the rock below received like glass 
His body crush'd into one gory mass. 
With scarce a shred to tell of human form. 
Or fragment for the sea-bird or the worm ; 
A fair-hair'd scalp, besmear'd with blood and weeds. 
Yet reek'd, the remnant of himself and deeds; 
Some splinters of his weapons (to the last. 
As long as hand could hold, he held them fast) 

1 In Thibault's account of Frederic the Second of Prus- 
sia, there is a singular relation of a young Frenchman, 
who with his mistress appeared to be of some rank. He 
enlisted and deserted at Schweidnitz ; and after a despe- 
rate resistance was retaken, having killed an officer, who 
attempted to seize him after he was wounded, by the dis- 
charge of his musket loaded with a button of his uniform. 
Some circumstances on his court-martial raised a great 
interest amongst his judges, who wished to discover his 
real situation in life, which he offered to disclose, but to 
the king only, to whom he requested permission to write. 
This was refused, and Frederic was filled with the greatest 
indignation, from baffled curiosity or some other motive, 
when he understood that his request had been denied. 



Yet glitterd, but at distance — hurl'd away 
To rust beneath the dew and dashing spray. 
The rest was nothing — save a life misspent, 
And soul — but who shall answer where it went ? 
'T is ours to bear, not judge the dead j and they 
Who doom to hell, themselves are on the way, 
Unless these bullies of eternal pains 
Are pardon'd their bad hearts for their worse brains. 

xni. 

The deed was over ! All were gone or ta'en, . 

The fugitive, the captive, or the slain. 

Chain'd on the deck, where once, a gallant crew, 

They stood with honour, were the wretched few 

Survivors of the skirmish on the islej 

But the last rock left no surviving spoil. 

Cold lay they where they fell, and weltering. 

While o'er them flapp'd the sea-birds' dewy wing. 

Now wheeling nearer from the neighbouring surge. 

And screaming high their harsh and hungry dirge : 

But calm and careless heaved the wave below, 

Eternal with unsympathetic flow ; 

Far o'er its face the dolphins sported on. 

And sprung the flying- fish against the sun. 

Till its dried wing relapsed from its brief height. 

To gather moisture for another flight. 

XIV. 

'T was morn ; and Neuha, who by dawn of day 

Swam smoothly forth to catch the' rising ray. 

And watch if aught approach'd the amphibious lair 

Where lay her lover, saw a sail in air: 

It flapp'd, it fill'd, and to the growing gale 

Bent its broad arch : her breath began to fail 

With fluttering fear, her heart beat thick and high. 

While yet a doubt sprung where its course might lie. 

But no 1 it came not ; fast and far away 

The shadow lessen'd as it clear'd the bay. 

She gazed, and flung the sea-foam from her eyes, 

To watch as for a rainbow in the skies. 

On the horizon verged the distant deck, 

Diminish'd. dwindled to a very speck — 

Then vanish'd. All was ocean, all \v^as joy I 

Down plunged she through the cave to rouse her boy; 

Told all she had seen, and all she hoped, and all 

That happy love could augur or recall ; 

Sprung forth again, with Torquil following free 

His bounding nereid over the broad sea ; 

Swam round the rock, to where a shallow cleft 

Hid the canoe that Neuha there had left 

Drifting along the tide, without an oar. 

That eve the strangers chased them from the shore; 

But when these vanish'd, she pursued her prow, 

Regain'd, and urged to where they found it now : 

Nor ever did more love and joy embark, 

Than now were wafted in that slender ark. 

XV. 

Again their own shore rises on the view. 

No more polluted with a hostile hue ; 

No sullen ship lay bristling o'er the foam, 

A floating dungeon ; — all was hope and home ! 

A thousand proas darted o'er the bay. 

With sounding shells, and heralded their way ; 

The chiefs came down, around the people pour'd, 

And welcomed Torquil as a son restored ; 

The women throng'd, embracing and embraced 

By Neuha, asking where they had been chased. 

And how escaped ? The tale was told ; and then 

One acclamation rent the sky again; 

And from that hour a new tradition gave 

Their sanctuary the name of " Neuha's Cave." 

A hundred fires, far flickering from the height, 

Blazed o'er the general revel of the night, 

The feast in honour of the guest, return'd 

To peace and pleasure, perilously earn'd; 

A night succeeded by such happy days 

As only the yet infant world displays. 



1807.] 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



197 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 

1807 — 1824. 



THE ADIEU. 

Written under the impression that the Author would 
soon die. 

Adieu, thou Hill ! i where early joy 

Spread roses o'er my brow ; 
Where Science seeks each loitering boy 

With knowledge to endow. 
Adieu, my youthful friends or foes, 
Partners of former bliss or woes ; 

No more through Ida's paths we stray ; 
Soon must I share the gloomy cell, 
Whose ever slumbering inmates dwell 

Unconscious of the day. 

Adieu, ye hoary Regal Fanes, 

Ye sp"ires of Granta's vale. 
Where Learning robed in sable reigns, 

And Melancholy pale. 
Ye comrades of the jovial hour, 
Ye tenants of the classic bower, 

On Cama's verdant margin placed, 
Adieu ! while memory still is mine, 
For, offerings on Oblivion's shrine, 

These scenes must be effaced. 

Adieu, ye mountains of the clime 

Where grew my youthful years ; 
Where Loch na Garr in snows sublime 

His giant summit rears. 
Why did my childhood wander forth 
From you, ye regions of the North, 

With sons of pride to roam ? 
Why did I quit my Highland cave, 
Marr's dusky heath, and Dee's clear wave. 

To seek a Sotheron home ? 
Hall of my Sires ! a long farewell — 

Yet why to thee adieu ? 
Thy vaults will echo back my knell, 

Thy towers my tomb will view : 
The faltering tongue which sung thy fall, 
And former glories of thy Hnll, 

Forgets its wonted simple note — 
But yet the Lyre retains the strings. 
And sometimes, on iEolian wings, 

In dying strains may float. ' 
Fields, which surround yon rustic cot, 

While yet I linger here, 
Adieu ! you are not now forgot. 

To retrospection dear. 
Streamlet ! 2 along whose rippling surge 
My youthful limbs were wont to urge, 

At noontide heat, their pliant course j 
Plunging with ardour from the shore, 
Thy springs will lave these limbs no more, 

Deprived of active force. 

And shall I here forget the scene. 

Still nearest to my breist ? 
Rocks rise and rivers roll between 

The spot which passion blest; 
Yet Mary,3 all thy beauties seem 
Fresh as in Love's bewitching dream, 

To me in smiles dispiay'd ; 
Till slow disease resigns his prey 
To Death, the parent of decay, 

Thine image cannot fade. 



1 Harrow. 
3 Mary Duff.- 



2 The river Grete, at Southwell. 
■E. 



And thou, my Friend ! * whose gentle love 

Yet thrills my bosom's chords, 
How much thy friendship was above 

Description's power of words ! 
Still near my breast thy gift I wear 
Which sparkled once with Feeling's tear, 

Of Love the pure, the sacred gem ; 
Our souls were equal, and our lot 
In that dear moment quite forgot j 

Let Pride alone condemn ! 

All, all is dark and cheerless now ! 

No smile of Love's deceit 
Can warm my veins with wonted glow, 

Can bid Life's pulses beat : 
Not e'en the hope of future fame 
Can wake my faint, exhausted frame. 

Or crown with fancied wreaths my head. 
Mine is a short inglorious race, — . 
To humble in the dust my face, 

And mingle with the dead. 

Oh Fame ! thou goddess of my heart ; 

On him who gains thy praise, 
Pointless must fall the Spectre's dart, 

Consumed in Glory's blaze ; 
But me she beckons from the earth, 
My name obscure, unmark'd my birth, 

My life a short and vulgar dream : 
Lost in the dull, ignoble crowd, 
My hopes recline within a shroud, ^ 

My fate is Lethe's stream. 

When I repose beneath the sod, 

Unheeded in the clay, 
Where once my playful footsteps trod, 

Where now my head must lay j 
The meed of Pity will be shed 
In dew-drops o'er my narrow bed, 

By nightly skies, and storms alone ; 
No mortal eye will deign to steep 
With tears the dark sepulchral deep 

Which hides a name unknown. 

Forget this world, my restless sprite, 

Turn, turn thy thought^ to Heaven : 
There must thou soon direct thy flight. 

If errors are forgiven. 
To bigots and to sects unknown, 
Bow down beneath the Almighty's Throne j 

To Him address thy trembling prayer : 
He, who is merciful and just, 
Will not reject a child of dust, 

Although his meanest care. 

Father of Light ! to Thee I call ; 

My soul is dark within : 
Thou, who canst mark the sparrow's fall, 

Avert the death of sin. 
Thou, who canst guide the wandering star, 
Who calm'st the elemental war, 

Whose mantle is yon boundless sky, 
My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive : 
And, since I soon must cease to live. 

Instruct me how to die. 

1807. [First published 1632.] 



4 Eddlestone, the Cambridge chorister. — E. 



17 



J 



198 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



[1807. 



TO A VAIN LADY. 

Ah, heedless girl ! why thus disclose 
What ne'er was meant for other ears ? 

Why thus destroy thine own repose 
And dig the source of future tears ? 

Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent maid. 
While lurking envious foes will smile, 

For all the follies thou hast said 
Of those who spoke but to beguile. 

Vain girl ! thy ling'ring woes are nigh, 
If thou believ'st what striplings say : 

Oh, from the deep temptation fly. 
Nor fall the specious spoiler's prey. 

Dost thou repeat, in childish boast, 
The words man utters to deceive? 

Thy peace, thy ho,"e, thy all is lost, 
If thou canst venture to believe. 

While now amongst thy female peers 
Thou tellst again the soothing tale, 

Canst thou not mark the rising sneers 
Duplicity in vain would veil ? 

These tales in secret silence hush, 
Nor make thyself the public gaze : 

What modest maid without a blush 
Recounts a flattering coxcomb's praise ? 

Will not the laughing boy despise 
Her who relates each fond conceit — 

Who, thinking Heaven is in her eyes, 
Yet cannot see the slight deceit ? 

For she who takes a soft delight 

These amorous nothings in revealing, 

Must credit all we say or write, 
While vanity prevents concealing. 

Cease, if you prize your beauty's reign ! 

No jealousy bids me reprove : 
One, who is thus from nature vain, 

I pity, but I cannot love. 

January 15, 1807. [First published 1832.] 



TO ANNE. 

Oh, Anne, your offences to me have been grievous: 
I thought from my wrath no atonement could save 
you; 

But woman is made to command and deceive us — 
I look'd in your face, and I almost forgave you. 

I vow'd I could ne'er for a moment respect you, 
Yet thought that a day's separation was long : 

When we met, I determined again to suspect you — 
Your smile soon convinced me suspicion was wrong. 

I swore, in a transport of young indi?nation, 
With feiSrent contempt evermore to disdain you : 

I saw you — my anger became admiration ; 
And now, all my wish, all my hope, 's to regain you. 

With beauty like yours, oh, how vain the contention ! 

Thus lowly I sue for forgiveness before you ; — 
At once to conclude such a fruitless dissension. 

Be false, my sweet Anne, when I cease to adore you ! 
January 16, 1607. [First published lfc32.] 



TO THE SAME. 
Oh say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed 

The heart which adores you should wish to dissever j 
Such Fates were to me most unkind ones indeed, — 

To bear me from love and from beauty for ever. 

Your frowns, lovely girl, are the Fates which alone 
Could bid me from fond admiration refrain ; 

By these, every hope, every wish were overthrown. 
Till smiles should restore me to rapture again. 



'< As the ivy and oak, in the forest entwined, 
! The rage of the tempest united must weather ; 
' My love and my life were by nature design'd 
To flourish alike, or to perish together, 

' Then say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have de- 
creed 
Your lover should bid you a lasting adieu : 
Till Fate can ordain that his bosom shall bleed. 
His soul, his existence, are centred in you. 

1807. [First published 1832.] 



TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET 

BEGINNING, 

' ' SAD IS MY VERSE,' YOU SAY, ' AND YET 
NO TEAR.' " 

Thy verse is " sad" enough, no doubt : 
A devilish deal more sad than witty ! 

Why we should weep I can't find out. 
Unless for thee we weep in pity. 

Yet there is one I pity more : 
And, much, alas ! I think he needs it : 

For he, I 'm sure, will sufler sore. 
Who, to his own misfortune, reads it. 

Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic, 
May ance be read — but never after : 

Yet their effect 's by no means tragic, 
Although by far too dull for laughter. 

But would you make our bosoms bleed. 
And of no common pang complain — 

If you would make us weep indeed. 
Tell us, you '11 read them o'er again. 

March 8, 1607. [First published 1832.J 



ON FINDING A FAN. 

In one who felt as once he felt, 

This might, perhaps, have fann'd the flame ; 
But now his heart no more will melt, 

Because that heart is not the same. 

As when the ebbing flames are low, 
The aid which once improved their light, 

And bade them burn with tiercer glow. 
Now quenches all their blaze in night. 

Thus has it been with passion's fires — 
As many a boy and girl remembers — 

While every hope of love expires, 
Extinguis'h'd with the dying embers. 

The fir.^t, though not a spark survive, 
Some careful hand may teach to burn ; 

The last, alas ! can ne'er survive ; 
No touch can bid its warmth return. 

Or, if it chance to wake again. 
Not always doom'd its heat to smother, 

It sheds (so wayward fates ordain) 
Its former warmth around another. 

1607. [First published 1632.] 



FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. 

Thou Power ! who hast ruled me through infancy's 
da}-s, 

Young offspring of Fancy, 't is time we should part; 
Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays, 

The coldest elfusion which springs from my heart. 

This bosom, responsive to rapture no more, 
Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to singj 

The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar, 
Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing. 



1807.] 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



199 



Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre, 
Yet even these themes are departed for ever ; 

No more beam the eyes which my dream could inspire, 
My visions are flown, to return, — alas, never ! 

When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl, 
How vain is the effort delight to prolong ! 

When cold is the beuity which dv.'elt in my soul,, 
What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song ? 

Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone, 
Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign? 

Or dwell with delight on the hours that nre flown ? 
Ah, no ! for those hours can no longer be mine. 

Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to love? 

Ah, surely atfection ennobles the strain ! 
But how can my numbers in sympathy move, 

When I scarcely can hope to behold them again ? 

Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done, 
And raise my loud harp to the fame of my Sires ? 

For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone 1 
For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires ! 

Untouch'd, then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast — 
'T is hush'd ; and my feeble endeavours are o'er; 

And those who have heard it will pardon the past. 
When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate no 



And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot, 
Since early affection and love is o'ercast : 

Oh ! blest had my fate been, and happy my lot. 
Had the first strain of love been thedearest, the last. 

Farewell, my young Muse ! since we now can ne'er 
meet; 
If our songs have been languid, they surely are few : 
Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet — 
The present — which seals our eternal Adieu. 

1607. [First published 1832.] 



TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD.i 

Young Oak ! when I planted thee deep in the ground, 
I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine ; 

That thy dark-waving branches would flourish around. 
And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. 

Such, such was my hope, when in infancy's years, 
On the land of my fathers I rear'd thee with pride : 

They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears, — 
Thy decay, not the weeds that surround thee can 
hide. 

I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour, 
A stranger has dwelt in the hall of ray sire ; 

Till manhood shall crown me, not mine is the power, 
But his, whose neglect may have bade thee expire. 

Oh ! hardy thou wert — even now little care 
Might revive thy young head, and thy wounds gently 
heal : 

But thou wert not fated affection to share — 

For who could suppose that a Stranger would feel ? 



Ah, droop not, my Oak ! lift thy head for a while, 
Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall run ; 

The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile, 
When Infancy's years of probation are done. 

Oh, live then, my Oak ! tower aloft from the weeds, 
That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decay. 

For still in thy bosom are life's early seeds. 
And still may thy branches their beauty display. 

Oh ! yet, if maturity's years may be thine. 
Though / shall He low in the cavern of death, 

On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine. 
Uninjured by time, or the rude \%inter's breath. 

For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave 
O'er the corse of thy lord in thy canopy laid ; 

While the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave, 
The chief who survives may recline in thy shade. 

And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot. 
He will tell them in whispers more softly to tread. 

Oh ! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot : 
Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead. 

And here, will they say, when in life's glowing prime. 
Perhaps he has pour'd forth his young simple lay, 

And here must he sleep, till the moments of time 
Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day. 

1307. [First published 1832.] 



ON REVISITING HARROW.a 

Here once engaged the stranger's view- 
Young Friendship's record simply traced ; 

Few were her words,— but yet, though few. 
Resentment's hand the line defaced. 

Deeply she cut — but not erased. 
The characters were sill so plain, 

That Friendship once return'd, and gazed, — 
Till Memory hail'd the words again. 

Repentance placed them as before ; 

Forgiveness join'd her gentle name ; 
So fair the inscription seem'd once more, 

That Friendship thought it still the same. 

Thus might the Record now have been ; 

But, ah, in spite of Hope's endeavour, 
Or Friendship's tears. Pride rush'd between. 

And blotted out the line for ever. 

September, 1807. 



1 Lord Byron, on his first arrival at Newstead, in 1T98, 
planted an oak in the garden, and nourished the fancy, 
that as the tree flourished so should he. On revisiting 
the abbey, during Lord Grey de Rnthven's residence 
there, he found the oak choked up by weeds, and almost 
destroyed; — hence these lines. Shortly after Colonel 
Wildman, the present proprietor, took possession, he one 
day noticed it, and said to the servant who was with him, 
" Here is a fine young oak; but it must be cut down, as 



EPITAPH ON JOHN ADAMS, OF SOUTH- 
WELL, 

A CARRIER, WHO DIED OF DRUNKENNESS. 
John Adams lies here, of the parish of Southwell, 
A Carrier who carried his can to his mouth well ; 
He carried so much, and he carried so fast. 
He could carry no more — so was carried at last ; 
For, the liquor he drank, being too much for one. 
He could not carry off, — so he's now carri-an. 

September, 1607. 



TO MY SON. 

Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue. 
Bright as thy mother's in their hue ; 
Those rosy lips, whose dimples play 
And smile to steal the heart away. 



it grows in an improper place." 



I hope not. 



plied the man ; '■ for it 's the one that my lord was so 
fond of, because he set it himself." The Colonel has, of ^ 
course, taken every possible care of it. It is already in- j 
quired after by strangers, as " the Byron oak," and pro- 
mises to share, in after times, the celebrity of Shak- 
Bpeare's mulberry, and Pope's willow. — E. 



2 Some years ago, when at Harrow, a friend of the 
author engraved on a particular spot the names of both, 
with a few additional words, as a memorial. Afterwards, 
on receiving some real or imagined injury, the author 
destroyed the frail record before he left Harrow. On re- 
visiting the place in 1807, he wrote under it these etau- 



^^•^d^S^^ 



■v^, 



200 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



[1808, 



f^ 



Recall a scene of former joy, 

And touch thy father's heart, my Boy I 

And thou canst lisp a father's name — 
Ah, William, were thine own the same, — 
No self-reproach — but, let me cease — 
My care for thee shall purchase peace ; 
Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy, 
And pardon all the past, my Boy ! 

Her lowly grave the turf has prest, 
And thou hast known a stranger's breast; 
Derision sneers upon thy birth. 
And yields thee scarce a name on earth ; 
Yet shall not these one hope destroy,— 
A Father's heart is thine, my Boy ! 

Why, let the world unfeeling frown, 
Must I fond Nature's claim disown? 
Ah, no — though moralists reprove, 
I hail thee, dearest child of love, 
Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy — 
A Father guards thy birth, my Boy 1 

Oh, 't will be sweet in thee to trace, 
Ere age has wrinkled o'er my face, 
Ere half my glass of life is run, 
At once a brother and a son ; 
And all my wane of years employ 
In justice done to thee, my Boy ! 

Although so young thy heedless sire. 
Youth will not damp parental fire ; 
And, wert thou still less dear to me, 
While Helen's form revives in thee, 
The breast, which beat to former joy, 
Will ne'er desert its pledge, my Boy ! 

1607. [First published 1830.] 



FAREWELL ! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER. 

Farewell ! if ever fondest prayer 

For others' weal avaiKd on high. 
Mine will not all be lost in air. 

But waft thy name beyond the sky. 
'T were vain to speak, to weep, to sigh ; 

Oh ! more than tears of blood can tell, 
When wrung from guilfs expiring eve, 

Are in that word — Farewell ! — Farewell ! 

These lips are mute, these eyes are dryj 

But in my breast and in my brain, 
Awake the pangs that poss not by. 

The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. 
My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, 

Though grief and passion there rebel ; 
I only know we loved in vain — 

I only feel — Farewell ! — Farewell ! 



BRIGHT BE THE PLACE OF THY SOUL. 

Bright be the place of thy soul ! 

No lovelier spirit than thine 
E'er burst from its mortal control 

In the orbs of the blessed to shine. 

On earth thou wert all but divine. 

As thy soul shall immortally be ; 
And our sorrow may cease to repine, 

When we know that thy God is with thee. 

Light be the turf of thy tomb ! 

May its verdure like emeralds be: 
There should not be the shadow of gloom 

In aught that reminds us of thee. 

Young flowers and an evergreen tree 
May spring from the spot of thy rest : 

But nor cypress nor yew let us see ; 
For why should we mourn for the blest ? 



WHEN WE TWO PARTED. 

When we two parted 

In silence and tears, 
Half broken-hearted 

To sever for years, 
Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 

Colder thy kiss ; 
Truly that hour foretold 

Sorrow to this. 

The dew of the morning 

Sunk chill on my brow — 
It felt like the warning 

Of what I feel now. 
Thy vows are all broken, 

And light is thy fame; 
1 hear thy name spoken, 

And share in its shame. 

They name thee before me, 

A knell to mine ear; 
A shudder comes o'er me — 

Why wert thou so dear ? 
They know not I knew thee. 

Who knew thee too well : — 
Long, long shall I rue thee, 

Too deeply to tell. 

In secret we met — 

In silence I grieve, 
That thy heart could forget, 

Thy spirit deceive. 
If I should meet thee 

After long years. 
How should I greet thee? — 

With silence and tears. 



TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND. 

Few years have pass'd since thou and I 
Were firmest friends, at least in name ; 

And childhood's gay sincerity 
Preserved our feelings long the same. 

But now, like me, too well thou know'at 
What trifles oft the heart recall ; 

And those who once have loved the most 
Too soon forget they loved at all. 

And such the change the heart displays, 
So frail is early friendship's reign, 

A month's brief lapse, perhaps a day's, 
Will view thy mind estranged again. 

If so, it never shall be mine 

To mourn the loss of such a heart ; 

The fault was Nature's fault, not thine, 
Which made thee fickle as thou art. 

As rolls the ocean's changing tide, 
So human feelings ebb and flow ; 

And who would in a breast confide 
Where stormy passions ever glow? 

It boots not that, together bred, 

Our childish days were days of joy : 

My spring of life has quickly fled ; 
Thou, too, hast ceased to be a boy» 

And when we bid adieu to youth, 
Slaves to the specious world's control, 

We sigh a long f \rewell to truth ; 
That world corrupts the noblest soul. 

Ah, joyous season ! when the mind 
Dare's all things boldly but to lie ; 

When thought ere spoke is unconfined. 
And sparkles in the placid eye. 

Not so in Man's maturer years, 
When Man himself is but a tool ; 

When interest sways our hopes and fears. 
And all must love and hate by rule. 



1808.] 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



201 



With fools in kindred vice the same, 
We learn at length our faults to blend; 

And those, and those alone, n)ay claim 
The prostituted name of friend. 

Such is the common lot of man : 
Can we then 'scape from folly free? 

Can we reverse the general plan. 
Nor be what all in turn must be? 

No; for myself, so dark my fate 

Through every turn of life hath been; 

Man and the worid so much I hate, 
I care not when I quit the scene. 

But thou, with spirit frail and light. 
Wilt shine awhile, and pass away ; 

As glow-worms sparkle through the night, 
But dare not stand the test of day. 

Alas ! whenever folly calls 

Where parasites and princes meet, 

(For cheribh'd first in royal halls. 
The welcome vices kindly greet) 

Ev'n now thou 'rt nightly seen to add 
One insect !o the fluttering crowd; 

And still thy trifling heart is glad 

To join the vain, and court the proud. 

There dost thou glide from fair to fair, 
Still simpering on with eager baste, 

As flies along the gay parterre. 

That taint the flowers they scarcely taste. 

But say, what nymph will prize the flame 
Which seemsj as marshy vapours move, 

To flit along from dame to dame, 
An ignis-fatuus gleam of love ? 

What friend for thee, howe'er inclined. 
Will deign to own a kindred care ? 

Who will debase his manly mind, 
For friendship every fool may share ? 

In time forbear ; amidst the throng 
No more so base a thing be seen ; 

No more so idly pass along ; 
Be something, any thing, but 



LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED 
FROM A SKULL.i 

Start not — nor deem my spirit fled, 

In me behold the only skull, 
From which, unlike a living head, 

Whatever flows is never dull. 

I lived, I loved, I quaff'd like thee: 
I died : let earth my bones resign ; 

Fill up — thou canst not injure me; 
The worm hath fouler lips than thine. 

Better to hold the sparkling grape, 

Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood; 

And circle in the goblet's shape 

The drink of gods, than reptile's fot)d. 



ILord Byron gives the following nccount of this cup: — 
"The gardener, in digging, discovered a skull that had 
probably belonged to some jolly friar or monk of the ab- 
bey, about the time it was demonasteried. Observing it 
to be of giant size, and in a perfect slate of preservation, 
a strange fancy seized me of having it setand mounted as 
a drinking-cnp. I accordingly sent it to town, and it 
returned with a very high polish, and of a mottled colour 
like tortoise-shell." It is now in the possession of Colo- 
nel Wildman, the proprietor of Newstead Abbey. In 
several of our elder dramatists, mention is made of the 
custom of quaffing wine out of similar cups. For exam- 
ple, in Dekker's " Wonder of a Kingdom," Torrent 
says, — 

" Would I had ten thousand soldiers' heads, 
Their skuUa set all in silver ; to drink healths 
To his confusion who first invented war."— E. 



Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone, 

In aid of others' let me shine ; 
And when, alas ! our brains are gone. 

What nobler substitute than wine ? 

Quaff while thou canst : another race, 
When thou and thine like me are sped, 

May rescue thee from earth's embrace, 
And rhyme and revel with the dead. 

Why not? since through life's little day 
Our heads such sad effects produce ; 

Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay, 
This chance is theirs, to be of use. 

Newstead Abbey, 1808, 



WELL! THOU ART HAPPT.a 

Well ! thou art happy, and I feel 
That I should thus be happy too ; 

For still my heart regards thy weal 
Warmly, as it was wont to do. 

Thy husband 's blest — and 't will impart 
Some pangs to view his happier lot : 

But let them pass — Oh ! how my heart 
Would hate him, if he loved thee not ! 

When 1 ate I saw thy favouri'e child, 

I thought my jealous heart would break ; 

But when the unconscious infant smiled, 
1 kiss'd it for its mother's sake. 

I kiss'd it, — and repress'd my sighs 

Its father in its face to see ; 
But then it had its mother's eyes. 

And they were all to love and me. 

Mary, adieu ! I must away : 

While thou art blest I '11 not repine ; 

But near thee 1 can never stay; 
My heart would soon again be thine. 

I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride, 
Had quench'd at length my boyish flame ; 

Nor knew, till seated by thy side. 
My heart in all, — save hope, — the same. 

Yet was I calm : I knew the time 

My breast would thrill before thy look; 

But now to tremble were a crime — 
We met, — and not a nerve was shook. 

I saw thee gaze upon my face. 

Yet meet with no confusion there: 
One only feeling could'st thou trace; 

The sullen calmness of despair. 
Away ! away ! my early dream 

Remembrance never must awake : 
Oh ! where is Lethe's fabled stream ? 

My foolish heart be still, or break. 

November 2, 1808. 



INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF 
NEWFOUNDLAND DOG.* 

When some proud son of man returns to earth. 
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth, 



2 These lines were printed originally in Mr. Hcbhouee's 
Miscellany, A few days before they were written, the 
Poet had been invited to dine at Annesley. On the infant 
daughter of his fair hostess being brought into the room, 
he started involuntarily, and with the utmost difficulty 
suppressed his emotion. To the sensations of that mo- 
ment we are indebted for these beautiful stanzas. — E. 

3 Lord Byron wrote to his mother on this same 2d Ko- 
vember, announcing his intention of sailing for India in 
March, 1809.— E. 

4 This monument is still a conspicuous ornament in 
the garden of Newstead. The following is the Inscription 
by which the verses are preceded : — 



'n^m 



^g^ 



x« 



. 



202 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



[1808. 



The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe, 

And storied urns record who rests below : 

When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, 

Not what he was, but what he should have been: 

But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, 

The first to welcome, foremost to defend, 

Whose honest heart.is still his masters own, 

Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, 

Unhonourd falls, unnoticed all his worth, 

Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth : 

While man, vain insect ! hopes to be forgiven, 

And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. 

Oh man ! thou feeble tenant of an hour, 

Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power, 

Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust. 

Degraded mass of animated dust ! 

Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, 

Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit ! 

By nature vile, ennobled but by name, 

Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. 

Ye ! who perchance behold this simple urn, 

Pass on — it honours none you wisli to mourn : 

To mark a friend's remains these stones arise; 

I never knew but one, — and here he lies.^ 

Newstead Abbey, November 30, 1803. 



TO A LADY, 

ON BEING ASKED MY REASON FOR QUITTING 
ENGLAND IN THE SPRING. 

When Man, expell'd from Eden's bowers, 

A moment linger'd near the gate, 
Each scene recall'd the vanish'd hours, 

And bade him curse his future fate. 

But, wandering on through distant climes. 
He learnt to bear his load of grief; 

Just gave a sigh to other times, 
And found in busier scenes relief. 

Thus, lady! 2 will it be with me, 

And I must view thy charms no more ; 

For, whilj I linger near to thee, 
I sigh for all 1 knew before. 

In flight I shall be surely wise, 
Escaping from temptation's snare ; 



"Near this spot 
Are deposited the Remains of one 
Who possessed Beauty without Vanity, 
Strength without Insolence, 
Courage without Ferocity, 
And all the Virtues of Man witl.out his Vices. 
This Praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery 
If inscribed over humnn ashes, 
Is but a just tribute to the Memory of 
BOATSWAIN, a Dog, 
Who was born at Newfoundland, Mav, 1P03, 
And died at Newstead Abbey, Nov. 18, 1808." 
Lord Byron thus announced the death of his favourite to 
Mr. Hodgson : — "Boatswain is dead I~he expired in a 
state of madness, on the Ibth, after suffering much, yet 
retaining all the gentleness of his nature to the last; ne- 
ver attempting to do the least injury to any one near 
him. I have now lost every thing except old Murray." 
By the will which he executed in 1811, he directed that 
his own body should be buried in a vault in the garden 
near his faithful dog.— E. 

1 In Mr. Hobhouse's Miscellany, in which the Epitaph 
was first published, the last line runs thus: — 

"I knew but one nnchan?ed — and here he lies." 
The reader will not f.iil to observe, that this inscription 
was written at a time when the Poet's early feelings with 
respect to the lady of Annesley had been painfully re- 
vived.— E. 

2 In the first copy, "Thus Mary!" — (Mrs. Musters). 
The reader will find a portrait of this lady in Finden's 
Illustrations of Lord Byron's Works, No. iii. — E. 



I cannot view my paradise 
Without the wish of dwelling there.3 

December 2, 1808. 



REMIND ME NOT, REMIND ME NOT. 

Remind me not, remind me not, 
Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours, 
When all my soul was given to theej 
Hours that may never be forgot. 
Till time unnerves our vilal powers, 
And thou and I shall cease to be. 

Can I forget — canst thou forget, 
When playing with thy golden hair, 

How quick thy fluttering heart did move? 
Oh ! by my soul, I see thee yet. 

With eyes so iinguid, breast so fair, 
And lips, though silent, breathing love. 

When thus reclining on my breast, 
Those eyes threw" back a glance so sweet, ^ 
As half reproach'd yet raised desire. 
And still we near and nearer prest, 
And still our glowing lips would meet, 
As if in kisses to expire. 

And then those pensive eyes would close,' 
And bid their lids each other seek, 
Veiling the azure orbs below ; 
While their long lashes' darken'd gloss 
Seem'd stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek, 
Like raven's plumage smooth'd on snow, 

I dreamt last night our love return'd, 
And, sooih to say, that very dream 
Was sweeter in its phantasy, 
Than if for other hearts 1 burn'd, 
For eyes that neer like thine could beam 
In rapture's wild reality. 

Then tell me not, remind me not. 
Of hours which, though for ever gone, 
Can still a pleasing dream restore. 
Till thou and I shall be forgot. 
And senseless, as the mouldering stone 
Which tells that we shall be no more. 



THERE WAS A TIME, I NEED NOT NAME. 

There was a time, I need not name, 

Since it will ne'er forgotten be, 
When all our feelings were the same 

As still my soul hath been to thee. 

And from that hour when first thy tongue 
Confess'd a love which equall'd mine, 

Though many a grief my heart hath wrung. 
Unknown, and thus unfelt, by thine — 



3 In Mr. Hobhouse's volume, the line stood, — "With- 
out a wish to enter there." The following is an extract 
from an unpublished letter of Lord Byron, written in 
1823, only three days previous to his leaving Italy for 
Greece : — " Miss Chaworlh was two years older than my- 
self. She married a man of an ancient and respectable 
family, but her marriage was not a happier one than my 
own. Her conduct, however, was irreproachable ; but 
there was not sympathy between their characters. I had 
not seen her for many years, when an occasion offered. I 
was upon the pnint, with her consent, of paying her a 
visit, when my sister, who has always had more influence 
over me than any one else, persuaded me not to do it. 
♦ For,' said she, «if you go you will fall in love again, and 
then there will be a scene ; one step will lead to another, 
et cela fera un eclat.' I was guided by those reasons, 
and shortly after married,— with what success it is useless 
to sav." — E. 



1808.] 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



203 



None, none hath sunk so deep as this — 
To think how all that love hath flown j 

Transient as every faithless kiss, 
But transient in thy breast alone. 

And yet my heart some solace knew, 
When la'e I heird thy lips declare, 

In accents once iinagi'ned true. 
Remembrance of the days that were. 

Yes! my adored, yet most unkind ! 

Though thou wilt never love again, 
To me 't is doubly sweet to find 

Remembrance of that love remain. 

Yes! 't is a glorious thought to me, 
Nor longer shall my soul repine, 

Whate'er thou art or e"er shalt be, 
Thou hast been dearly, solely mine. 



AND WILT THOU WEEP WHEN I AM LOW ? 

And wilt thou weep when I am low ? 

Sweet lady ! speak those words again : 
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so — 

I would not give that bosom pain. 

My heart is sad, my hopes are gone. 

My blood runs coldly through my breast ; 

And when I peri.-h, thou alone 
Wilt sigh above my place of rest. 

And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace 
Doth through my cloud of anguish shine : 

And for a while my sorrows cease. 
To know thy heart hath felt for mine. 

Oh lady ! blessed be that tear — 

It falls for one who cannot weep; 
Such precious drops are doubly dear 

To those whose eyes no tear may steep. , 

Sweet lady ! once my heart was warm 

With every feeling soft as thine ; 
But beauty's self hath ceased to charm 

A wretch created to repine. 

Yet wilt thou weep when I am low ? 

Sweet lady ! speak those words again ; 
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so — 

I would not give that bosom pain. 



FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN. 

A SONG. 

Fill the goblet again ! for I never before 

Felt the glovr which now gladdens my heart to its 

core ; 
Let us drink! — who would not? — since, through 

life's varied round. 
In the goblet alone no deception is found. 

I have tried in its turn all that life can supply ; 

I have bask'd in the beam of a dark rolling eye ; 

I have loved ! — who has not ? — but what heart can 

declare 
That pleasure existed while passion was there ? 

In the days of my youth, when the heart's in its 

spring. 
And dreams that affection can never take wing, 
I had friends! — who has not? — but what tongue 

will avow, 
That friends, rosy wine ! are so faithful as thou ? 

The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange, 
Friendship shifts with the sunbeam — thou never can's! 

change ; 
Thou grow'st old — who does not? — but on earth 

what appears. 
Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years ? 



i Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, ♦ 

; Should a rival bow down to our idol below, 

I We are jealous! — who's not ? — thou hast no such 

alloy ; 
\ For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy. 

I Then the season of youth and its vanities past, 

; For refuge we fly to the goblet at last ; 

j There we find — do we not ? — in the flow of the soul, 

I That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. 

I When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth, 
i And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth, 
I Hope was left, — was she not ? — but the goblet we 

kiss, 
And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss. 

I Long life to the grape ! for when summer is flown, 
j The age of our nectar shall gladden our own : 

We must die — who shall not ? — May our sins be for- 
I given, 

And Hebe shall never be idle in Heaven. 



STANZAS TO A LADY ON LEAVING ENG- 
LAND.i 

'T is done — and shivering in the gale 
The bark unfurls her snowy sail ; 
And whistling o'er the bending mast, 
Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast; 
And I must from this land be gone, 
Because I cannot love but one. 

But could I be what I have been, 
And could I see what I have seen — 
Could I repose upon the breast 
Which once my warmest wishes blest — 
I should not seek another zone 
Because I cannot love but one. 

'T is long since I beheld that eye 
Which gave me bliss or misery ; 
And I have striven, but in vain. 
Never to think of it again : 
For though I fly from Albion, 
I still can only love but one. 

As some lone bird, without a mate, 
My weary heart is desolate ; 
I look around, and cannot trace 
One friendly smile or welcome face, 
And ev'n in crowds am still alone, 
Because I cannot love but one. 

And I will cross the whitening foam, 
And I will seek a foreign home ; 
Till I forget a false fair face, 
I ne'er shall find a resting place. 
My own dark thoughts I cannot shun, 
But ever love, and love but one. 

The poorest, veriest wretch on earth 
Still finds some hospitable hearth. 
Where friendship's or love's softer glow 
May smile in joy or soothe in woe ; 
But friend or leman I have none, 
Because I cannot love but one. 

I go — but wheresoe'er I flee 
There's not an eye will weep for mej 
There's not a kind congenial heart, 
Where I can claim the meanest part; 
Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone, 
Wilt sigh, although I love but one. 

To think of every early scene. 

Of what we are, and what we 've been. 

Would whelm some softer hearts with woe — 

But mine, alas ! h is stood the blow ; 

Yet still beats on as it begun. 

And never truly loves but one. 



1 In the original MS., " To Mrs. Musters. 



204 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



[1809. 



And who that dear loved one may be, 
Is not for vulgar eyes to see ; 
And why that early love was cross'd, 
Thou kuow'st the best, I feel the most ; 
But few that dwell beneath the sun 
Have loved so long, and loved but one. 

I 've tried another's fetters too, 
"With charms perchance as fair to view; 
And I would fain have loved as well, 
But some unconquerable s; ell 
Forbade my bleeding breast to own 
A kindred care for aught but one. 

'T would soothe to take one lingering view, 
And bless thee in my last adieu ; 
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep 
For him that wanders o'er the deep ; 
His home, his hope, his youth are gone, 
Yet still he loves, and loves but one. 



LINES TO MR. HODGSON. 
WRITTEN ON BOARD THE LISBON PACKET. 
Huzza ! Hodgson, we are going, 

Our embargo 's off at last ; 
Favourable breezes blowing 

Bend the canvass o'er the mast. 
From aloft the signal "s streaming, 
Hark ! the farewell gun is fired ; 
Women screeching, tars blaspheming, 
Tell us that ourlime 's expired. 
Here 's a rascal 
Come »o task all, 
Prying from the custom-house ; 
Trunks unpacking, 
Cases cracking, 
Not a corner for a mouse 
'Scapes unsearch'd amid the racket, 
Ere we sail on board the Packet. 

Now our boatmen quit their mooring, 

And all hands must ply the oar ; 
Baggage from the quay is lowering. 

We're impatient — push from shore. 
" Have a care ! that case holds liquor — 
Stop the boat — I 'm sick — oh Lord ! " 
** Sick, ma'am, danmie, you '11 be sicker 
Ere you 've been an hour on board." 
Thus are screiming 
Men and women, 
Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks; 
Here entangling. 
All are wrangling, 
Stuck together close as wax. — 
Such the general noise and racket, 
Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet. 

Now we 've reach'd er, lo ! the captain, 

Gallant Kidd, commands the crew ; 
Passengers their births are clapt in, 

Some to grumble, some to spew. 
" Hey day ! cill you that a cabin ? 

Why 't is hardly three feet square ; 
Not enough to stow Queen Mali in — 

Who the deuce can harbour there ? " 
" Who, sir ? plenty — 
Nobles twenty 

Did at once my vessel fill." — 
" Did they ? Jesus, 
How you squeeze us ! 

Would to God they did so still : 
Then I 'd scape the heat and racket 
Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet." 
Fletcher '. Murray ! Bob ! i where are you? 

Stretch'd along the deck like logs — 
Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you ! 

Here's a rope's end for the dogs. 



1 Lord Byron's three servants. — E. 



Hobhouse muttering fearful curses, 
As the hatchway down he rolls, 
Now his breakfast, now his verses, 
Vomits forth — and damns our souls. 
" Here 's a stanza 
On Braganza — 
Help ! " — "A couplet ? " — No, a cup 
Of warm water — " 
"What's the matter?" 
" Zounds ! my liver 's coming up j 
I shall not survive the racket 
Of this brutal Lisbon Packet." 

Now at length we 're off for Turkey, 

Lord kno\^ when we shall come back ! 
Breezes foul and tempests murky 

May unship us in a crack. 
But, since life at most a jest is. 

As philosophers allow. 
Still to laugh by far the best is, 
Then laugh on — as I do now. 
Laugh at all things. 
Great and small things. 
Sick or well, at sea or shore; 
While we 're quaffing, 
Let 's have laughing — 
Who the devil cares for more? — 
Some good wine ! and who would lack it, 
Ev'n on board the Lisbon Packet ? 3 

Falmouth Roads, June 30, 1609. 



LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM, AT 
MALTA. 
As o'er the cold sepulchral stone 

Some name arrests the passers-by ; 

Thus, when thou view'st this page alone, 

IVIay mine attract thy pensive eye ! 

And when by thee that name is read, 
Perchance in some succeeding year, 

Reflect on me as on the dead. 
And think my heart is buried here. 

September 14, 1809. 



TO FLORENCE. 3 

Oh Lady ! when I left the shore, 

The distant shore which gave me birth, 

I hardly thought to grieve once more, 
To quit another spot on earth : 



2 In the letter in which these lively verses were en- 
closed, Lord Byron says: — "I leave England without 
regret — I shall return to it without pleasure. I am like 
Adam, the fiist convict sentenced to transportation; but 
I have no Eve, and have eaten no apple but what was as 
sour as a crab; and thus ends my first chapter." — E. 

3 These liiit-s were written at Malta. The lady to whom 
they were addressed, bnd whom he afterwards apostro- 
phises in the stanzas on the thunder-storm of Zitza, and 
in Childe Harold, is thus mentioned in a letter to his 
mother: — "This letter is committed to the charge of a 
very extraordinary lady, whom you have doubtless heard 
of, Mrs. Spencer Smith, of whose escape the Marquis de 
Salvo published a narrative a few years ago. She has 
since been shipwrecked; and her life has been from,its 
commencement so fertile in remarkal)le incidents, that in 
a romance they would appear improbable. She was born 
at Constantinople, where her father, Baron Heibert, was 
Austrian Ambassador; married unhappily, yet has never 
been impeached in print of character; excited the ven- 
geance of Bonaparte, by taking a part in some conspiracy; 
several times risked her life; and is not yet five and 
twenty. She is here on her way to England to join her 
husband, being obliged to leave Trieste, where she was 
p lying a visit to her mother, by the approach of the 
Frem h, and embarks soon in a ship of war. Since my 
arrival here I have had scarcely any other companion. I 
have found her very pretty, very accomplished, and ex- 
tremely eccentric. Buonaparte is even now so incensed 
against her, that her life would be in danger if she were 
taken prisoner a second time." — E. 



,^t-ttr' ftBi£^amt^^ttlm 



V 



1809.] OCCASIONAL PIECES. 205 


Yet here, amidst this barren isle, 


Is yon a cot I saw, though low ? 


Where panting Nature droops the head, 


When lightning broke ihe gloom — 


Where only thou art seen to smile, 


How welcome were its shade 1 — ah, no ! 


I view my parting hour with dread. 


'T is but a Turkish tomb. 


Though far from Albin's craggy shore 
^ Divided by the dark-blue main j 


Through sounds of foaming waterfalls, 
I hear a voice exclaim — 


A few, brief, rolling seisons o'er. 


My way-worn countryman, who calls 


Perchance I view her clitts again : 


On distant England's name. 


But wheresoe'er I now may roim, 




Through scorching clime, and varied sea, 


A shot is fired — by foe or friend ? 


Though Time restore me to my home, 
I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee : 


Another — 't is to tell 
The mountain-peasants to descend, 




And lead us where they dwell. 


On thee, in whom at once conspire 




All charms which heedless hearts can move. 


Oh ! who in such a night will dare 


Whom but to see is to adiTiire, 


To tempt the wilderness ? 


And, oh ! forgive the v/ord — to love. 


And who 'mid thunder-peals can hear 


Forgive the word, in one who ne'er 


Our signal of distress } 


With such a word can more offend ; 


And who that heard our shouts would rise 


And since thy heart I cannot share, 


To try the dubious road? 
Nor rather deem from nightly cries 


Believe me, what I am, thy friend. 


And who so cold as look on thee. 


That outlaws were abroad. 


Thou lovely wand'rer, and be less ? 
Nor be, what man should ever be. 




Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour ! 


The friend of Beauty in distress ? 


More fiercely pours the storm: 


Yet here one thought has still the power 


Ah ! who would think that form had past 


To keep my bosom warm. 


Through D mger's most destructive path, 




Had braved the death-wing'd tempest's blast, 


While wandering through each broken path, 


And 'scaped a tyrant's fiercer wrath ? 


O'er brake and cnggy brow; 




While elements exhaust their wrath. 


Lady ! when I sh-ill view the walls 


Sweet Florence, where art thou? 


Where free Byzantium once arose. 




And Stamboul's Oriental halls 




The Turkish tyrants now enclose; 


Not on the sea, not on the sea. 
Thy bark hath long been gone: 


Though mightiest in the lists of fame, 


Oh, may the storm that pours on me. 


That glorious city still shall be ; 


Bow down my head alone ! 


On me "t will hold a dearer claim. 




As spot of thy nativity : 


Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc, 


And though I bid thee now farewell, 

When 1 behold that wond'rous scene, 
Since where thou art I may not dwell. 


When last I press'd thy lip ; 
And long ere now, with foaming shock, 
Impell'd thy gallant ship. 


'T will soothe, to be where thou hast been. 


Now thou art safe ; nay, Tong ere now 


September, 1809. 


Hast trod the shore of Spain ; 


o 


'T were hard if aught so fair as thou 




Should linger on the main. 


STANZAS 






And since I now remember thee 


COMPOSED DURING A THUNDER-STORM.^ 


In darkness and in dread, 


Chill and mirk is the nightly blast. 
Where Pindus' mountains rise, 


As in Ihose hours of revelry 
Which mirth and music sped ; 


And angry clouds are pouring fast 
The vengeance of the skies. 


Do thou, amid the fair white walls, 
If Cadiz yet be free. 


Our guides are gone, our hope is lost, 


At times from out lier latticed halls 


And lightnings, as they play, 


Look o'er the dark blue sea ; 


But show where rocks our path have crost. 




Or gild the torrent's spray. 


Then think upon Calypso's isles, 
Endear'd by days gone by ; 




IThis thunder-stoim occurred during the night of the 


To others give a thousand smiles. 


nth October, 1809, when Lord Byron's guides had lost the 


To me a single sigh. 


road to Zitza, near the range of mountains formerly called 




Pindus, in Albania. Mr. Hobtiouse, who had rode on be- 




fore the rest of the party, and arrived at Zitza just as the 


And when the admiring circle mark 


evening set in, describes the thunder as " rolling without 


The paleness of thy face, 
A half-form'd tear, a transient spark 


intermission, the echoes of one peal not ceasing to roll in 


the mountains, before another tremendous crash burst 


Of melancholy grace, 


over our heads; whilst the plains and the distant hills ap- 


peared in a perpetual blaze." "The tempest," he says, 




" was altogether terrific, and worthy of the Grecian Jove. 


Again thou 'It smile, and blushing shun 


My Friend, with the priest and the servants, did not enter 


Some coxcomb's raillery ; 


our hut till three in the morning. I now learnt from him 


Nor own for once thou thought'st of one, 


that they had lost their way, and that after wandering up 


Who ever thinks on thee. 


and down in total ignorance of their position, they had 




stopped at last near some Turkish tombstones and a tor- 
rent, which they saw tiy the flashes of lightning. They 


Though smile and sigh alike are vain, 


had been thus exposed for nine hours. It was long before 


When sever'd hearts repine. 


we ceased to talk of the thunder-storm in the plain of 


My spirit flies o'er mount and main, 


Iitza."~E. 


And mourns in search of thine. 



18 



n 



206 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



[1810. 



STANZAS 

WRITTEN IN PASSING THE AMBRACIAN 

GULF. 

Through cloudless skies, in silveay sheen, 
Full beams the moon on Actium's coast : 

And on these waves, for Egypt's queen, 
The ancient world was v\ on and lost. 

And now upon the scene I look, 

The azure grave of many a Roman ; 

Where stern Ambition once forsook 
His wavering crown to follow woman. 

Florence ! whom I will love as well 

As ever yet was said or sung, 
(Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell) 

Whilst thou art fair and I am young ; 

Sweet Florence ! those were pleasant times, 
When worlds were staked for ladies' eyes: 

Had bards as many realms as rhymes. 
Thy charms might raise nev/ Antouies. 

Though Fate forbids such things to be^ 
Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curl'd ! 

I cannot lose a world for thee. 
But would not lose thee for a world. 

November 14, 1809. 



THE SPELL IS BROKE, THE CHARM IS 
FLOWN ! 

WRITTEN AT ATHENS, JANUARY 16, 1810. 

The spell is broke, the charm is flown ! 

Thus is it with life's fitful fever : 
We madly smile when we should groan; 

Delirium is our best deceiver. 

Each lucid interval of thought 

Recalls the woes of Nature's charter; 

And he that acts as wise men ought, 
But lives, as saints have died, a martyr. 



^VRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SES- 
TOS TO ABYDOS.i 

If, in the month of dark December, 

Leander, who was nightly wont 
(What maid will not the tale remember ?) 

To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont ! 



If, when the wintry tempest roar'd, 

He sped to Hero, nothing loth. 
And thus of old thy current pour'd, 

Fair Venus ! hovv I pity both ! 

For me, degenerate modern wretch, 
Though in the genial month of May, 

My dripping limbs I faintly stretch. 
And think I 've done a feat to-day. 

But since he cross'd the rapid tide, 

According to the doubtful story. 
To woo, — and — Lord knows what beside, 

And swam for Love, as I for Glory ; 

'T were hard to say who fared the best : 
Sad mortals ! thus the gods still plague you! 

He lost his labour, I my jest : 

For he was drown'd, and I 've the ague.^ 

May 9, 1810. 



LINES IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK AT OR- 
CKOMENUS. 

IN THIS BOOK A TRAVELLER HAD WRIT- 
TEN : — 

" Fair Albion, smiling, sees her son depart 
To trace the birth and nursery of art: 
Noble his object, glorious is his aim ; 
He comes to Athens, and he writes his name." 

BENEATH WHICH LORD BYRON INSERTED 

THE following; — 

The modest bard, like many a bard unknown. 
Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own ; 
But yet, whoe'er he be, to say no worse, 
His name would bring more credit than his verse.3 



MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART. 

ZwT? iJbov, ards ayanCo. 

Maid of Athens, ere we part. 
Give, oh give me back my heart! 
Or, since that has left my breast, 
Keep it now, and take the rest ! 
Hear my vow before I go, 
TtWY] jiov, crdg dyaTrcD. 



1 On the 3d of May, 1810, while the Salsette (Captain 
Bathurst) was lying in the Dardanelles, Lieutenant Eken- 
head. of that frigate, and the writer of these rhymes, 
swam from the European shore to the Asiatic — by the by, 
from Abydos to Sestos would have been more correct. 
The whole distance, from the place whence we started to 
our landing on the other side, including the length we 
were carried by the current, was computed by those on 
board the frigate at upwards of four English miles; though ' 
the actual breadth is barely one. The rapidity of the cur- 
rent ie such that no boat can row directly across, and it 
may, in some measure, be estimated from the circum- 
stance of the whole distanre being accomplished by one j 
of the parties in an hour and five, and by the other in an . 
hour and ten minutes. The water was extremely cold, 
from the melting of the mountain snows. About three 
weeks before, in April, we had made an attempt ; but, 
having ridden all the way from the Troad the same morn- 
ing, and the water being of an icy chillness, we found it 
necessary to postpone the completion till the frigate an- i 
chored below the castles, when we swam the straits, as 
just stated ; entering a considerable way above the Euro- 
pean, and landing below the Asiatic, fort. Chevalier says 
that a young .lew swam the same distance for his mis- 
tress; and Oliver mentions its having been done by a Ne- 
apolitan; but our consul, Tarragona, remembered neither I 
of these circumstances, and tried to dissuade us from the | 
attempt. A number of the Salsette's crew were known I 
to have accomplished a greater distance; and the only | 



By those tresses unconfined, 
Woo'd by each iEgean wind ; 
By those lids whose jetty fringe 
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge ; 
By those wild eyes like the roe, 
ZwTj (lov, (Tds dyanG}. 

By that lip I long to taste ; 
By that zone-encircled waist; 
By all the token-flowers-i that tell 
What words can never speak so well ; 



thing that surprised me was, that, as doubts had been en- 
tertained of the truth of Leander's story, no traveller had 
ever endeavoured to ascertain its practicability. 

Q"My companion," says Mr. Hobhouse, "had before 
made a more perilous, but less celebrated passage; for I 
recollect that, when we were in Portugal, he swam from 
Old Lisbon to Belem Castle, and having to contend with a 
tide and counter current, the wind blowing freshly, was 
but little less than two hours in crossing." — E. 

3" At Orchomenns, where stood the Temple of the 
Graces, I was tempted to exclaim, ' Whither have tho 
Graces fled 1 ' Little did I expect to find them here ; yet 
here comes one of them with golden cups and coffee, and 
another with a book. The book is a register of names, 
some of which are far-sounded by the voice of fame. 
Among them is Lord Byron's, connected with some lines 
which I here send you."— H. W. WILLIAMS.— E. 

4 In the East (where ladies are not taught to write, lest 
they should scribble assignations) flowers, cinders, pebbles, 



1810. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



207 



By love's alternate joy and woe, 
Ztiij ixov, ads CLyaniL. 

Maid of Athens ! I am gone: 
Think of me, sweet ! when alone. 
Though I fly to Istambol,i 
Athens holds my heart and soul : 
Can I cease lo love thee ? No ! 
Zwn iiov, (7ds dyaniL. 

Athens, 1810. 



TRANSLATION 

OF THE nurse's DOLE IN THE MEDEA OF 
EURIPIDES. 
Oh how I wish that an embargo 
Had kept in port the good ship Argo ! 
Who, still unlaunch'd fiom Grecian docks, 
Had never pass'd the Azure rocks j 
But now I fear her trip will be a 
Damn'd business for my Miss Medea, &c. &c. 3 
June, 1810. 

MY EPITAPH. 

Youth, Nature, and relenting Jove, 
To keep my lamp in strongly strove j 
But Romanelli was so stout, 
He beat all three — and blew it out. 3 

Oct. 1810. 



SUBSTITUTE FOR AN EPITAPH. 
Kind Reader ! take your choice to cry or laugh ; 
Here Harold lies — but where 's his Epitaph ? 
If such you seek, try Westminster, and view 
Ten thousand just as fit for him as you. 

Athens. 



LINES WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE. 
Dear object of defeated care ! 

Though now of Love and thee bereft, 
To reconcile me with despair, 
Thine image and my tears are left. 

'T is said with Sorrow Time can cope; 

But this I feel can ne'er be true : 
For by the death blow of my Hope 

My Memory immortal grew. 

Athens, January, 1811. * 



&c. convey the sentiments of the parties by that univer- 
sal deputy of Mercury — an old woman. A cinder says, '< I 
burn for thee;" a bunch of flowers tied with hair, "Take 
me and fly;" but a pebble declares— what nothing else can. 

1 Constantinople. 

2" I am just come from an expedition through the Bos- 
phorus to the Black Sea and the Cyanean Symplegades, up 
which last I scrambled with as great risk as ever the Ar- 
gonauts escaped in their hoy. Yon remember the begin- 
ning of the nurse's dole in the Medea, of which I beg you 
to take the following translation, done on the summit. A 
'damn'd business' it very nearly was to me; for, had not 
this sublime passage been in my head, I should never 
have dreamed of ascending the said rocks, and bruising 
my carcass in honour of the ancients." — Lord Byron to 
Mr. Henry Drury, June 17, 1810.-- E. 

3 " I have just escaped from a physician and a fever. 
In spite of my teeth and tongue, the Knijlish consul, my 
Tartar, Albanian, dragoman, forced a physician upon me, 
and in three days brought me to the last gasp. In this 
state I made my epitaph. " — Lord Byron to Mr. Hodgson, 
Oct. 3, 1810. ~E. 

4 On the departure in July, 1810, of his friend and fel- 
low-traveller, Mr. Hobhouse, for England, Lord Byron 
fixed his head-quarters at Athens, where he had taken 
lodgings in a Franciscan convent: making occasional ex- 
cursions through Attica and the Morea, and employing 
himself, in the interval of his tours, in collecting materi- 
als for those notices on the state of modern Greece which 



TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK 
WAR SONG, 

" AsuTE naZdES t^^v 'EAAijvcov." s 

Sons of the Greeks, arise ! 

The glorious hour 's gone forth, 
And, worthy of such ties. 

Display who gave us birth. 

CHORUS. 
Sons of Greeks ! let us go 
In arms against the foe, 
Till their hated blood shall flow 
In a river past our feet. 

Then manfully despising 

The Turkish tyrant's yoke. 
Let your country see you rising, 

And all her chains are broke. 
Brave shades of chiefs and sages, 

Behold the coming strife 1 
Hellenes of past ages, 

Oh, start again to life 1 
At the sound of my trumpet, breaking 

Your sleep, oh, join wiih me ! 
And the seven-hill'd s city seeking, 

Fight, conquer, till we 're free. 

Sons of Greeks, &c. 

Sparta, Sparta, why in slumbers 

Lethargic dost thou lie ? 
Awake, and join thy numbers 

With Athens, old ally ! 
Leonidas recalling. 

That chief of ancient song, 
Who saved ye once from falling, 

The terrible ! the strong ! 
Who made that bold diversion 

In old Thermopylae, 
And warring with the Persian 

To keep his country free; 
With his three hundred waging 

The battle, long he stood, 
And like a lion raging, 

Expired in seas of blood. 

Sons of Greeks, &c. f 



TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SONG, 

" Mnzvoi {IBS 'to-^ TTcpt/JoXt 
^ilgaioTaTTf 'X.drjd'^," &c. 8 

I enter thy garden of roses. 
Beloved and fair Haidee, 



are appended to the second canto of " Childe Harold." In 
this retreat also he wrote "Hints from Horace," "The 
Curse of Minerva," and "Remarks on the Romaic, or 
Modern Greek Language." — E. 

5 The song b.tvr£ TraWej, &c., was written by Riga, 
who perished in the attempt to revolutionise Greece. 
This translation is as literal as the author could make it 
in verse. It is of the same measure as that of the 
original. [While at the Franciscan convent, Lord Byron 
devoted some hours daily to the study of the Romaic; 
and various proofs of his diligence will be found in the 
Appendix to these Occasional Pieces. — E.] 

6 Constantinople. " E7rTdAo(/)OS." 

7 Riga was a Thessalian, and passed the first part of his 
youth among his native mountains, in teaching ancient 
Greek to his countrymen. On the first burst of the 
French revolution, he joined himself to some other en- 
thusiasts, and with them perambulated Greece, rousing 
the bold, and encouraging the timid by his minstrelsy. 
He afterwards went to Vienna to solicit aid for a rising, 
which he and his comrades had for years been endeavour- 
ing to accomplish ; but he was given up by the Austrian 
government to the Turks, who vainly endeavoured by 
torture to force from him the names of the other con- 
spirators.-- E. 

8 The song from which this is taken is a great favourite 



in 



208 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



[1811. 



Each morning where Flora reposes, 

For surely I see her in thee. 
Ob, Lovely ! thus low I implore Ihee, 

Receive this fond truth from my tongue, 
Which utters its song to adore thee, 

Yet trembles for what it has sung ; 
As the branch, at the bidding of Nature, 

Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree, 
Through her eyes, through her every feature, 

Shines the soul of the young Haidee. 

But the loveliest garden grows hateful 

When Love h^s abandoned the bowers; 
Bring me hemlock — since mine is ungrateful. 

That herb is more fragrant than flowers. 
The poison, when pour'd from the chalice. 

Will deep'ly embiiter the bowl ; 
But when drunk to escape from thy malice, 

The draught shall be sweet to my soul. 
Too cruel ! in vain 1 implore thee 

My heart from these horrors to save : 
Will nought to my bosom restore thee? 

Then open the gates of the grave. 

As the chief who to combat advances 

Secure of his conquest before. 
Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances, 

Hast pierced through my heart to its core. 
Ah, tell me, my souH must I perish 

By pangs which a smile would dispel ? 
Would the hope, which thou once bad'st me 
cherish, 

For torture repay me too well ? 
Now sad is the garden of roses, 

Beloved but false Haidee ! 
There Flora all withered reposes, 

And mourns o'er thine absence with me. 

1811 



ON PARTING. 

The kiss, dear maid ! thy lip has left 

Shall never part from mine. 
Till happier hours restore the gift 

Untainted back to thine. 

Thy parting glance, which fondly beams. 

An equal love may see : 
The tear that from thine eyelid streams 

Can weep no change in me. 

I ask no pledge to make me blest 

In gazing when alone ; 
Nor one memorial for a breast, 

Whose thoughts are all thine own. 

Nor need I write — to tell the tale 

My pen were doubly weak : 
Oh ! what can idle words avail, 

Unless the heart could speak ? 

By day or night, in weal or woe. 

That heart, no longer free. 
Must bear the love it cannot show, 

And silent ache for thee. 



March, 1811. 



EPITAPH FOR JOSEPH BLACKETT, 
POET AND SHOEMAKER. 

Stranger ! behold, interr'd together. 
The souls of learning and of leather. 
Poor Joe is gone, but left his all : 
You '11 find bis relics in a stall. 



LATE 



Twith the young girls of Athens of all classes. Their man- 
ner of singing it is by verses in rotation, the whole num- 
ber present joining in the chorus. I have heard it fre- 
quently at our " j!t(/pot," in the winter of 1810-11. The 
air is plaintive and pretty. 



His works were neat, and often found 

Well stitch'd, and with morocco bound. 

Tread lightly — where the bard is laid 

He cannot mend the shoe he made; 

Yet is he happy in his hole. 

With verse immortal as his sole. 

But still to business he held fast, 

And stuck to Phoebus to the last. 

Then who shall say so good a fellow 

Was only "leather and prunella?" 

For character— he did not lack it; 

And if he did, 't were sbame to " Black it." 

Malta, May 16, 1811. 



FAREWELL TO MALTA. 

Adieu, ye joys of La Valette ! 

Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat ! 

Adieu, thou palace rarely enter'd ! 

Adieu, ye mansions where — I 've ventured ! 

Adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs ! 

(How surely he who mounts you swears!) 

Adieu, ye merchants often failing ! 

Adieu, thou mob for ever railing ! 

Adieu, ye packets — without letters ! 

Adieu, ye fools — who ape your betters ! 

Adieu, thou damned'st quarantine. 

That gave me f^ver, and the spleen ! 

Adieu that stage which makes us yawn. Sirs, 

Adieu his Excellency's dancers ! • 

Adieu to Peter— vvhom no fault 's in. 

But could not teach a colonel waltzing; 

Adieu, ye females fraught with graces! 

Adieu red coats, and redder faces ! 

Adieu the supercilious air 

Of all that strut " en militaire ! ' 

I go — but God knows when, or why, 

To smoky towns and cloudy sky. 

To things (the honest truth to say) 

As bad —but in a different way. 

Farewell to these, but not adieu. 

Triumphant sons of truest blue ! 

While either Adriatic shore, 

And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more. 

And nightly smiles, and daily dinners. 

Proclaim you war and women's winners. 

Pardon my Muse, who apt to prate is. 

And take my rhyme — because 't is " gratis." 

And now I 've got to Mrs. Eraser, 
Perhaps you think I mean to praise her — 
And were I vain enough to think 
My praise was worth this drop of ink, 
A line — or two — were no hard matter, 
As here, indeed, I need not flatter : 
But she must be content to shine 
In better praises than in mine, 
With lively air, and open heart, 
And fashion's ease, without its art; 
Her hours can gaily glide along, 
Nor ask the aid of idle song. 

And now, Malta ! since thou 'st got us. 
Thou little military hot-house! 
I '11 not ofiend with words uncivil, 
And wish thee rudely at the Devil, 
But only stare from out my casement. 
And ask, for what is such a place meant ? 
Then, in my solitary nook. 
Return to scribbling, or a book, 
Or take my physic, while I 'm able 
(Two spoonfuls hourly by the label). 
Prefer my nightcap to my beaver. 
And bless the gods I 've got a fever. 
Mav 26, 1811. 

[First published, 1832.1 



1811.] 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



209 



TO DIVES. 

A. FRAGMENT. 

Unhappy Dives! in an evil hour 
'Gainst Nature's voice seduced to deeds accurst ! 
Once Fortune's minion, now thou feel'st her power 3 
Wrath's vial on thy lofty head hath burst. 
In Wit, in Genius, as in Wealth the first, 
How wond'rous bright thy blooming morn arose ! 
But thou wert smitten with th' unhallow'd thirst 
Of crime unnamed, and thy sad noon must close 
In scorn, and solitude unsought, the worst of woes. 
1811. [First published, 1832.] 



ON MOORE'S LAST OPERATIC FARCE, 
FARCICAL OPERA. 



OR 



Good plays are scarce, 

So Moore writes farce : 
The poet's fame grows brittle — 

We knew before 

That Little 's Moore, 
But now 't is Moore that 's little. 

September 14, 1811. 



EPISTLE TO A FRIEND,i 

IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING THE 
AUTHOR TO BE CHEERFUL, AND TO " BAN- 
ISH CARE." 

" Oh ! banish care"— such ever be 
The motto of thy revelry ! 
Perchance of mine, when wassail nights 
Renew those riotous delights, 
Wherewith the children of Despair 
Lull the lone heart, and " banish care." 
But not in morn's reflecting hour. 
When present, past, and future lower, 
When all I loved is changed or gone. 
Mock with such taunts the woes of one, 
Whose every thought — but let them pass — 
Thou know'st I am not what I was. 
But, above all, if thou wouldst hold 
Place in a heart that ne'er was cold, 
By all the powers that men revere. 
By all unto thy bosom dear, 
Thy joys below, thy hopes above, 
Speak — speak of any thing but love. 

'Twere long to tell, and vain to hear, 
The tale of one who scorns a tear ; 
And there is little in that tale 
Which better bosoms would bewail. 
But mine has sufFer'd more than well 
'T would suit philosophy to tell. 
I 've seen my bride another's bride, — 
Have seen her seated by his side, — 
Have seen the infant, which she bore. 
Wear the sweet smile the mother wore, 
When she and I, in youth have smiled, 
As fond and faultless as her child ; — 
Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain. 
Ask if I felt no secret pain; 
And / have acted well my part, 
And made my cheek belie my heart, 
Return'd the freezing glance she gave, 
Yet felt the while that woman's slave; — 
Have kiss'd, as if without design. 
The babe which ought to have been mine, 
And show'd, alas ! in each caress 
Time had not made me love the less. 

But let this pass — I '11 whine no more, 
Nor seek again an eastern shore ; 



1 J. c. Mr. Francis Hodgson (not then the Reverend).— E. 



The world befits a busy brain, — 

I '11 hie me to its haunts again. 

But if, in some succeeding year. 

When Britain's " May is1n the sere," 

Thou hear'st of one, whose deepening crimes 

Suit with the sablest of the times, 

Of one, whom love nor pity sways, 

Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise, 

One who, in stern ambiiion's pride. 

Perchance not blood shall turn aside. 

One rank'd in some recording page 

With the worst anarchs of the age. 

Him wilt thou know — and knowing pause, 

Nor with the effect forget the cause. 

Newst.ead Abbey, Oct. 11, 1811. 
[First published in 1830.] 



TO THYRZA. 

Without a stone to mark the spot, 

And say, what Truth might well have said, 
By all, save one, perchance forgot, 

Ah ! wherefore art thou lowly laid ? 

By many a shore and many a sea 

Divided, yet beloved in vain ; 
The past, the future fled to thee. 

To bid us meet — no — ne'er again ! 

Could this have been —a word, a look 
That softly said, " We part in peace," 

Had taught my bosom how to brook. 
With fainter sighs, thy soul's release. 

And didst thou not, since Death for thee 
Prepared a light and pangless dart, 

Once long for him thou ne'er shall see. 
Who held, and holds thee in his heart? 

Oh ! who like him had watch'd thee here ? 

Or sadly mark'd thy glazing eye, 
In that dread hour ere death appear, 

When silent sorrow fears to sigh, 

Till all was past ? But when no more 
'T was thine to reck of human woe. 

Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er, 
Had fiow'd as fast — as now they flow. 

Shall they not flow, when many a day 

In these, to me, deserted towers. 
Ere call'd but for a time away. 

Affection's mingling tears were ours ? 

Ours too the glance none saw beside ; 

The smile none else might understand ; 
The whisper'd thought of hearts allied, 

The pressure of the thrilling hand ; 

The kiss, so guiltless and refined, 
That Love each warmer wish forbore ; 

Those eyes proclaim'd so pure a mind, 
Even passion blush'd to plead for more. 

The tone, that taught me to rejoice, 
When prone, unlike thee, to repine; 

The song, celestial from thy voice. 
But sweet to me from none but thine ; 

The pledge we wore — I wear it still, 
But where is thine ? — Ah ! where art thou ? 

Oft have I borne the weight of ill. 
But never bent beneath till now ! 

Well hast thou left in life's best bloom 

The cup of woe for me to drain. 
If rest alone be in the tomb, 

I would not wish thee here again ; 

But if in worlds more blest than this 

Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere, 
Impart some portion of thy bliss, 

To wean me from mine anguish here. 



18* 



14 



J 



210 OCCASIONAL PIECES. [1812. j J 


Teach me — too early taught by thee ! 


And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon, 


To bear, forgiving and forgiven : 


When sailing o'er the ^?ean wave, 


On earth thy love was such to me ; 


" Now Thyrza gazes on that moon"— 


It fain vs^ould form my hope in heaven ! 


Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave ! 


October 11, 1811. 


When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed, 


"^ 


And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, 


AWAY, AWAY, YE NOTES OF WOE ! 


« 'T is comfort still," I faintly said, 
" That Thyrza cannot know my pains :" 


Away, away, ye notes of woe ! 


Like freedom to the time-worn slave, 


Be silent, thou once soothing strain, 


A boon 't is idle then to give. 


Or I must flee from hence — for, oh ! 


Relenting Nature vainly gave 


I dare not trust those sounds again. 


My life, when Thyrza ceased to live ! 


To me they speak of brighier days — 




Bu": lull the chords, for now, alas ! 


My Thyrza's pledge in better d:iys, 
When love and life alike were new ! 


I must not think, I may not gaze 


On what I am — on what I was. 


How different now thou meet'st my gaze ! 




How tinged by time with sorrow's" hue ! 


The voice that made those sounds more sweet 


The heart that gave itseif with thee 


Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled j 


Is silent — ah, were mine as still ! 


And now their sof<^est notes repeat 


Though cold as e'en the dead can be. 


A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead ! 


It feels, it sickens with the chill. 


Yes, Thyrza ! yes, they breathe of thee, 




Beloved dust ! since dust thou art; 


Thou bitter pledge ! thou mournful token ! 


And all that once was harmony 


Though painful, welcome to my breast ! 
Still, still, preserve that love unbroken. 


Is worse than discord to my heart ! 


'T is silent all ! — but on my ear 

The well-remember'd echoes thrill ; 
I hear a voice I would not hear. 


Or break the heart to which thou 'rt press'd! 


Time tempers love, but not removes, 
More hallow'd when its hope is fled : 

Oh ! what are thousand living loves 
To that which cannot quit the dead ? 


A voice that now might well be still : 
Yet off my doubting soul 't will shake ; 


Even slumber owns its gentle tone, 




Till consciousness will vainly wake 




To listen, though the dream be flown. 




Sweet Thyrza ! waking as in sleep, 
Thou art but now a lovely dream ; 


EUTHANASIA. 


When Time, or soon or late, shall bring 


A star that trembled o'er the deep, 


The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead, 
Oblivion ! may thy languid wing 


Then turn'd from earth its tender beam. 


But he who through life's dreary way 


Wave gently o'er my dying bed ! 


Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in wrath, 


Will long lament the vanish'd ray 


No band of friends or heirs be there, 


That scatter'd gladness o'er his path. 


To weep, or wish, the coming blow : 


December 6, 1811. 1 


No maiden, with dishevell'd hair. 




To feel, or feign, decorous woe. 
But silent let me sink to earth, 


ONE STRUGGLE MORE, AND I AM FREE. 


One struggle more, and I am free 

From pangs that rend my heart in twain ; 
One last long sigh to love and thee, 


With no officious mourners near: 

I would not mar one hour of mirth. 

Nor startle friendship with a fear. 


Then back to busy life again. 
It suits me well to mingle now 
With things that never pleased before: 


Yet Love, if Love in such an hour 


Could nobly check its useless sighs, 


Though every joy is tied below. 


Might then exert its latest power 


What future grief can touch me more ? 


In her who lives, and him who dies. 


Then bring me wine, the banquet bring j 


'T were sweet, my Psyche ! to the last 


Man was not form'd to live alone : 


Thy features still serene to see : 


I '11 be that light, unmeaning thing 


Forgetful of its strusrsles past, 


That smiles with all, and weeps with none. 


E'en Pain itself should smile on thee. 


It was not thus in days more dear, 




It never would have been, but thou 


But vain the wish — for Beauty still 


Hast fled, and left me lonely here ; 


Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath j 


Thou 'rt nothing,— all are nothing now. 


And woman's tears, produced at will, 


In vain my lyre would lightly breathe ! 


Deceive in life, unman in death. 


The smile that sorrow fain would wear 




But mocks the woe that lurks beneath. 


Then lonely be my latest hour, ' 


Like roses o'er a sepulchre. 


Without regret, without a groan ; 


Though gay companions o'er the bowl 


For thousands Death hath ceased to lower. 


Dispel awhile the sense of ill ; 


And pain been transient or unknown. 


Though pleasure fires the maddening soul, 




The heart— the heart is lonely still ! 


"Ay, but to die, and go," alas! 


Where all have gone, and all must go ! 


On many a lone and lovely night 


To be the nothing that I was 


It soothed to gaze upon the sky ; 


Ere born to life and living woe ! 


For then 1 deem'd the heavenly light 




Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye : 


Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen. 




Count o'er thy days from anguish free, 




1 " I wrote this a day or two aRo, on hearing a song of 


And know, whatever thou hast been. 


former days."— Lord B. to Mr. Hodgson, Dec. 8, 1811.— E. 


'T is something better not to be. 



.1 



1812.] 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



211 



AND THOU ART DEAD, AS YOUNG 
AND FAIR. 

Heu, quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui 
meminisse ! " 

And thou art dead, as young and fair 

As aught of mortal birth ; 
And form so soft, and charms so rare, 

Too soon return'd to Earth ! 
Though Earth received them in her bed, 
And o er the spot the crowd may tread 

In carelessness or mirth, 
There is an eye which could not brook 
A moment on that grave to look. 

I will not ask where thou liest low. 

Nor gaze upon the spot ; 
There flowers or weeds at will may grow. 

So I behold them not : 
It is enough for me to prove 
That what I loved, and long must love, 

Like common earth can rot ; 
To me there needs no stone to tell, 
'T is Nothing that I loved so well. 

Yet did I love thee to the last 

As fervently as thou, 
Who didst not change through all the past, 

And canst not alter now. 
The love where Death has set his seal, 
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal. 

Nor falsehood disavow : 
And, what were worse, thou canst not see 
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. 

The better days of life were ours ; 

The worst can be but mine : 
The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers. 

Shall never more be thine. 
The silence of that dreamless sleep 
J envy now too much to weep ; 

Nor need I to repine. 
That all those ch:\rms have pass'd away, 
I might have watch'd through long decay. 

The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd 

Must fall the earliest prey ; 
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd, 

The leaves must drop away : 
And yet it were a greater grief 
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf, 

Than see it pluck'd today ; 
Since earthly eye but ill can bear 
To trace the change to foul from fair. 

I know not if I could have borne 

To see thy beauties fade ; 
The night that follow'd such a mom 

Had worn a deeper shade : 
Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd, 
And thou wert lovely to the last; 

Extinguish'd, not decsy'd; 
As stars that shoot along the sky 
Shine brightest as they fall from high. 

As once I wept, if I could weep. 

My tears might well be shed, 
To think I was not near to keep 

One vigil o'er thy bed ; 
To gaze, how fondly ! on thy face, 
To fold thee in a faint embrace, 

Uphold thy drooping head ; 
And show that love, however vain, 
Nor thou nor I can feel again. 

Yet how much less it were to gain, 

Though thou hast left nie free. 
The loveliest things that still remain, 

Than thus remember thee ! 
The all of thine that cannot die 
Through dark and dread Eternity 

Returns again to me, 



And more thy buried love endears 
Than aught, except its living years. 

February, 1812. 



IF SOMETIMES IN THE HAUNTS OF MEN. 

If sometimes in the haunts of men 

Thine image from my breast may fade, 
The lonely hour presents again 

The semblance of thy gentle shade : 
And now that sad and silent hour 

Thus much of thee can still restore. 
And sorrow unobserved may pour 

The plaint she dare not speak before. 

Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile 

I waste one thought I owe to thee, 
And, self-condemn'd, appear to smile. 

Unfaithful to thy memory ! 
Nor deem that memory less dear. 

That then I seem not to repine ; 
I would not fools should overhear 

One sigh that should be wholly thine. 

If not the goblet pass unquaff' d, 

It is not drain'd to banish care ; 
The cup must hold a deadlier draught, 

That brings a Lethe for despair. 
And could Oblivion set my soul 

From all her troubled visions free, 
I'd dash to earth the sweetest bowl 

That drovvn'd a single thought of thee. 

For wert thou vanish'd from my mind, 

Where could my vacant bosom turn? 
And who would then remain behind 

To honour thine abandon'd Um ? 
No, no — it is my sorrow's pride 

That last dear duty to fulfil ; 
Though all the world forget beside, 

'T is meet that I remember still. 

For well I know, that such had been 

Thy gentle care for him, who now 
Unmourn'd shall quit this mortal scene. 

Where none regarded him, but thou : 
And, oh ! I feel in that was given 

A blessing never meant for me ; 
Thou wert too like a dream of Heaven, 

For earthly Love to merit thee. 

March 14, 1812. 



ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH WAS 

BROKEN. 
Ill-fated Heart ! and can it be, 

That thou shouldst thus be rent in twain ? 
Have years of care for thine and thee 

Alike been all employ'd in vain ? 

Yet precious seems each shatter'd part, 
And every fragment dearer grown. 

Since he who wears thee feels thou art 
A fitter emblem of his own. 

March 16, 1812. 



FROM THE FRENCH. 

^i^le, beauty and poet, has two little crimes ; 
She makes her own face, and does not make her 
rhymes. 



LINES TO A LADY WEEPING. » 
Weep, daughter of a royal line, 

A Sire's disgrace, ?. realm's decay j 
Ah ! happy if each tear of thine 

Could wash a father's fault away ! 



1 TblB impromptu owed its birth to an on dit, that the 



J 



212 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



[1812. 



Weep — for thy tears are Virtue's tears — 
Auspicious to these sufiering isles j 

And be each drop in future years 
Repaid thee by thy people's smiles ! i 

March, 1812. 



THE CHAIN I GAVE. 

From the Turkish. 

The chain I gave was fair to view, 
The lute I added sweet in sound ; 

The heirt that oifer'd both was true, 
And ill deserved the fate it found. 

These gifts were charm'd by secret spell, 

Thy truth in absence to divine; 
And they have done iheir duty well, — 

Alas ! they could not teach thee tliine. 

That chain was firm in every link, 
But not to bear a stranger's touch ; 

That lute was sweet— till thou could'st think 
In other hands its notes were such. 

Let him, who from thy neck unbound 
The chain which shiver'd in his grasp, 

Who saw that lute refuse to sound, 
Restring the chords, renew the clasp. 

When thou wert changed, they alterd too ; 

The chain is broke, the music mute, 
'T is past — to them and thee adieu — 

False heart, frail chain, and silent lute. 



LINES WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF 
« THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY." 

Absent or present, still to thee, 

My friend, what magic spells belong ! 

As all can tell, who share, like me, 
In turn thy converse, and thy song. 

But when the dreaded hour shall come 
By Friendship ever deem'd too nigh, 

And "ilfemo?-?/" o'er her Druid's tomb 
Shall weep that aught of thee can die, 

How fondly will she then repay 

Thy homage offer'd at her shrine. 
And blend, while ages roll away. 

Her name immortally with thin&l 

April 19, 1812. 



ADDRESS, 

SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANE 
THEATRE, SATURDAY, OCT. 10, 1812. 

In one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd, 
Bow'd to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride j 



late Princess Charlotte of Wales burst into tears on hear- 
ing that the Whigs had found it impossible to put together 
a cabinet, at the period of Mr. Perceval's death. They 
were appended to the first edition of the " Corsair," and 
excited a sensation, as it is called, marvellously dispro- 
portionate to their length,— or, we may add, their merit. 
The ministerial prints raved for two months on end, in 
the most foul-mouthed vituperation of the poet, and all 
that belonged to him—the Morning Post even announced 
a motion in the House of Lords— "and all this," Lord 
Byron writes to Mr. Moore, " as Bedreddin in the Arabian 
Nights remarks, for making a cream tart with pepper: 
how odd, that eight lines should have given birth, I really 
think, to eight thousand 1 "— E. 

1 "The 'Lines to a Lady weeping' must go with the 
Corsair. I care nothing for consequences on this point. 
My politics are to me like a young mistress to an old 
man ; the worse they grow, the fonder I become of them." 
— Lord B. to Mr. Murray, Jan. 22, 1814.— "On my re- 



in one short hour beheld the blazing fane, 
Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign. 

Te who beheld, (oh ! sight admired and mourn'd, 
Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn "d ! ) 
Through clouds of fire the massy fragments riven. 
Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven j 
Saw the long column of revolving flames 
Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames, 
While thousands, throng'd around the burning dome, 
Shrank back appall 'd, and trembled for their home, 
As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone 
The skies, with lightnings awful as their own. 
Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall 
Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mar'k'd her fall; 
Say — shall this new, nor less aspiring pile, 
Rear'd where once rose the mightiest in our isle, 
Know the same favour which the fornter knew, 
A shrine for Shakspeare — worthy him and you ? 

Yes — it shall be — the magic of that name 
Defies the scythe of time, the torch of fiame ; 
On the same spot still consecrates the scene. 
And bids the Drama le where she hath bttn ; 
This fabric's birth attests the potent spell — 
Indulge our honest pride, and say, Hovo well ! 

As soars this fane to emulate the last. 
Oh ! might we draw our omens from the past. 
Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast 
Names such as hallow still the dome we lost. 
On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art 
O'erwhelm'd the gentlest, storm'd the sternest heart. 
On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew ; 
Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew, 
Sigh'd his last thanks, and wept his last adieu : 
But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom, 
That only waste their odours o'er the tomb. 
Such Drury claini'd and claims — nor you refuse 
One tribute to revive his slumbering muse ; - 
With garlands deck your own Menander's head, 
Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead ! 

Dear are the days which made our annals bright, 
Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write. 
Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs. 
Vain of otir ancestry as they of theirs ; 
While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's glass 
To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass, 
And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine 
Immortal names, emblazon'd on our line, 
Pause — ere their feebler offspring you condemn, 
Reflect how hard the task to rival them 1 

Friends of the stage ! to whom both Players and 
Plays 
Must sue alike for pardon or for praise, 
Whose judging voice and eye alone direct 
The boundless power to cherish or reject; 
If e'er frivolity has led to fame, 
And made us blush that you forbore to blame ; 
If e'er the sinkins: stage could condescend 
To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend. 
All past reproach may present scenes refute. 
And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute I 3 

turn, I find all the newspapers in hysterics, and town in 
an uproar, on the avowal and republication of two stanzas 
on Princess Charlotte's weeping at Regency's speech to 
Lauderdale in 1812. They are daily at it still:— some of 
the abuse good, — all of it hearty. They talk of a motion 
in our House upon it— be it so." — Bj/ron Diary, 1814.— E. 

2 The following lines were omitted by the Committee — 
/' Nay, lower still, the Drama yet deplores 
That late she deigu'd to crawl upon all-fours. 
When Richard roars in Bosworth for a horse. 
If you command, the steed must come in course. 
If you decree, the stage must condescend 
To soothe the sickly taste we dare not mend. 
Blame not our judgment should we acquiesce, 
And gratify you more by showing less. 
The past reproach let present scenes refute. 
Nor shift from man to babe, from babe to brute." — E. 



1812.] 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



213 



Oh ! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws, 
Forbear to mock us wi!h misplaced applause ; 
So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers, 
And reason's voice be echo'd back by ours ! 

This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd, 
The Drama's homage by her herald paid. 
Receive our welcome too, whose every tone 
Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own. 
The curtain rises — may our stage unfold 
Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old 1 
Britons our judges. Nature for our guide. 
Still may we please— long, long may you preside. 



PARENTHETICAL ADDRESS 
BY DR. PLAGIARY. 

Half stolen, with acknowledgments, to be spoken in an 
inarticulate voice by Master P. at the opening of the 
next new theatre. Stolen parts marked with the in- 
verted commas of quotation — thus " . " 

" When energising objects men pursue," 

Then Lord knows what is writ by Lord knows who. 

" A modest monologue you here survey," 

Hiss'd from the theatre the " other day," 

As if Sir Fretful wrote "the slumberous" verse, 

And gave his son " the rubbish " to rehearse. 

" Yet at the thing you 'd never be amazed," 

Knew you the rumpus which the author raised ; 

" Nor even here your smiles would be represt," 

Knew you these lines — the badness of the best, 

"Flame! fire! and flame!" (words borrowed from 

Lucretius,) 
" Dread metaphors which open wounds " like issues ! 
" And sleeping pangs awake — and — but away " 
(Confound me if I know what next to say). 
" Lo Hope reviving re-expands her wings," 
And Master G — recites what Doctor Busby sings ! — 
<' If mighty things with small we may compare," 
(Translated from the grammar for the fair!) 
Dramatic " spirit drives a conquering car," 
And burn'd poor Moscow like a tub of " tar." 
" This spirit Wellington has shown in Spain," 
To furnish melodrames for Drury Lane. 
•' Another Marlborough points to Blenheim's story," 
And George and I will dramatise it for ye. 

" In arts and sciences our isle hath shone " 

(This deep discovery is mine alone). 

" Oh British poesy, whose powers inspire " 

My verse — or I 'm a fool — and Fame 's a liar, 

" Thee we invoke, your sister arts implore " 

With " smiles," and " lyres," and " pencils," and much 

more. 
These, if we win the Graces, too, we gain 
Disgraces, too ! "iaseparable train ! " 
"Three who have stolen their witching airs from 

Cupid" 
(You all know what I mean, unless you 're stupid) : 
" Harmonious throng " that I have kept in petto, 
Now to produce in a " divine sestetto'^ ! ! 
" While Poesy," with these delightful doxies, 
" Sustains her part " in all the " upper " boxes ! 
" Thus lifted gloriously, you '11 soar along," 
Borne in the vast balloon of Busby's song; 
"Shine in your farce, masque, scenery, and play" 
(For this last line George had a holiday). 
"Old Drury never, never soir'd so high," 
So says the manager, and so say I. 
"But hold, you say, this self-complacent boast; " 
Is this the poem which the public lost? 
'• True — true — that lowers at once our mounting 

pride ; " 
But lo ! — the papers print what you deride. 
" 'T is ours to look on you — you hold the prize," 
'T is twenty guineas, as they advertise ! 
" A double blessing your rewards impart " — 
I wish I had them, then, with all my heart. 



'< Our twofold feeling owns its twofold cause," 
Why son and I both beg for your applause. 
" When in your fostering beams you bid us live," 
My next subscription list shall say how much you give ! 
October, 1812. 



VERSES FOUND IN A SUMMER HOUSE 
AT HALES-OWEN.i 
When Dryden's fool, " unknowing what he sought," 
His hours in whistling spent, " for want of thought," 3 
This guiltless oaf his vacancy of sense 
Supplied, and amply too, by innocence ; 
Did modern swains, possess'd of Cymon's powers. 
In Cymon's manner waste their leisure hours, 
Th' offended guests would not, with blushing, see 
These fair green walks disgraced by infamy. 
Severe the fate of modern fools, alas ! 
When vice and folly mark them as they pass. 
Like noxious reptiles o'er the whiten'd wall, 
The filth they leave still points out where they crawl. 



REMEMBER THEE ! REMEMBER THEE ! 

Remember thee ! remember thee I 

Till Lethe quench life's burning stream 
Remorse and shame shall cling to thee, 

And haunt thee like a feverish dream ! 
Remember thee ! Ay, doubt it not. 

Thy husband too shall think of thee: 
By neither shall thou be forgot, 

Thou false to him, thou fiend to me. 3 



TO TIME. 

Time ! on whose arbitrary wing 
The varying hours must flag or fly. 

Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring. 
But drag or drive us on to die — 

Hail thou ! who on my birth bestow'd 
Those boons to all that know thee known j 

Yet better I sustain thy load. 
For now I bear the weight alone. 

I would not one fond heart should share 
The bitter moments thou hast given ; 

And pardon thee, since thou could'st spare 
All that I loved, to peace or heaven. 

To them be joy or rest, on me 
Thy future ills shall press in vain J 

I nothing owe but years to thee, 
A debt already paid in pain. 

Yet even that pain was some relief; 

It felt, but still forgot thy power: 
The active agony of grief 

Retards, but never counts the hour. 

In joy I 've sigh'd to think thy flight 
Would soon subside from swift to slow; 

Thy cloud could overcast the light, 
But could not add a night to woe ; 

For then, however drear and dark, 

My soul was suited to thy sky ; 
One star alone shot forth a spark 

To prove thee — not Eternity. 



1 In Warwickshire. 2 See Cymon and Iphigenia. 

3 " The sequel of a temporary liaison, formed by Lord 
Byron during his gay but brief career in London, occa- 
sioned the composition of this Impromptu. On the cessa- 
tion of the connection, the fair one, actuated by jealousy, 
ciilled one morning at her quondam lover's ai>artment8. 
His Lordship was from home; but finding Vathek on the 
table, the lady wrote in the first page of the volume the 
words ' Remember me ! ' Byron immediately wrote un- 
der the ominous warning these two stanzas." — MED- 
WJN.~E. 



T» 



214 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



[1812. 



That beam hath sunk, and now thou art 
A blank ; a thing to count and curse, 

Through each dull tedious trifling part, 
Which all regret, yet all rehearse. 

One scene even ihou canst not deform ; 

The limit of thy sloth or speed 
When future wanderers bear the storm 

Which we shall sleep too sound to heed. 

And I can smile to think how weak 
Thine efforts shortly shall be shown, 

When all the vengeance thou canst wreak 
Must fall upon — a nameless stone. 



TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE SONG. 

Ah ! Love was never yet without 
The pang, the agony, the doubt, 
Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh, 
While day and night roll darkling by. 

Without one friend to hear my woe, 
I faint, I die beneath the blow. 
That Love had arrows, well I knew; 
Alas ! I find them poison'd too. 

Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net 
Which Love around your haunts hath set ; 
Or, circled by his fatal fire. 
Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire. 

A bird of free and careless wing 
Was I, through many a smiling spring; 
But caught within the subtle snare, 
I burn, and feebly flutter there. 

Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain. 
Can neither feel nor pity pain, 
The cold repulse, the look askance, 
The lightning of Love's angry glance. 

In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine; 
Now hope, and he who hoped, decline; 
Like melting wax, or withering flower, 
I feel my passion, and thy power. 

My light of life ! ah, tell me why 
That pouting lip, and alter'd eye? 
My bird of love ! my beauteous mate ! 
And art thou changed, and canst thou hate ? 

Mine eyes like wintiy streams o'erflow; 
What wretch with me would barter woe? 
My bird ! relent : one note could give 
A charm, to bid thy lover live. 

My curdling blood, my madd'ning brain, 
In silent anguish I sustain ; 
And still thy heart, without partaking 
One pang, exults — while mine is breaking. 

Pour me the poison ; fear not thou ! 
Thou canst not murder more than now: 
I 've lived to curse my natal day. 
And Love, that thus can lingering slay. "~" 

My wounded soul, my bleeding breast, J '"^ 
Can patience preach thee into rest? 
Alas '. too late, I dearly know "^ 

That joy is harbinger of woe. 



THOU ART NOT FALSE, BUT THOU ART 
FICKLE. 

Thou art not false, but thou art fickle. 
To those thyself so fondly sought ; 

The tears that thou hTst forced to trickle 
Are doubly bitter from that thouicht : 

'T is this which breaks the heart thou grievest, 

Too well thou lov'st — too soon thou leavest. 



The wholly false the heart despises, 
And spurns deceiver and deceit; 

But she who not a thought disguises, 
Whose love is as sincere as sweet, — 

When she can change who loved so truly. 

It feels what mine has felt so newly. 

To dream of joy and wake to sorrow 
Is doom'd to all who love or live ; 

And if, when conscious on the morrow. 
We scarce our fancy can forgive, 

That cheated us in slumber only. 

To leave the waking soul more lonely, 

What must they feel whom no false vision. 
But truest, tenderest passion warm'd ? 

Sincere, but swift in sad transition ; 
As if a dream alone had charm'd ? 

Ah ! sure such grief is fancy's scheming, 

And all thy change can be but dreaming ! 



ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE « ORI- 
GIN OF LOVE." 

The " Origin of Love ! "—Ah, why 

That cruel question ask of me, 
When thou may'st read in many an eye 

He starts to life on seeing thee ? 

And should'st thou seek his tnd to know : 
My heart forebodes, my fears foresee. 

He 'II linger long in silent woe ; 
But live— until I cease to be. 



REMEMBER HIM, WHOM PASSION'S POWER. 

Remember him, whom passion's power 

Severely, deeply, vainly proved : 
Remember thou that dangerous hour, 

When neither fell, though both were loved. 

That yielding breast, that melting eye, 

Too much invited to be bless"d : 
That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh, 

The wilder wish reproved, repress'd. 

Oh ! let me feel that all I lost 
But saved thee all that conscience fears ; 

And blush for every pang it cost 
To spare the vain remorse of years. 

Yet think of this when many a tongue, 
Whose busy accents whisper blame, 

Would do the heart that loved thee wrong, 
And brand a nearly blighted name. 

Think that, whate'er to others, thou 
Hast seen each selfish thought subdued : 

I bless thy purer soul even now, 
Even now, in midnight solitude. 

Oh, God ! that we had met in time, 
-^ Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free ; 
When thou hadst loved without a crime. 
And I been less unworthy thee ! 

Far may thy days, as heretofore, 
From this our gaudy world be past ! 

And that too bitter moment o'er, 
Oh ! may such trial be thy last ! 

This heart, alas ! perverted long. 
Itself djstroy'd mixht there destroy; 

To meet thee in the glittering throng. 
Would wake Presumption's hope of joy. 

Then to the things whose bliss or woe, 
Like mine, is wild and worthless all. 



1813.] 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



215 



That world resign — such scenes forego, 
Where those who feel must surely fall. 

Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness, 
Thy soul from long seclusion pure ; 

From what even here hath pass'd, may guess 
What there thy bosom must endure. 

Oh ! pardon that imploring tear, 
Since not by Virtue shed in vain, 

My frenzy drew from eyes so dear ; 
For me they shall not weep again. 

Though long and mournful must it be, 
The thought that we no more may meet; 

Yet I deserve the stern decree, 
And almost deem the sentence sweet. 

Still, had I loved thee less, my heart 
Had then less sacrificed to thine j 

It felt not half so much to part, 
As if its guilt had made thee mine. 



ON LORD THURLOW'S POEMS. 

When Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sent, 

(I hope I am not violent) 

Nor men nor gods knew what he meant. 

And since not ev'n our Rogers' praise 
To common sense his thoughts could raise — 
Why would they let him print his lays ? 
***** 



To me, divine Apollo, grant — ! 
Hermilda's first and second canto, 
I 'm fitting up a new portmanteau J 

And thus to furnish decent lining, 

My own and others' bays I 'm twining, — 

So, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in. 



TO LORD THURLOW. 

" I lay my branch of laurel down, 
Then thus to form Apollo's crown, 
Let every other bring his own." 

Lord Thurlow's lines to Mr. Rogers. 

" / lay my branch of laurel down.'>'> 
Thou " lay thy branch of laurel down ! " 

Why, what thou 'st stole is not enow j 
And, were it lawfully thine own. 

Does Rogers want it most, or thou ? 
Keep to thyself thy wither'd bough. 

Or send it back to Doctor Donne : 
Were justice done to both, I trow, 

He 'd have but little, and thou — none. 

" Then thus to form Apollo''s crown." 
A crown ! why, twist it how you will, 

Thy chaplet'must be foolscap still. 
When next you visit Delphi's town. 

Enquire amonssf your fellow-lodgers, 
They'll tell you Phoebus gave his crown. 

Some years before your birth, to Rogers. 

^' Let every other bring his own." 
When coals to Newcastle are carried, 

And owls sent to Athens, as wonders. 
From his spouse when the Regent 's unmarried, 

Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders ; 
When Tories and Whigs cease to quarrel. 

When Castlerengh's wife has an heir, 
Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel. 

And thou shall have plenty to spare. 



TO THOMAS MOORE. 

WRITTEN THE EVENING BEFORE HIS VISIT 
TO MR. LEIGH HUNT IN HORSEMONSER 
LANE GAOL, MAY 19, 1813. 

Oh you, who in all names can tickle the town, 
Anacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom Brown, — 
For hang me if I know of which you may most brag, 
Your Quarto two-pounds, or your Two-penny Post 

Bag J 
******* 
But now to my letter — to yours 't is an answer — 
To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, sir, 
All ready and dress'd for proceeding to spunge on 
(According to compact) the wit in the dungeon — 
Pray Phoebus at length our political malice 
May not get us lodgings within the same palace ! 
I suppose that to-night you 're engaged with some 

codgers, 
And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam Rogers ; 
And I, though with cold I have nearly my death got, 
Must put on my breeches, and wait on the Heathcote ; 
But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the Scurra, 
And you '11 be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra. 

[First published in 1830.] 



IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND. 

When, from the heart where Sorrow sits. 

Her dusky shadow mounts too high. 
And o'er the changing aspect flits. 

And clouds the brow, or fills the eye ; 
Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink : 
My thoughts their dungeon know too well j 
Back to my breast the wanderers shrink. 
And droop within their silent cell. 

September, 1813. 



SONNET, TO GENEVRA. 

Thine eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair, 
And the wan lustre of thy features — caught 
From contemplation — where serenely wTought, 

Seems Sorrow's softness charm'd from its despair — 

Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air. 
That — but I know thy blessed bosom fraught 
With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thought — 

I should have deem'd thee doom'd to earlhly care. 

With such an aspect, by his colours blent. 
When from his beauty-breathing pencil born, 

(Except that thou hast nothing to repent) 
The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn — 

Such seem'st thou — but how much more excellent ! 
With nought Remorse can claim — nor Virtue scorn. 
December 17, 1813. 



SONNET, TO THE SAME. 

Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe, 
And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush 
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush, 

My heart would wish away that ruder glow : 

And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes — but, oh ! 
While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush. 
And mto mine my mother's weakness rush. 

Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow. 

For, through thy long dark lashes low depending. 
The soul of melancholy Gentleness 

Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending. 
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress ; 

At once such majesty with sweetness blending, 
I worship more, but cannot love thee less. 

December 17, 1813. 



Mmutmm 



iikkiiiti 



216 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



[1814. 



FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 
" TO MI CHAMAS." 

In moments to delight devoted, 

" My life ! " with tenderest tone, you cry ; 
Dear words ! on which my heart had doted, 

If youth could neither fade nor die. 

To death even hours like these must roll, 
Ah ! then repeat those accents never ; 

Or change " my life ! " into " my soul \ " 
Which, like my love, exists for ever. 

ANOTHER VERSION. 

You call me still your life. — Oh ! change the word 
Life is as transient as the inconstant sigh : 

Say rather I 'm your soul ; more just that name. 
For, like the soul, my love can never die. 



THE DEVIL'S DRIVE; 
AN UNFINISHED RHAPSODY. 

The Devil return'd to hell by two, 

And he stay'd at home till five ; 
When he dined on some homicides done in ragout, 

And a rebel or so in an Irish stew, 
And sausages made of a self-slain Jew — 
And bethought himself what next to do, 

" And," quoth he, " I 'il take a drive. 
I walk'd in the morning, I'll ride to-night; 
In darkness my children take most delight, 

And I '11 see how my favourites thrive. 

" And what shall I ride in ? " quoth Lucifer then — 

" If I follow'd my taste, indeed, 
I should mount in a wagon of wounded men, 

And smile to see them bleed. 
But these will be fumish'd again and again, 

And at present my purpose is speed ; 
To see my manor as much as I may, 
And watch that no souls shall be poach'd away. 

" I have a state-coach at Carlton House, 

A chariot in Seymour Place ; 
But they 're lent to two friends, who make me amends, 

By driving my favourite pace : 
And they handle their reins with such a grace, 
I have something for both at the end of their race. 

" So now for the earth to take my chance : " 

Then up to the earth sprung he ; 
And making a jump from Moscow to France, 

He stepp'd across the sea, 
And rested his hoof on a turnpike road, 
No very great way from a bishop's abode. 

But first as he flew, I forgot to say, 
That he hover'd a moment upon his way. 

To look upon Leipsic plain ; 
And so sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare. 
And so soft to his ear was the cry of despair, 

That he perch'd on a mountain of slain ; 
And he gazed with delight from its growing height, 
Nor often on earth had lie seen such a sight. 

Nor his work done half as well : 
For the field ran so red with the blood of the dead. 

That it blush 'd like the waves of hell ! 
Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh'd he: 
"Methinks they have here little need of me!" 
***** 

But the softest note that soothed his ear 

Was the sound of a widow sighing ; 
And the sweetest sight was the icy tear, 
Which horror froze in the blue eye clear 

Of a maid by her lover lying — 
As round her fell her long fair hair; 
And she look'd to heaven with that frenzied air, 
Which seem'd to ask if a God were there ! 



And, stretch'd by the wall of a ruin'd hut, 
With its hollow cheek, and eyes half shut, 

A child of famine dying : 
And the carnage begun, when resistance is done, 

And the fall of the vainly flying ! 



But the Devil has reach'd our cliffs so white. 

And what did he there, I pray ? 
If his eyes were good, he but saw by night 

What we see every day : 
But he made a tour, and kept a journal 
Of all the wondrous sights nocturnal. 
And he sold it in shares to the Men of the Row, 
Who bid pretiy well— but they cheated hjm, though! 

The Devil first saw, as he thought, the Mail, 

Its coachman and his coat ; 
So instead of a pistol he cock'd his tail. 

And seized him by the throat : 
" Aha ! " quoth he, " what have we here ? 
'T is a new barouche, and an ancient peer I " 

So he sat him on his box again, 

And bade him have no fear. 
But be true to his club, and staunch to his rein. 

His brothel, and his beer ; 
" Next to seeing" a lord at the council board, 

I would rather see him here." 

***** 

The Devil gat next to Westminster, 

And he turn'd to " the room " of the Commons ; 
But he heard, as he purposed to enter in there, 

That " the Lords " had received a summons ; 
And he thought, as a " quondam aristocrat," 
He might peep at the peers, though to hear them 

were fiat; 
And he walk'd up the house so like one of our own. 
That they say that he stood pretty near the throne. 

He saw the Lord Liverpool seemingly wise. 

The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly, 
And Johnny of Norfolk — a man of some size — 

And Chatham, so like his friend Billy ; 
And he saw the tears in Lord Eldon's eyes, 
Because the Catholics would not rise, 
In spite of his prayers and his prophecies; 
And he heard — which set Satan himself a staring — 
A certain Chief Justice say something like swearing. 
And the Devil was shocked — and quoth he, " I must go. 
For I find we have much better manners below : 
If thus he harangues when he passes my border, 
I shall hint to friend Moloch to call him to order." 



WINDSOR POETICS. 

Lines composed on the occasion of His Royal Highness 
the Prince Regent being seen standing between the 
coffins of Henry VIII. and Charles I., in the royal 

vault at Windsor. 

Famed for contemptuous breach of sacred ties. 
By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies ; 
Between them stands another sceptred thing — 
: It moves, it reigns — in all but name, a king: 

, Charles to his people, Henry to his wife, 
, — In him the double tyrant starts to life : 

Justice and death have mix'd their dust in vain, 

Each royal vampire wakes to life again. 

Ah, what can tombs avail ! — since these disgorge 

The blood and dust of both — to mould a George. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name. 
There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame : 
But the tear which now burns on my cheek may impart 
The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart. 



1814.] 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



217 



Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace, 
Were those hours — can their joy or their bitterness 

cease ? 
We repent — we abjure — we will break from our 

chain, — 
We will part, — we will fly to — unite it again ! 

Oh ! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt ! 
Forgive me, adored one ! — forsake, if thou wilt j — 
But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased, 
And man shall not break it — whatever thou mayst. 

And stern to the haughty, but bumble to thee, 

This soul, in its bitterest blackness, shall be : 

And our days seem as swift, and our moments more 

sweet, 
With thee by my side, than with worlds at our feet. 

One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love, 
Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove; 
And the heartless may wonder at all I resign — 
Thy lip shall reply, not to them, but to mine. 

May, 1814. 

ADDRESS INTENDED TO BE RECITED AT 
THE CALEDONIAN MEETING. 

Who hath not glow'd above the page where fame 

Hath tix'd high Caledon's unconquer'd name; 

The mountain-land which spurn'd the Roman chain, 

And baffled back the fiery-crested Dane, 

Whose bright claymore and hardihood of hand 

No foe could tame — no tyrant could command ? 

That race is gone — but still their children breathe, 

And glory crowns them with redoubled wreath : 

O'er Gael and Saxon mingling banners shine. 

And, England ! add their stubborn strength to thine. 

The blood which flow'd with Wallace flows as free, 

But now 't is only shed for fame and thee ! 

Oh ! pass not by the northern veteran's claim, 

But give support — the world hath given him fame ! 

The humbler ranks, the lowly brave, who bled 
While cheerly following where the mighty led — 
Who sleep beneath the undistinguish'd sod 
Where happier comrades in their triumph trod, 
To us bequeath — 't is all their fate allows — 
The sireless offspring and the lonely spouse : 
She on high Albyn's dusky hills may raise 
The tearful eye in melancholy gaze. 
Or view, while shadowy auguries disclose 
The Highland seer's anticipated woes, 
The bleeding phantom of each martial form 
Dim in the cloud, or darkling in the storm ; 
While sad, she chants the solitary song. 
The soft lament for him who tarries long — 
For him, whose distant relics vainly crave 
The Coronach's wild requiem to the brave ! 

'T is Heaven — not man — must charm away the woe, 

Which bursts when Nature's feelings newly flowj 

Yet tenderness and time may rob the tear 

Of half its bitterness for one so dear; 

A nation's gratitude perchance may spread 

A fhornless pillow for the widovv'd head ; 

May lighten well her heart's maternal care, 

And wean from penury the soldier's heir. 

May, 1814. 



FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE TO THOMAS 
MOORE. 

" What say /.? " — not a syllable further in prose ; 
I 'm your man " of all measures," dear Tom, — so, 

here goes! 
Here goes, for a swim on the stream of old Time, 
On those buoyant supporters, the bladders f)f rhyme. 
If our weight breaks them down, and we sink in the 

flood, 
We are smother'd, at least, in respectable mud, 



j Where the Divers of Bathos lie drown'd in a heap. 
And Southey's last Faean has pillow'd his sleep ; — 

1 That " Felo de se,"' who, half drunk with his malmsey, 
Walk'd out of his depth and was lost in a calm sea, 
Singing " Glory to God " in a spick and span stanza, 

] The like (since Tom Sterniiold was choked) never 
man saw. 

j The papers have told you, no doubt, of the fusses, 
; The fetes, and the gapings to get at these Russes, — 
Of his Majesty's suits, up from coachman to Hetman, 
And what dignity decks the flat face of the great man 
I saw him, last week, at two balls and a party, — 
For a prince, his demeanour was rather too hearty. 
You kuow^ we are used to quite diSferent graces, 

I The Czar's look, I own, was much brighter and brisker, 
But then he is sadly deficient in whisker ; 
I And wore but a starless blue coat, and in kersey- 
•mere breeches whisk'd round, in a waltz with the 
I Jersey, 

' Who, lovely as ever, seem'd just as delighted 
j With majesty's presence as those she invited. 
***** 
***** 

June, 1814. 



CONDOLATORY ADDRESS TO SARAH, COUN- 
TESS OF JERSEY, 
ON THE regent's RETURNING HER PIC- 
TURE TO MRS. MEE. 

When the vain triumph of the imperial lord, 
Whom servile Rome obey'd, and yet abhorr'd, 
Gave to the vulgar gaze each glorious bust. 
That left a likeness of the brave, or just ; 
What most admired each scrutinising eye 
Of all that deck'd that passing pageantry ? 
What sprtad from face to face that wondering air ? 
The thought of Brutus — for his was not there ! 
That absence proved his worth,— that absence fix'd 
His memory on the longing mind, unmix'd j 
And more decreed his glory to endure, 
Than all a gold Colossus could secure. 

If thus, fair Jersey, our desiring gaze 
Search for thy form, in vain and mute amaze. 
Amidst those pictured charms, whose loveliness, 
Bright though thev be, thine own had render'd less ; 
If he, that vain old man, whom truth admits 
Heir of his father's crown, and of his wits. 
If his corrupted eye, and wither'd heart. 
Could with thy gentle image bear depart; 
That tasteless shame be his, and ours the grief. 
To gaze on Beauty's band without its chief: 
Yet 'comfort still one selfish thought imparts, 
We lose the portrait, but preserve our hearts. 

What can his vaulted gallery now disclose? 
A garden with all flowers — except the rose ; — 
A fount that only wants its living stream ; 
A night, with every star, save Dian's beam. 
Lost to our eyes the present forms shall be. 
That turn from tracing them to dream of thee; 
And more on that recall'd resemblance pause, 
Than all he shall not force on our applause. 

Long may thy yet meridian lustre shine. 
With all that Virtue asks of Homage thine : 
The symmetry of youth— the grace of mien — 
The eye that gladdens — and the brow serene ; 
The glossy darkness of that clustering hair. 
Which shades, yet shows that forehead more than fair ! 
Each glance that wins us, and the life that throws 
A spell which will not let o\ir looks repose, 
But turn to gaze again, and find anew 
Some charm that well rewards another view. 
These are not lessen'd, these are still as bright, 
Albeit too dazzling for a dotard's sight ; 
And those must wait till ev'ry charm is gone. 
To please the paltry heart that pleases none ; — 



19 



218 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



[1814. 



That dull cold sensualist, whose sickly eye 
In envious dimness pass'd thy portrait by j 
Who rack'd his little spirit to combine 
Its hate of Freedom's loveliness, and thine. 

August, 1814. 



TO BELSHAZZAR. 

Belshazzar ! from the banquet turn, 

Nor in thy sensual fulness fall; 
Behold ! while yet before thee burn 

The graven words, the glowing wall, 
Alany a despot men miscall 

Crown'd and anointed from on high; 
But thou, the weakest, worst of all — 

Is it not written, thou must die ? 

CrO ! dash the roses from thy brow — 

Grey hairs but poorly wreathe with them ; 
Youth's garlands misbecome thee now. 

More than thy very diadem, 
Where thou hast tarnished every gem : — 

Then throw the worthless bauble by. 
Which, worn by thee, ev'n slaves contemn ; 

And learn like belter men to die ! 

Oh ! early in the balance weigh'd, 

And ever li^ht of word and worth, 
Whose soul expired ere youth decay'd, 

And left thee but a mass of earth. 
To see thee moves the scorner's mirth : 

But tears in Hope's averted eye 
Lament that even thou hadst birth — 

Unfit to govern, live, or die. 



ELEGIAC STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF SIR 
PETER PARKER, BART.i 

There is a tear for all that die, 
A mourner o'er the humblest grave ; 

But nations swell the funeral cry, 

And Triumph weeps above the brave. 

For them is Sorrow's purest sigh 

O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent : 
In vain their bones unburied lie, 

All earth becomes their monument ! 

A tomb is theirs on every page. 

An epitaph on every tongue : 
The present hours, the future age, 

For them bewail, to them belong. 

For thera the voice of festal mirth 
Grows hush'd, their name the only sound ; 

While deep Remembrance pours to Worth 
The goblet's tributary round. 

A theme to cro%vds that knew them not, 

Lamented by admiring foes, 
Who would not shirc their glorious lot? 

Who would not die the death they chose ? 

And, gallant Parker ! thus enshrined 
Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be ; 

And early valour, glowing, find 
A model in thy memory. 

But there are breasts that bleed with thee 

In woe, that glory cannot quell; 
And shuddering hear of victory, 

Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell. 



IThis gallant officer fell in August, 1814, in his twenty- 
ninth year, whilst commanding, on shore, a party bt-lnng- 
ing to his ship, the Menelaus, and animating them, in 
storming the American camp near Baltimore. He was 
Lord Byron's first cousin ; but they had never met since 
boyhood. — E. 



Where shall they turn to mourn thee less ? 

When cease to hear thy cherish'd name ? 
Time cannot teach forgetfulness, 

While Grief's full heart is fed by Fame. 

Alas ! for them, though not for thee, 
They cannot choose but weep the more; 

Deep for the dead the grief must be, 
Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before. 

October, 1814. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

"O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros 
Docentium ortiis ex animo: quater 
Felix! in imo qui scatentem 
Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit." 

GRAY'S Poemata. 

There 's not a joy the world can give like that it takes 

away. 
When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's 

dull decay ; 
'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, 

which fides so fast, 
But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself 

be past. 

Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of 

happiness 
Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess: 
The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in 

vain 
The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never 

stretch again. 

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself 

comes down ; 
It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its 

own ; 
That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our 

tears. 
And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the 

ice appears. 

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth dis- 
tract the breast. 

Through midnight hours that yield no more their 
former hope of rest ; 

'T is but as ivy leives around the ruin'd turret wreath. 

All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and 
grey beneath. 



have felt,— or be what I have 
ive wept, o'er many a van- 



Oh could I feel as 

been. 
Or weep as I could once 

ish'd scene ; 
As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish 

though they be, 
So, 'midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would 

flow to me. 

March, 1816. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

There be none of Beauty's daughters 

With a magic like thee ; 
And like music on the waters 

Is thy sweet voice to me : 
When, as if its sound were causing 
The chnrmed ocean's pausing, 
The waves lie still and gleaming, 
And the luU'd winds seem dreaming: 

And the midnight moon is weaving 
Her bright chain o'er the deep j 

Whose breast is gently heaving, 
As an infant's as'eep : 

So the spirit bows before thee, 

To listen and adore thee; 

With a full but soft emotion, 

Like the swell of Summer's ocean. 



1815.] 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



219 



ON NAPOLEON'S ESCAPE FROM ELBA. 

Once fairly set out on his party of pleasure, 

Taking towns at his liking, and crowns at his leisure, 

From Elba to Lyons and Paris he goes, 

Making balls for the ladies, and bows to his foes. 

March 27, 1615. 



ODE FROM THE FRENCH. 

I. 

We do not curse thee, Waterloo ! 

Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew; 

There 't was shed, but is n')t sunk — 

Rising from each gory trunk, 

Like the water-spout from ocean, 

With a strong and growing motion — 

It soars, and mingles in the air, 

With that of lost Labedoyere — 

With that of him whose honour'd grave 

Contains the "bravest of the brave." 

A crimson cloud it spreads and glows. 

But shall return to whence it rose ; 

When 'tis full 't will burst asunder — 

Never yet was heard such thunder 

As then shall shake the world with wonder- 

Never yet was seen such lightning 

As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning ! 

Like the Wormwood Star foretold 

By the sainted Seer of old, 

Show'ring down a fiery flood, 

Turning rivers into blood. i 

n. 

The Chief has fallen, but not by you, 

Vanquishers of Waterloo ! 

When the soldier citizen 

Sway'd not o'er his fellow-men — 

Save in deeds that led them on 

Where glory smiled on Freedom's son — 

Who, of all the despots banded, 

With that youthful chief competed ? 

Who could boast o'er France defeated, 
Till lone Tyranny commanded ? 
Till, goaded by ambition's sting, 
The Hero sunk into the King? 
Then he fell : — so perish all, 
Who would men by m,in enthral ! 

HL 

And thou, too, of the snow-white plume ! 
Whose realm refused thee ev'n a tomb ; 2 
Better hadst thou still been leading 
France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding. 
Than sold thyself to death and shame 
For a meanly royal name ; 
Such as he of Naples wears, 
Who thy blood-bought title bears. 
Little didst thou deem, when dashing 
On thy war-liorse through the ranks 
Like a stream which burst its banks, 
While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing, 
Shone and shiver'd fast around thee — 
Of the fate at last which found thee: 
Was that haughty plume laid low 
By a slave's dishonest blow ? 



1 See Rev. chap. viii. v. 7, Sec. "The first angel 
sounded, and there followed hail and fire mingled with 
blood," (See. V. 8. "And the second angel sounded, and as 
it were a sreat mountain burning with fire was cast into 
the sea; and the third part of the sea became blood," <fec. 
V. 10. "And the third angel sounded, and ihere fell a great 
star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp : and it fell 
upon the third part of the rivers, and upon the fountains 
of waters." v. 11. "And tlie name of the star is called 
Wurmwood : and the thiril part of the waters became 
wormwood ; and many men died of the waters, because 
they were made bitter." 

2Murat'6 remains are said to have been torn from the 
grave and burnt. { 



Once — as the Moon sways o'er the tide, 

It roU'd in air, the warrior's guide j 

Through the smoke-created night 

Of the black and sulphurous fight. 

The soldier raised his seeking eye 

To catch that crest's ascendency, — 

And, as it onward rolling rose. 

So moved his heart u|ion our foes. 

There, where death's brief pang was quickest, 

And the battle's wreck lay thickest, 

Strew'd beneath the advancing banner 

Of the eagle's burning crest — 
(There with thunder-clouds to fan her. 

Who could then her wing arrest — 

Victory beaming from her breast?) 
While the broken line enlarging 

Fell, or fled along the plain ; 
There be sure was Murat charging ! 

There he ne'er shall charge again ! 

IV. 

O'er glories gone the invaders march, 

Weeps Triumph o'er each levell'd arch — 

But let Freedom rejoice. 

With her heart in her voice ; 

But, her hand on her sword, 

Doubly shall she be adored j 

France hath twice too well been taught 

The " moral lesson" dearly bought — 

Her safety sits not on a throne. 

With Capet or Napoleon ! 

But in equal rights and laws. 

Hearts and hands in one great cause — 

Freedom, such as God hath given 

Unto all beneath his heaven. 

With their breath, and from their birth, 

Though Guilt would sweep it from the earth ; 

With a fierce and lavish hand 

Scattering nations' wealth like sandj 

Pouring nations' blood like water, 

In imperial seas of slaughter ! 

V. 
But the heart and the mind. 
And the voice of mankind. 
Shall arise in communion — 
And who shall resist that proud union ? 
The time is past when swords subdued — 
Man may die — the soul 's renew'd : 
Even in this low world of care 
Freedom ne'er shall want an heir; 
Millions breathe but to inherit 
Her for ever bounding spirit — 
When once more her hosts assemble, 
Tyrants shall believe and tremble — 
Smile they at this idle threat? 
Crimson tears will follow yet. 



FROM THE FRENCH. 3 



Must thou go, my glorious Chief, 

Sever'd from thy faitliful few ? 
Who can tell thy warrior's grief. 

Maddening o'er that long adieu ? 
Woman's love, and friendship's zeal, 

Dear as both have been to me — 
What are they to all I feel. 

With a soldier's faith for thee ? 

n. 

Idol of the soldier's soul ! 

First in fight, but mightiest now; 
Many could a world control ; 

Thee alone no doom can bow. 



3" All wept, but particularly Savary, and a Polish offl- 
cer who had been exalted from the ranks by Buonaparte. 
He clung to his master's knees; wrote a letter to Lord 
Keith, entreating permission to accompany him, even in 
the most menial capacity, which could not be admitted." 



i 



220 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



[1815. 



By thy side for years I dared 

Death ; and envied those who fell, 

When their dying shout was heard, 
Blessing him they served so vvell.l 

III. 

Would that I were cold with those, 

Since this hour I live to seej 
When the doubts of coward foes 

Scarce dare trust a man with thee, 
Dreading each should set thee free ! 

Oh ! although in dungeons pent. 
All their chains were light to me. 

Gazing on thy soul unbent. 

IV. 

Would the sycophants of him 

Now so deaf to duty's prayer. 
Were his borrow'd glories dim, 

In his native darkness share ? 
Were that world this hour his own. 

All thou calmly dost resign, 
Could he purchase with that throne 

Hearts like those which still are thine ? 



My chief, my king, my friend, adieu ! 

Never didi droop before ; 
Never to my sovereign sue, 

As his foes I now implore : 
All I ask is to divide 

Every peril he must brave ; 
Sharing by the hero's side 

His fall, his exile, and his grave. 



ON THE STAR OF "THE LEGION OF HO- 
NOUR." 
[From the French.] 

Star of the brave ! — whose beam hath shed 

Such glory o'er the quick and dead — 

Thou radiant and adored deceit ! 

Which millions rush'd in arms to greet, — 

Wild meteor of immortal birth ! 

Why rise in Heaven to set on Earth ? 

Souls of slain heroes form'd thy rays; 
Eternity tiash'd through thy blaze ; 
The music of thy martial sphere 
Was fame on high and honour here; 
And thy light broke on human eyes, 
Like a volcano of the skies. 

Like lava roU'd thy stream of blood. 
And swept down empires with its flood ; 
Earth rock'd beneath thee to her base. 
As thou didst lighten through all space; 
And the shorn Sun grew dim in air. 
And set while thou wert dwelling there. 

Before thee rose, and with thee grevr, 

A rainbow of the loveliest hue 

Of three bright colours.a each divine, 

And fit for that celestial sign ; 

For Freedom's hand had blended them, 

Like tints in an immortal gem. 



1 "At Waterloo, one man was seen, whose left arm was 
shattered by a cannon-ball, to wrench it off with the 
other, and throwing it up in the air, exclaimed to his 
comrades, 'Vive I'Empereur, jusqu'a li mort 1 ' There 
were many other instances of the like: this you may, 
however, depend on as liae."— Private Letter from 
Brussels. 

2 The tricolour. 



One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes ; 
One, the blue depth of Seraph's eyes; 
One, the pure Spirit's veil of white 
Had robed in radiance of its light: 
The three so mingled did beseem 
The texture of a heavenly dream. 

Star of the brave ! thy ray is pale. 
And darkness must again prevail 1 
But, oh thou Rainbow of the free ! 
Our tears and blood must flow for thee. 
When thy bright promise fades away, 
Our life is but a load of clay. 

And Freedom hallows with her tread 
The silent cities of the dead ; 
For beautiful in death are they 
Who proudly fall in her an ay ; 
And soon, oh, Goddess, may we be 
For evermore with them or thee ! 



NAPOLEON'S FAREWELL. 
[From the French.] 



Farewell to the Land, where the gloom of my Glory 
Arose and o'ershadow'd the earth with her name — 
She abandons me now — but the page of her story, 
The brightest or blackest, is filPd with my fame. 
I have warr'd with a world which vanquish'd me only 
When the meteor of conquest allured me too far; 
I have coped with the nations which dread me thus 

lonely, 
The last single Captive to millions in war. 

Farewell to thee, France ! when thy diadem crown'd 

me, 
I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth, — 
But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found 

thee, 
Decay'd in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth. 
Oh ! for the veteran hearts that were wasted 
In strife with the storm, when their battles were won — 
Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment was 

blasted, 
Had still soar'd with eyes fix'd on victory's sun ! 

HI. 

Farewell to thee, France ! — but when Liberty rallies 
Once more in thy regions, remember me then, — 
The violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys; 
Though wither'd, thy tear will unfold it again — 
Yet, yet, I may baffle the hosts that surround us, 
And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice — 
There are links which must break in the chain that has 

bound us, 
Tlien turn thee and call on the Chief of thy choice ! 



ENDORSExMENT TO THE DEED OF SEPARA- 
TION, IN THE APRIL OF 1816. 3 

A year ago, you swore, fond she ! 

" To love, to honour," and so forth : 
Such was the vow you pledged to me, 

And here 's exactly what 't is worth. 



3" Here is an epigram I wrote for the Endorsement of 
the Deed of Separation, in 1816; but the lawyers objected 
to it, as superfluous. It was written as we were getting 
up the signing and sealing."— iorrf Byron to Mr. 
Moore.— E. 



1816.] 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



2-21 



DOMESTIC PIECES. 
1816. 



Of the six following poems, the first three were 
written immediately before Lord Byron's final de- 
parture from England ; the others, during the earlier 
part of his residence in the neighbourhood of Geneva. 
They all refer to the unhappy event, which M'ill for 
ever mark the chief crisis of his personal story,— that 
separation from Lidy Byron, of which, after all that 
has been said and written, the real motives and cir- 
cumstances remain as obscure as ever. 

It is only, of course, with Lord Byron's part in the 
transaction that the public have any sort of title to con- 
cern themselves. He has given us this right, by ma- 
king a domestic occurrence the subject of printed 
verses ; but, so long as the other party chooses to guard 
that reserve, which few can be so uncharitable as not 
to ascribe, in the main, to a high feeling, it is entirely 
impossible to arrive at any clear and definite judgment 
on the case as a whole. Each reader must, therefore, 
be content to interpret for himself, as fairly as he may, 
an already bulky collection of evidence, which will 
probably be doubled before it has any claim to be con- 
sidered as complete. 

There are, however, two important points which 
seem to us to be placed beyond all chance of dispute 
hereafter : namely, first, that Lord Byron himself never 
knew the precise origin of his Lady's resolution to quit 
his society, in 1816 ; and, secondly, that, down to the 
last, he never despaired of being ultimately reconciled 
to her. Both of these facts appear to be established, in 
the clearest manner, by Mr. Moore's narrative, and the 
whole subsequent tenor of the Poet's own diaries, let- 
ters, and conversations. Mr, Kennedy, in his account 
of Lord Byron's last residence in Cephalonia, repre- 
sents him as saying,—" Lady Byron deserves every 
respect from me : I do not indeed know the cause of 
the separation, and I have remained, and ever will re- 
main, ready for a reconciliition, whenever circum- 
stances open and point out the way to it." Mr. Moore 
has preserved evidence of one attempt which Lord 
Byron made to bring about an explanation with his 
Lady, ere he left Switzerland for Italy. Whether he 
ever repeated the experiment we are uncertain : but 
that failed, — and the failure must be borne in mind, 
when the reader considers some of the smaller pieces 
included in this section.— See MOOUE'S Notices.— E. 



FARE THEE WELL.i 

' Alas '. they had been friends in youth ; 
But whispering tongues can poison truth; 
And constancy lives in realms above; 
And life is thorny; and youth is vain : 
And to be wroth with one we love, 
Doth work like madness in the brain ; 



But never either found another 

To free the hollow heart from paining — 

They stood aloof, the scars remaining, 

Like cliffs which had been rent asunder; 

A dreary sea now flows between, 

But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, 

Shall wholly do away, I ween, 

The marks of that which once hath been." 

COLERIDGE'S Christabcl. 

Fare thee well ! and if for ever, 

Still for ever, fare thee well : 
Even though unforgiving, never 

'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. 



1" It was about the middle of April that his two cele- 
brated copies of verses, " Fare thee well," and " A Sketch," 
made their appearance in the newspapers; and while the 
latter poem was generally and, it must be owned, justly 
condemned, as a sort of literary assault on an obscure 



Would that breast were bared before thee 
Where thy head so oft hath lain, 

While that placid sleep came o'er thee 
Which thou ne'er canst know again : 

Would that breast, by thee glanced over, 
Every inmost thought could show 1 

Then thou would'st at last discover 
'T was not well to spurn it so. 

Though the world for this commend thee — 
Though it smile upon the blow, 

Even its praises must oflend thee, 
Founded on another's woe : 

Though my many faults defaced me, 

Could no other arm be found. 
Than the one which once embraced me, 

To inflict a cureless wound ? 

Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not; 

Love may sink by slow decay, 
But by sudden wrench, believe not 

Hearts can thus be torn away : 

Still thine own its life retaineth — 

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; 

And the undying thought which paineth 
Is — that we no more may meet. 

These are words of deeper sorrow 

Than the wail above the dead ; 
Both shall live, but every morrow 

Wake us from a widow'd bed. 

And when thou wouldst solace gather, 
When our child's first accents flow. 

Wilt thou teach her to say " Father ! " 
Though his care she must forego ? 

When her little hands shall press thee, 
When her lip to thine is press'd, 

Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, 
Think of him thy love hath bless'd I 

Should her lineaments resemble 
Those thou never more may'st see, 

Then thy heart will softly tremble 
With a pulse yet true to me. 

All my faults perchance thou knowest, 
All my madness none can know ; 

All my hopes, where'er thou goest. 
Wither, yet with thee they go. 



female, whose situation ought to have placed her as much 
beneath his satire, as the undignified mode of his attack 
certainly raised her above it, with regard to the other 
poem, opinions were a good deal more divided. To many 
it appeared a strain of true conjugal tenderness, — a kind 
of appeal which no woman with a heart could resist; 
while, by others, on the contrary, it was considered to be 
a mere showy effusion of sentiment, as difficult for real 
feeling to have produced as it was easy for fancy and art, 
and altogether unworthy of the deep interests involved in 
the subject. To this latter opinion I confess my own to 
have, at first, strongly inclined ; and suspicious as I could 
not help regarding the sentiment that could, at such a mo- 
ment, indulge in such verses, the taste that prompted or 
sanctioned their publication appeared to me even still 
more questionable. On reading, however, hisosvn account 
of all the circumstances in the Memoranda, I found that 
on both points I had, in common with a large portion of 
the public, done him injustice. He there described, and in 
a manner whose sincerity there was no doubting, the 
swell of tender recollections under the influence of which, 
as he eat one night musing in his study, these stanzas 
were produced,— the tears, as he said, falling fast over the 
paper as he wrote them. Neither did it appear, from that 
account, to have been from any wish or intention of his 
own, but through the injudicious zeal of a friend whom he 
had suffered to take a copy, that the verses met the public 
eye." — MOORE. The appearance of the manuscript con- 
firms this account of the circumstances under which it 
was written: it is blotted all over with the marks of 
tears. — E. 



19* 



222 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



[1816. 



Every feeling hath been shaken ; 

Pride, which not a world could bow, 
Cows to thee — by thee forsaken, 

Even my soul forsakes me now : 

But 't is done — all words are idle — 

Words from me are vaine; still ; 
But the thoughts we cannot bridle 

Force their way without the will.— 

Fare thee well ! — thus disunited, 

Torn fro£n every nearer tie, 
Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted, 

More than this I scarce can die. 

March 17, 1816. 



A SKETCH. 1 

" Honest — honest lago ! 
If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee." 

SHAKSPEARE. 

Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred. 

Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head ; 

Next — for some gracious service unexpress'd, 

And from its wages only to be guess'd — 

Raised from the toilet to the table, — where 

Her wondering betters wait behind her chair. 

With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash'd. 

She dines from off the plate she lately wash'd. 

Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie — 

The genial confidante, and general spy — 

Who could, ye gods ! her next employment guess — 

An only infant's earliest governess ! 

She taught the child to read, and taught so vrell, 

That she herself, by teaching, learu'd to spell. 

An adept next in penmanship she grows. 

As many a nameless slander deftly shows : 

What she had made the pupil of her art. 

None know — but ihat high Soul secured the heart, 

And panted for the truth it could not hear, 

With longing breast and undeluded ear. 

Foil'd was perversion by that youthful mind. 

Which Flattery fool'd not — Baseness could not blind, 

Deceit infect not — near Contagion soil — 

Indulgence weaken — nor Example spoil — 

Nor master'd Science tempt her to look down 

On humbler talents with a pitying frown — 

Nor Genius swell — nor Be.iuiy render vain — 

Nor Envy ruflfle to retaliate pain — 

Nor Fortune change — Pride raise — nor Passion bow, 

Nor Virtue teach austerity — till now. 

Serenely purest of her sex that live. 

But wanting one sweet weakness — to forgive, 

Too shock'd at faults her soul can never know. 

She deems that all could be like her below : 

Foe to all vice, yet hardly Virtue's friend, 

For Virtue pardons those she would amend. 

But to the theme : — now laid aside too long, 

The baleful burthen of this honest song — 

Though all her former functions are no more, 

She rules the circle which she served before. 

If mothers — none know why — before her quake j 

If daughters dread her for the mothers' sake ; 

If early habits — those false links, which bind 

At times the loftiest to the meanest mind — 

Have given her power too deeply to instil 

The angry essence of her deadly will ; 

If like a snake she steal within your walls. 

Till the black slime betray her as she crawls; 

If like a viper to the heart she wind. 

And leave the venom there she did not find ; 

What marvel that this hag of hatred works 

Eternal evil latent as she lurks. 

To make a Pandemonium where she dwells, 

And reign the Hecate of domestic hells? 



1 " I send you my last night's dream, and request to 
have fifty copies struck oflf, for private distribution. I 
wish Mr. Gifford to look at them. They are from life." 
— Lord B. to Mr. Murray, March 30, 1816.— E. 



Skill'd by a touch to deepen scandal's tints 

With all the kind mendacity of hints. 

While minghng truth with falsehood — sneers with 

smiles — 
A thread of candour with a web of wiles ; 
A plain blunt show of briefly-spoken seeming, 
To hide her bloodless heart's soul-harden'd scheming; 
A lip of lies — a face form'd to conceal j 
And, without feeling, mock at all who feel : 
With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown ; 
A cheek of parchment — and an eye of stone. 
Mark, how the channels of her yellow blood 
Ooze to her skin, and stagnate there to mud. 
Cased like the centipede in saffron mail. 
Or darker greenness of the scorpions scale — 
(For dravN n from reptiles only may we trace 
Congenial colours in that soul or face) — 
Look on her features ! and behold her mind 
As in a mirror of itself defined : 
Look on the picture ! deem it not o'ercharged — 
There is no trait which might not be enlarged: 
Yet true to " Nature's journeymen," who made 
This monster when their mistress left off trade — 
This female dog-star of her little sky, 
Where all beneath her influence droop or die. 

Oh ! wretch without a tear — without a thought. 

Save joy above the ruin thou hast wrought — 

The tin)e shall come, nor long remote, when thou 

Shalt feel far more than thou intlictest now ; 

Feel for thy vile self-loving self in vain, 

And turn thee howling in unpitied pain. 

May the strong curse of crush'd affections light 

Back on thy bosom with reflected blight! 

And make thee in thy leprosy of mind 

As loathsome to thyself as to mankind ! 

Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into hate, 

Black — as thy will for others would create : 

Till thy hard heart be calcined into dust. 

And thy soul welter in its hideous crust. 

Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed, — 

The widow'd couch of fire, that thou hast spread ! 

Then, when thou fain wouldst weary Heaven with 

prayer. 
Look on thine earthly victims — and despair ! 
Down to the dust ! — and, as thou rott'st away, 
Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay. 
But for the love I bore, and still must bear. 
To her thy malice from all ties would tear — 
Thy name — thy human name — to every eye 
The climax of all scorn should hang on high, 
Exalted o'er thy less abhorr'd compeers — 
And festering in the infamy of years. 

March 29, 1816. 



STANZAS TO AUGUSTA.^ 



When all around grew drear and dark. 
And reason half withheld her ray — 

And hope but shed a dying spark 
Which more misled my lonely way; 

n. 

In that deep midnight of the mind, 
And that internal strife of heart. 

When, dreading to be deem'd too kind, 
The weak despair — the cold depart ; 



2 His sister, the Honourable Mrs. Leigh.— These stan- 
zas — tlie parting tribute to her, whose unshaken tender- 
ness had been the author's sole consolation during the 
crisis of domestic misery — were, we believe, the last 
verses written by Lord Byron in England. In a note to 
Mr. Roger-s dated April 16th, he says,— "My sister is now 
with me, and leaves town to-morrow : we shall not meet 
again for some time at all erents, — if ever! and. under 
these circumstances, I trust to stand excused to you and 
Mr. Sheridan, for being unable to wait upon him this 
evening." On the 25th, the poet took a last leave of his 
native country.— E. 



1816.] 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



223 



III. 

When fortune changed — and love fled far, 
And hatred's shafts flew thick and fast, 

Thou wert the solitary star 

Which rose and set not to the last. 

IV. 

Oh ! blest be thine unbroken light ! 

That watch 'd me as a seraph's eye, 
And stood between me and the night, 

For ever shining sweetly nigh. 

V. 
And when the cloud upon us came, 

Which strove to blacken o'er thy ray — 
Then purer spread its gentle tiame, 

And dash'd the darkness all away. 

VI. 

Still may thy spirit dwell on mine, 

And teach it what to brave or brook — 

There's more in one soft word of thine 
Than in the world's defied rebuke. 

VII. 

Thou stood'st, as stands a lonely tree. 
That still unbroke, though gently bent, 

Still waves with fond fidelity 
Its boughs above a monument. 

VIII. 

The winds might rend — the skies might pour. 
But there thou wert — and still would'st be 

Devoted in the stormiest hour 
To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me. 

IX. 

But thou and thine shall know no blight. 

Whatever fate on me may fall ; 
For heaven in sunshine will requite 

The kind — and thee the most of all, 

X. 

Then let the ties of baffled love 
Be broken — thine will never break ; 

Thy heart can feel — but will not move ; 
Thy soul, though soft, will never shake. 

XI. 

And these, wben all was lost beside, 

Were found and still are fix'd in thee j -— 

And bearing still a breast so tried. 
Earth is ho desert — ev'n to me. 



STANZAS TO AUGUSTA. l 



Though the day of my destiny 's over, 

And the star of my fate hath declined, 
Thy soft heart refused to discover 

The faults which so many could find ; 
Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted, 

It shrunk not to share it with me, 
And the love which my spirit hath painted 

It never hath found but in ihte. 

II. 
Then when nature around me is smiling 

The last smile which answers to mine, 
I do not believe it Ijeguiling, 

Because it reminds me of thine ; 
And when winds are at war with the ocean, 

As the breasts I believed in with me, 
If their billows excite an emotion, 

It is that they bear me from thee. 



IThese beautiful verses, so expressive of the writer's 
wounded feelings at the momeni, were written in July, 
at tfie Campagne Diodati, near Geneva, and transmitted to 
England for publication, with some other pieces. — E. 



III. 

Though the rock of my last hope is shiver'd, 

And its fragments are sunk in the wave. 
Though I feel that my soul is deliver'd. 

To pain — it shall not be its slave. 
There is many a pang to pursue me : 

They may crush, but they shall not contemn — 
They may torture, but shall not subdue me — 

'T is of thee that 1 think — not of them. 
IV. 
Though human, thou didst not deceive me. 

Though woman, thou didst not forsake, 
Thoui^h loved, thou forborest to grieve me, 

Though slander'd, thou never couldst shake, — 
Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me. 

Though parted, it was not to fly, 
Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me, 

Nor, mute, that the woild might belie. 

V. 

Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it, 

Nor the war of the many with one — 
If my soul was not fitted to prize it, 

'T was folly not sooner to shun : 
And if dearly that error hath cost me. 

And more than I once could foresee, 
I have found that, whatever it lost me, 

It could not deprive me of thte. 
VI. 
From the wreck of the past, which hath perish'd. 

Thus much I at least may recall, 
It hath taught me that what I most cherish'd 

Deserved to be dearest of all : 
In the desert a fountain is springing, 

In the wide waste there still is a tree. 
And a bird in the solitude singing. 

Which speaks to my spirit of thee. 

July 24, 1816. 



EPISTLE TO AUGUSTA. 2 



My sister ! my sweet sister ! if a name 
Dearer and purer were, it should be thine. 
Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim 
No tears, but tenderness to answer mine : 
Go where I will, to me thou art the same — 
A loved regret which I would not resign. 
There yet are two things in my destiny, — 

A world to roam through, and a home with thee. 
II. 
The first were nothing— had I slill the last, 
It were the haven of my hajipiness ; 
But other claims and other ties thou hast, 
And mine is not the wish to make them less. 
A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past 
Recalling, as it lies beyond redress ; 
Reversed for him our grandsire's 3 fate of yore,- 

He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore. 
III. 
If my inheritance of storms hath been 
In other elements, and on the rocks 
Of perils, overlook'd or unforeseen, 
I have sustain'd my share of worldly shocks, 



2 These stanzas were also written at Dindati, and sent 
home at the time for publication, in case Mrs. Leigh 
should sanction it. But as she objected, the lines were 
not published until 1630.— E. 

3 Admiral Byron was remarkable for never making a 
voyage without a tempest. He was known to the sailors 
by the facetious name of "Foul-weather Jack." 

"But, though it were tempest-toss'd, 
Slill his bark could not be lost." 
He returned safely from the wreck of the Wager (in An- 
son's voyage), and subsequently circumnavigated the 
world, many years after, as commander of a similar expe- 
dition. — E. 



224 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



[1816. 



The fault was mine ; nor do I seek to screen 
My errors with defensive paradox ; 
I have been cunning in mine overthrow, 
The careful pilot of my proper woe. 

IV. 

Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward. 
My whole life was a contest, since the day 
That gave me bein^, gave me that which marr'd 
The gift, — a fate, or will, that walk'd astny j 
And I at times have found the struggle hard. 
And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay: 
But now I fain would for a time survive, 
If but to see what next can well arrive. 



Kingdoms and empires in my little day 
I have outlived, and yet I am not old ; 
And when I look on this, the petty spray 
Of my own years of trouble, which have rolPd 
Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away : 
Something — I know not what — does still uphold 
A spirit of slight patience ; — not in vain, 
Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain. 

VI. 

Perhaps the workings of defiance stir 
Within me — or perhaps a cold despair, 
Brought on when ills habitually recur, — 
Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air, 
(For even to this may change of soul refer. 
And with light armour we may learn to bear,) 
Have taught me a strange quiet, which was not 
The chief companion of a calmer lot. 

VII. 

I feel almost at times as I have felt 
In happy childhood; trees, and flowers, and brooks, 
Which do remember me of where I dwelt 
Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books, 
Come as of yore upon me, and can melt 
My heart with recognition of their looks ; 
And even at moments I could think I see 
Some living thing to love — but none like thee. 

VIII. 

Here are the Alpine landscapes which create 
A fund for contemplation ; — to admire 
Is a brief feeling of a trivial date ; 
But something worthier do such scenes inspire ; 
Here to be lonely is not desolate. 
For much I view which I could most desire, 
And, above all, a lake I can behold 
Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old. 

IX. 

Oh that thou wert but with me ! — but I grov? 
The fool of my own wishes, and forget 
The solitude which I have vaunted so 
Has lost its praise in this but one regret ; 
There may be others which I less may show ; — 
I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet 
I feel an ebb in my philosophy, 
And the tide rising in my alterd eye. 

X. 

I did remind thee of our own dear Lnke,l 
By the old Hall which may be mine no more. 
Leman's is fair ; but think not I forsake 
The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore : 



1 The Lake of Newstead Abbey. Thus described in Don 
Juan : — 

"Before the mansion lay a lucid lake, 

Broad, as transparent, deep, and freshly fed 
By a river, which its soften'd way did take 

In currents through the calmer waters spread 
Around : the wild fowl nestled in the brake 
And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed; 
The woods sloped downwards to its brink and stood 
With their green faces fix'd upon the flood." — E. 



Sad havoc Time must with my memory make, 
Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before • 
Though, like all things which I have loved, they are 
Resign'd for ever, or divided far. 

XI. 

The world is all before me ; I but ask 
Of Nature that with which she will comply — 
It is but in her summer's sun to bask, 
To mingle with the quiet of her sky. 
To see her gentle face without a mask, 
And never gaze on it with apathy. 
She was my early friend, and now shall be 
My sister — till I look again on thee. 

XII. 
I can reduce all feelings but this one ; 
And that I would not ; — for at length I see 
Such scenes as those wherein my life begun. 
The earliest — even the only paths for me — 
Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun, 
I had been better than I now can be ; 
The passions which have torn me would have slept; 
I had not sutfer'd, and thou hadst not wept. 

XHL 

With false Ambition what had I to do ? 
Little with Love, and least of all with Fame ; 
And yet they came unsought, and with me grew, 
And made me all which they can make — a name. 
Yet this was not the end I did pursue; 
Surely I once beheld a nobler aim. 
But all is over — I am one the more 
To baffled millions which have gone before. 

XIV. 

And for the future, this world's future may 
From me demand but little of my care ; 
I have outlived myself by many a day; 
Having survived so many things that were; 
My years have been no slumber, but the prey 
Of ceaseless vigils ; for I had the share 
Of life which might have fill'd a century, 
Before its fourth in time had pass'd me by. 

XV. 
And for the remnant which may be to come 
I am content ; and for the past I feel 
Not thankless, — for within the crowded sum 
Of struggles, happiness at times would steal, 
And for The present, I would not benumb 
My feelings farther.— Nor shall I conceal 
That with all this 1 still can look around. 
And worship Nature with a thought profound. 

XVI. 

For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy heart 
I know myself secure, as thou in mine; 
We were and are — I am, even as thou art — 
Beings who ne'er each other can resign ; 
It is the same, together or apart, 
From life's commencement to its slow decline, 
We are entwined — let death come slow or fast, 
The tie which bound the first endures the last I 



LINES 
ON HEARING THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL.S 

And thou wert sad — yet I was not with thee; 

And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near; 
Methought that joy and health alone could be 

Where I was not — and pain and sorrow here ; 



2 These verses were written immediately after the fail- 
ure of the negotiation for a reconciliation, before Lord 
Byron left Switzerland for Italy, but were not intended for 
the public eye : as, however, they have recently found 
their way into circulation, we include them in this col- 
lection. — E. 



1816.] 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



225 



And is it thus ? — it is as I foretold, 

And shall be more so ; for the mind recoils 
Upon itself, and the wreck'd heart lies cold, 

While heaviness collects the shattered spoils. 
It is not in the storm nor in the strife 

We feel benumb'd, and wish to be no more, 

But in the after-silence on the shore, 
When all is lost, except a little life. 

I am too well avenged ! — but 't was my right ; 

Whate'er my sins might be, thoii wert not sent 
To be the Nemesis who should requite — 

Nor did Heaven choose so near an instrument. 
Mercy is for the merciful ! — if thou 
Hast been of such, 't will be accorded now. 
Thy nights are banish'd from the realms of sleep ! — 

Yes ! they may flatter thee, but thou shalt feel 

A hollow agony which will not heal, 
For thou art pillow'd on a curse too deep ; 
Thou hast sown in my sorrow, and must reap 

The bitter harvest in a woe as real ! 
I have had many foes, but none like thee ; 

For 'gainst the rest myself I could defend, 

And be avenged, or turn them into friend ; 
But thou in safe implacability 

Hadst nought to dread — in thy own weakness shielded, 
And in my love, which hath but too much yielded, 

And spared, for thy sake, some I should not spare — 
And thus upon the world — trust in thy truth — 
And the wild fame of my ungovern'd youth — 

On things that were not, and on things that are — 
Even upon such a basis hast thou built 
A monument, whose cement hath been guilt ! 

The moral Clytemnestra of thy lord. 

And hew'd down, with an unsuspected sword. 
Fame, peace, and hope — and all the better life 

Which, but for this cold treason of thy hearty 
Might still have risen from out the grave of strife, 

And found a nobler duty than to part. 
But of thy virtues didst thou make a vice, 

TraflUcking with them in a purpose cold. 

For present anger, and for future gold — 
And buying other's grief at any price. 
And thus once enter'd into crooked ways, 
The early truth, which was thy proper praise. 
Did not still walk beside thee — but at times, 
And with a breast unknowing its own crimes, 
Deceit, averments incompatible, 
Equivocations, and the thoughts which dwell 

In Janus-spirits — the significant eye 
Which learns to lie with silence — the pretext 
Of prudence, with advantages annex'd — 
The acquiescence in all things which tend. 
No matter how, to the desired end — 

All found a place in thy philosophy. 
The means were worthy, and the end is won — 
I would not do by thee as thou hast done ! i 

September, 1816. 

1 " Lord Byron had at least this much to say for himself, 
that he was not the first to make his domestic differences 
atopic of public discussion. On the contrary, he saw him- 
self, ere any fact but the one undisguised and tangible one 
was or could be known, held up eveiy where, and by every 
art of malice, as the most infamous of men, — because he 
had parted from his wife. He was exquisitely sensitive : 
he was wounded at once by a thousand arrows ; and all 
this with the most perfect and indignant knowledge, that 
of all who were assailing him not one knew any thing of 
the real merits of the case. Did he right, then, in pub- 
lishing those squibs and tirades 7 No, certainly : it would 
have been nobler, better, wiser far, to have utterly scorned 
the assaults of such enemies, and taken no notice, of any 
kind, of them. But, because this young, hot-blooded, 
proud, patrician poet did not, amidst the exacerbation of 
feelings which he could not control, act in precisely the 
most dignified and wisest of all possible manners of action, 
—are we entitled, is the world at large entitled, to issue 
a broad sentence of vituperative condemnation? Do tue 
know all that he had suifered?— have we imagination 
enough to comprehend what he suffered under circum- 
stances such as these ?— have we been tried in similar cir- 
cumstances, whether we could feel the wound unflinch- 
ingly, and keep the weapon quiescent in the hand that 



MONODY 



DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. R. B. SHERI- 
DAN, 2 

Spoken at Drury-Lane Theatre. 

When the last sunshine of expiring day 

In summer's twilight weeps itself awav. 

Who hath not felt the softness of the hour 

Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower ? 

With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes 

While Nature makes that melancholy pause. 

Her breathing moment on the bridge where Time 

Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime, 

Who hafh not shared that calm, so still and deep, 

The voiceless thought which would not speak but 

weep, 
A holy concord — and a bright regret, 
A glorious sympathy with suns that set ? 
'T is not harsh sorrow — but a tenderer woe, 
Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below. 
Felt without bitterness— but full and clear, 
A sweet dejection — a transparent tear, 
Unmix'd with worldly grief or selfish stain, 
Shed without shame — and secret without pain. 

Even as the tenderness that hour instils 

When Summer's day declines along the hills. 

So feels the fulness of our heart and eyes 

When all of Genius which can perish dies, 

A mighty Spirit is eclipsed — a Power 

Hath pass'd from day to darkness — to whose hour 

Of light no likeness is bequeath'd — no name, 

Focus at once of all the rays of Fame ! 

The flash of Wit— the bright Intelligence, 

The beam of Song — the blaze of Eloquence, 

Set with their Sun — but still have left behind 

The enduring produce of immortal Mind ; 

Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon, 

A deathless part of him who died too soon. 

But small that portion of the wondrous whole. 

These sparkling segments of that circling soul. 

Which all embraced — and lighten'd over all. 

To cheer — to pierce — to please — or to appal. 

From the charm'd council to the festive board, 

Of human feelings the unbounded lord ; 

In whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied, 

The praised — the proud — who made his praise their 

pride. 
When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan 
Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man, 
His was the thunder — his the avenging rod. 
The wrath — the delegated voice of God ! 
Which shook the nations through his lips — and blazed 
Till vanquish'd senates trembled as they praised. 

And here, oh ! here, where yet all young and warm. 

The gay creations of his spirit charm, 

The matchless dialogue — the deathless wit. 

Which knew not what it was to intermit ; 

Tiie glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring 

Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring; 

These wondrous beings of his fancy, wrought 

To fulness by the fiat of his thought, 

Here in their first abode you still may meet. 

Bright with the hues of his Promethean heat; 

A halo of the light of other days. 

Which still the splendour of its orb betrays. 

But should there be to whom the fatal blight 

Of failing Wisdom yields a base delight. 

Men who exult when minds of heavenly tone 

Jar in the music which was born their own, 



trembled with all the excitements of insulted privacy, ho- 
nour, and faith,"— LOCKHART.— E. 

2 Mr. Sheridan died the 7th of July. 1816, and this 
monody was written at Diodali on the 17th, at the request 
of Mr. Douglas Kinnaird. — E. 



15 



226 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



[1816. 



still let them pause — ah ! little do they know 
That what to them seem'd Vice might be but Woe. 
Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze 
Is fix'd for ever to detr-ct or praise ; 
Repose denies her requiem to his mme, 
And Folly loves the mariyrdom of Fame. 
The secret enemy « hose sleepless eye 
Stands sentmel — accuser — judge — and spy, 
The foe— the fool — ihe jealous — and the vain, 
The envious who but brea he in others' pain, 
Behold the host ! delighting to deprave, 
Who track the steps of Glory o the grave, 
Watch every f ult that daring Genius owes 
Half to the ardour which its birth bestows, 
Distort the truth, accumulate the lie. 
And pile the pynmid of Calunmy ! j 

These are his portion — but if joined to these j 

Gaunt Poverty should league with deep Disease, i 

If the high Spirit must forget to soar, j 

And stoop to strive with Misery at the door,i i 

To soothe Indignity — and face to face ' 

Meet sordid Rige — and wrestle with Disgrace, 
To find in Hope but the renew'd caress, 
The serpent-fold of further Faithlessness: — 
If such may be the ills which men assail, 
What marvel if at last the mightiest fail ? 
Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling given 
Bear hearts electric — charged with lire from Heaven, 
Black with the rude collision, inly torn, 
By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne. 
Driven o'er the lowering atmosphere that nurst 
Thoughts which have turn'd to thunder — scorch — 
and burst. 

But far from us and from our mimic scene 
Such things should be — if ?uch have ever been; 
Ours be the gentler wish, the kinder task. 
To give the tribute Glory need not ask, 
To mourn the vanish'd beam — and add our mite 
Of praise in payment of a long delight. 
Ye Orators ! whom yet our councils yield. 
Mourn for the veteran Hero of your field ! 
The worthy rival of the wondrous Tnrtt ! 3 
Whose words were sparks of Immortality ! 
Ye Baids! to whom the Drama's Muse is dear. 
He was your Master — emulate him here! 
Ye men of wit and social eloquence ! 
He was your brother — bear his ashes hence ! 
While Powers of mind almost of boundless range. 
Complete in kind — as various in their change. 
While Eloquence — Wit— Poesy — and Mirth, 
That humbler Harmonist of care on Earth, 
Survive within our souls — while lives our sense 
Of pride in Merit's proud p-e-eminence. 
Long shall we seek his likeness — long in vain. 
And turn to all of him which may remain, 
Sighing that Nature form'd but oiie such man. 
And broke the die — in moulding Sheridan ! 



THE DREAM. 5 



Our life is twofold : Sleep hath its own world, 
A boundary between the things misnamed 



1 This was not fiction. Only a few days before his 
death, Sheridan wrote thus to Mr. Rogers: — "I am ab- 
solutely undone and broken-hearted They are going to 
put the carpets out of window, and break into Mrs. S.'s 
room and take me: 150/. will remove all difficulty. For 
God's sake let me see you ! " Mr. Moore was the imme- 
diate bearer of the required sum. This was written on 
the }5th of May. On the 14th of July, Sheridan's remains 
were deposited in Westminster Abbey,— his pall-bearers 
being the Duke of Bedford, the Earl of Lauderdale, Earl 
Mulgrave, the Lord Bishop of London, Lord Holland, and 
Earl Spencer. — E. 

2 Fox — Fitt— Burke. 

8 In the first draught of this poem, Lord Byron bad 
entitled it •' The Dettiny." Mr. Moore says, " it cost him 



Death and existence : Sleep hath its own world, 

And a wide realm of wild reality. 

And dreams in their developement have breath, 

And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy j 

They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, 

They take a vi'eighi from off our waking tolls, 

They do divide our being j they become 

A po'tion of ourselves as of our time, 

And look like heralds of eternity ; 

They pass like spirits of he past, — they speak 

Like Sib>ls of the future; they have power — 

The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; 

They make us what we were not — what they will, 

And shake us with the vision that 's gone by, 

The dread of vanish'd sh .dows — Are they so ? 

Is not the past all shadow ? — What are ihey ? 

Creations of the mind ? — The mind can make 

Substance, and people planets of its own 

With beings brighter than have been, and give 

A breath to forms which can outlive all fi&sh. 

I would recall a vision which I dream'd 

Perchance in sleep — for in i self a thought, 

A slumbering thought, is capable of years. 

And curdles a long life into one hour. 



II. 

I saw two beings in the hues of youth 
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill. 
Green and of mild declivity, the last 
As 't were the cape of a long ridge of such, 
Save that there was no sea to lave its base, 
But a most living landscape, and the wave 
Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men 
Scitter'd at intervals, and wreathing smoke 
Arising from such rustic roofs ; — the hill 
Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem 
Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd. 
Not by the sport of nature, but of man : 
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there 
Gazing — the one on all that was beneath 
Fair as herself — but the boy gazed on her ; 
And both were young, and one was beautiful : 
And bo h were young — yet not alike in youth. 
As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge. 
The maid was on the eve of womanhood ; 
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart 
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 
There was but one beloved face on earth. 
And that was shining on him : he had look'd 
Upon it till it could not pass away; 
He had no breath, no being, but in hers; 
She was his voice; he did not speak to her, 
But trembled on her words ; she was his sight, 
For his eye follow'd hers, and saw with hers, 
Which colour'd all his objects : — he had ceased 
To live within himself; she was his life. 
The ocean to the river of his thoughts. 
Which terminated all : upon a tone, 
A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, 
And his cheek change tempestuously — his heart 
I Unknowing of its cause of agony. 
I But she in these fond feelings had no share : 
I Her sighs were not for him ; to her he was 
j Even as a brother — but no more ; 't was much, 
I For brolherless she was, save in the name 
Her infant friendship had bestow'd on him; 
Herself the solitary scion left 
Of a time-honour'd race. — It was a name 
Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not — and 
! why ? 

Time taught him a deep answer — when she loved 
Another; even now she loved another. 
And on the summit of that hill she stood 
Looking afar if yet her lover's steed 
Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. 

many a tear in writing," and justly characterises it as 
I " the most mournful as well as picturesque 'story of a 
wandering life' that ever came from the pen and heart of 
man." It was composed at Diodati in July, 1816.— E. 






1 



1816.] 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



227 



III. 

A change cime o'er the spirit of my dream. 

There was au ancient mansion, and before 

Its walls there was a steed caparison'd ; 

Wiihia an antique Oratory stood 

The Boy of whom I spake ; — he was alone, 

And pale, and pacing to and fro : anon 

He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced 

Words which 1 could not guess of ; then he lean'd 

His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 't were 

With a convulsion — then arose again. 

And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear 

What he had written, but he shed no tears.i 

And he did calm himself, and fix his brow 

Into a kind of quiet : as he paused. 

The Lady of his love reenter'd there; 

She was serene and smiling then, and yet 

She knew she was by him beloved, — she knew, 

For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart 

Was darken'd with her shadow, and she saw 

That he was wretched, but she saw not all.2 

He rose, and with a cold and gen le grasp 

He took her hand ; a moment o'er bis face 

A tablet ot unutterable thoughts 

Was traced, and then it faded, as it came; 

He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slov? steps 

Retired, but not as bidding her adieu. 

For they did part with mutual smiles ; he pass'd 

From out the massy gate of that old Hall, 

And mounting on his steed he went his way; 

And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more. 

IV. 
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Boy was sprung to manhood : in the wilds 
Of fiery climes he made himself a home. 
And his soul drank their sunbeams: he was girt 
With strange and dusky aspects ; he was not 
Himself like what he had been ; on the sea 
And on the shore he was a wanderer ; 
There was a mass of many images 
Crowded like waves upon me, but he was 
A part of all ; and in the last he lay 
Reposing from the noontide sultriness, 
Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade 
Of ruiii'd walls that had survived the names 
Of those who rear'd them ; by his sleeping side 
Stood cimels grazing, and some goodly steeds 
Were fasten'd near a fountain ; and a man 
Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while, 
While many of his tribe slumber'd around : 
And they were canopied by the blue sky, 
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful. 
That God alone was to be seen in Heaven. 

V. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Lady of his love was wed with One 
Who did not love her better : — in her home, 
A thousand leagues from his, — her native home, 
She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy, 
Daughters and sons of Beauty,— but behold ! 
Upon her face there was the tint of grief, 
The settled shadow of an inward strife, 
And an unquiet drooping of the eye. 
As if its lid were charged with unshed tears. 



1 The picture which Lord Byron has here drawn of his 
youthful love shows how genius and feeling can elevate 
the realities of this life, and give to the commonest events 
and objects an undyin? lustre. The old hall at Annesley 
under the name of the "antique oratory," will long rail 
up to fancy the "maiden and the yntith " who once stood 
in it; while the image of the " lover's steed," though 
suggested by the unromantic race-ground of Nottingham, 
will not the less conduce to the general charm of the 
scene, and share a portion of that light which only genius 
could shed over it, — MOORE.— E. 

2"! had long been in love with M. A. C, and never 
told it, though ihe had discovered it without. I recollect 
my sensations, but cannot describe them, and it Is as 
well." — B.vron Diary, lt)22. — E. 



What could her grief be ? — she had all she loved, 
And he who had so loved her was not there 
To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, 
Or ill-repressed affliction, her pure thoughts. 
What could her grief be ? — she had loved him not. 
Nor given him cause lo deem himself beloved. 
Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd 
Upon her mind — a spectre of the past. 

VI. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 

The Wanderer was return'd. — I saw him stand 

Before an Altar — with a gentle bride ; 

Her face was fair, but was not that which made 

The Starlight of his Boyhood ; — as he stood 

Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came 

The selfsame aspect, and the quivering shock 

That in the antique Oratory shook 

His bosom in its solitude ; and then — 

As in that hour — a moment o'er his face 

The tablet of unutterable thoughts 

Was traced, — and then it faded as it came. 

And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 

The fitting vows, but heard not his own words,' 

And all things reel'd around him; he could see 

Not that which was, nor that which should have 

been — 
But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall, 
And the remember'd chambers, and the place, 
The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade. 
All things pertaining to that place and hour, 
And her who was his destiny, came back 
And thrust themselves between him and the light : 
What business had they there at such a time ?3 

VII. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Lady of his love ; — Oh ! she was changed 
As by the sickness of the soul ; her mind 
Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes 
They had not their own lustre, but the look 
Which is not of the earth ; she was become 
The queen of a fantastic realm ; her thoughts 
Were combinations of disjointed things; 
And forms impalpable and unperceived 
Of others' sight familiar were to hers. 
And this the world calls frenzy ; but the wise 
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance 
Of melancholy is a fearful gift ; 
What is it but the telescope of tru'h ? 
Which strips the distance of its fantasies. 
And brings life near in utter nakedness, 
Making the cold reality too real ! 

Via. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 

The Wanderer was alone as heretofore. 

The beings which surrounded him were gone, 

Or were at war with him ; he was a mark 

For blight and desolation, compass'd round 

With Hatred and Contention; Pain was mix'd 

In all which was served up to him, until, 

Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,-* 

He fed on poisons, and they had no power, 

But were a kind of nutriment ; he lived 

Through that which had been death to many men, 

And made him friends of mountains : with the stars 



3 This touching picture agrees closely, in many of its 
circumstances, with Lord Byron's own prose account of 
Ihe wedding in his Memoranda ; in which he describes 
himself as waking, on the morning of his marriage, with 
the most melancholy reflections, on seeing his wedding- 
suit spread out befoie him. In Ihe same mood, he wan- 
dered about the grounds alone, till he was summoned for 
the ceri-inony, and jiinid, for the firht time, on that day, 
his bride and hir family. He knelt down—he repeated 
the words after the clergyman; hut u mist was before his 
eyes— liis thoughts were elsewhere : and he was but 
awakened by the congratulation^ of the bystanders to find 
that he was— married.— MOORE,-- K. 

4Mithridate8 of Pontus.— K. 



228 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



[1816. 



And the quick Spirit of the Universe 

He held his dialogues ; and they did teach 

To him the magic of their mysteries ; 

To him the boolc of Night was open'd wide, 

And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd 

A marvel and a secret — be it so. 

IX. 

My dream was past ; it had no further change. 

It was of a strange order, that the doom 

Of these two creatures should be thus traced out 

Almost like a reality — the one 

To end in madness — both in misery. 

July, 1816. 



DARKNESS. 

I had a dream, which was not all a dream. 

The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars 

Did wander darkling in the eternal space, 

Rayless, and pathless, and the icy, earth 

Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air ; 

Morn came and went —and came, and brought no day, 

And men forgot their passions in the dread 

Of this their desolation ; and all hearts 

Were chilTd into a selfish prayer for light : 

And they did live by watchfires — and the thrones, 

The palaces of crowned kings — the huts. 

The habitations of all things which dwell, 

Were burnt for beacons ; cities were consumed, 

And men were gaiher'd round their blazing homes 

To look once more into e;ich other's face; 

Happy were those who dwelt within the eye 

Of the volcanoes, and their mountain-torch: 

A fearful hope was all the world contain'd ; 

Forests were set on fire — but hour by hour 

They fell and faded — and the crackling trunks 

Extinguish'd with a crash — and all was black. 

The brows of men by the despairing light 

Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits 

The flashes fell upon them ; some lay down 

And hid their eyes and wept ; and some did rest 

Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled j 

And others hurried to and fro, and fed 

Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up 

With mad disquietude on the dull sky, 

The pall of a past world ; and then again 

With curses cast them down upon the dust, 

And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd : the wild birds 

shriek'd, 
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, 
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes 
Came tame and tremulous ; and vipers crawl'd 
And twined themselves among the multitude, 
Hissing, but stingless — they were slain for food : 
And War, which for a moment was no more. 
Did glut himself again : — a meal was bought 
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart 
Gorging himself in gloom ; no love was left; 
All earth was but one thought — and thit was death. 
Immediate and inglorious ; and the pang 
Of famine fed upon all entrails — men 
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh ; 
The meagre by the meagre were devour'd, 
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one. 
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept 
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay, 
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead 
Lured their hnk jaws ; himself sought out no food. 
But with a piteous and perpetual moan, 
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand 
Which answer'd not with a caress — he died. 
The crowd was famish'd by degrees ; but two 
Of an enormous city did survive, 
And they were enemies : they met beside 
The dying embers of an altar-place 
Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things 
For an unholy usage ; they raked up. 
And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands 
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath 



Blew for a little life, and made a flame 

Which was a mockery ; then they lifted up 

Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld 

Each other's aspects — saw, and shriek'd, and died — 

Even of their mutual hideousness they died. 

Unknowing who he was upon whose brow 

Famine had written Fiend. The world was void. 

The populous and the pov\ erful was a lump, 

Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless — 

A lump of death — a chaos of hard clay. 

The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still, 

And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths ; 

Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea. 

And their m ists fell down piecemeal : as they dropp'd 

They slept on the abyss without a surge — 

The waves were dead ; the tides were in their grave, 

The moon, their mistress, had expired before ; 

The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air. 

And the clouds perish'd ; Darkness had no need 

Of aid from them — She was the Universe. 

Diodati, July, 1816. 



CHURCHILL'S GRAVE; 
A FACT LITERALLY RENDERED. 

I stood beside the grave of him who blazed 

The comet of a season, and I saw 
The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed 

With not the less of sorrow and of awe 
On that neglected turf and quiet stone, 
With name no clearer than the names unknown, 
Which lay unread around it ; and I ask'd 

The Gardener of that ground, why it might be 
That for this plant strangers his memory task'd, 

Through the thick deaths of half a century ; 
And thus he answer'd — " Well, I do not know 
Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so ; 
He died before my day of Sextonship, 

And I had not the digging of this grave." 
And is this all ? I thought, — and do we rip 

The veil of Immortality, and ciave 
I know not what of honour and of light 
Through unborn ages, to endure this blight, 
So soon, and so successless? As I said. 
The Ai'chitect of all on which we tread, 
For Earth is but a tombstone, did essay 
To extricate remembrance from the clay, 
Whose minglings might confuse a Newton's thought, 

Were it not that all life must end in one. 
Of which we are but dreamers ; — as he caught 

As 't were the twilight of a former Sun, 
Thus spoke he, — " I believe the man of whom 
You wot, who lies in this selected tomb. 
Was a most famous writer in his day, 
And therefore travellers step from out their way 
To pay him honour, — and myself whate'er 

Your honour pleases :" — then most pleased I shook 

From out my pocket's avaricious nook 
Some certain coins of silver, which as 't were 
Perforce I gave this man, though I could spase 
So much but inconveniently : — Ye smile, 
I see ye, ye profane ones ! all the while, 
Because my homely phrase the truth would tell. 
You are the fools, not I — for I did dwell 
With a deep thought, and with a soften'd eye, 
On that old Sexton's natural homily. 
In which there was Obscurity and Fame, — 
The Glory and the Nothing of a Name. 

Diodati, 1816. 



PROMETHEUS. 
I. 

Titan ! to whose immortal eyes 
The sufferings of mortality. 
Seen in their sad reality. 

Were not as things that gods despise ; 



' 



1816.] 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



229 



What was thy pity's recompense ? 
A silent sufiering, and intense ; 
The rock, the vulturcj and the chain, 
All that the proud can feel of pain, 
The agony they do not show, 
The sufiibcating sense of woe, 

Which speaks but in its loneliness, 
And then is jealous lest the sky 
Should have a listener, nor will sigh 

Until its voice is echoless, 

II. 

Titan ! to thee the strife was given 
Between the suffering and the will, 
Which torture where they cannot kill j 

And the inexorable Heaven, 

And the deaf tyranny of Fate, 

The ruling principle of Hate, 

Which for its pleasure doth create 

The things it may annihilate, 

Refused thee even the boon to die : 

The wretched gift eternity 

Was thine— and thou hast borne it well. 

All that the Thunderer wrung from thee 

Was but the menace which flung back 

On him the torments of thy rack ; 

The fate thou didst so well foresee, 

But would not to appease him tell ; 

And in thy Silence was his Sentence, 

And in his Soul a vain repentance, 

And evil dread so ill dissembled, 

That in his hand the lightnings trembled. 

III. 

Thy Godlike crime was to be kind, 

To render with thy precepts less 

The sum of human wretchedness, 
And strengthen Man with his own mind; 
But bathed as thou wert from high, 
Still in thy patient energy, 
In the endurance, and repulse 

Of thine impenetrable Spirit, 
Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse, 

A mighty lesson we inherit : 
Thou art a symbol and a sign 

To Mortals of their fate and force; 
Like thee, Man is in part divine, 

A troubled stream from a pure source ; 
And Man in portions can foresee 
His own funereal destiny ; 
His wretchedness, and his resistance, 
And his sad unaliied existence: 
To which his Spirit may oppose 
Itself — and equal to all woes. 

And a firm will, and a deep sense, 
Which even in torture can descry 

Its own concenter'd recompense, 
Triumphant where it d ires defy, 
And making Death a Victory. 

Diodati.July, 1816. 



A FRAGMENT. 
" COULD I REMOUNT," &C. 
Could I remount the river of my years 
To the first fountain of our smiles and tears. 



I would not trace again the stream of hours 
Between their outworn banks of wither'd flowers. 
But bid it flow as now — until it glides 
Into the number of the nameless tides. 



What is this Death ? — a quiet of the heart ? 
The whole of that of which we are a part? 
For life is but a vision — what I see 
Of all which lives alone is life to me, 
And being so — the absent are the dead. 
Who haunt us from tranquillity, and spread 
A dreary shroud around us, and invest 
With sad remembrancers our hours of rest. 

The absent are the dead — for they are cold, 
And ne'er can be what once we did behold ; 
And they are changed, and cheerless, — or if yet 
The unforgotten do not all forget, 
Since thus divided — equal must it be 
If the deep barrier be of earth, or sea; 
It may be both — but one d ly end it must 
In the dark union of insensate dust. 

The under-earth inhabitants — are they 
But mingled millions decomposed to clay? 
The ashes of a thousand ages spread 
Wherever man has trodden or shall tread ? 
Or do they in their silent cities dwell 
Each in his incommunicative cell ? 
Or have they their own language ? and a sense 
Of breathless being ? — darken'd and intense 
As midnight in her solitude ? — Oh Earth ! 
Where are the past ? — and wherefore had they birth ? 
The dead are thy inheritors — and we 
But bubbles on thy surface ; and the key 
Of thy profundity is in the grave, 
The ebon portal'of thy peopled cave. 
Where I would walk in spirit, and behold 
Our elements resolved to things untold, 
And fathom hidden wonders and explore 
The essence of great bosoms now no more. 

rf» % % Jff 4f 

Diodati, July, 1816. 



SONNET TO LAKE LEMAN. 

Rousseau —Voltaire — our Gibbon — and De Stael ~ 
Leman ! i these names are worthy of thy shore. 
Thy shore of names like these ! wert thou no more, 

Their memory thy remembrance would recall : 

To them thy banks were lovely as to all. 
But they have made them lovelier, for the lore 
Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core 

Of human hearts the ruin of a wall 
Where dwelt the wise and wondrous; but by thee 

How much more. Lake of Beauty ! do we feel, 
In sweetlv gliding o'er thy crystal sea. 

The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal. 
Which of the heirs of immortality 

Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real ! 

Diodati, July, 1816. 



Geneva, Ferney, Copet, Lausanne. 



20 



230 OCCASIONAL PIECES. [1816. 


ROMANCE MUY DOLOROSO 


A VERY MOURNFUL BALLAD 


DEL 


ON THE 


SITIO Y TOMA DE ALHAMA.i 


SIEGE AND CONQUEST OF ALHAMA. 


El qual dezia en Aravigo assi. 


Which, in the Arabic language, is to the following purport. 

I. 
The Moorish King rides up and down, 
Through Granada's royal town ; 
From Elvira's Gates to those 
Of Bivarambla on he goes. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 


I. 

Passeavase el Rey Moro 
For la ciudad de Granada, 
Desde las puertas de Elvira 
Hasta las de Bivaranibla. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


II. 

Cartas le fueron venidas 
Que Alhama era ganada. 
Las cartas echo en el fuego, 
Y al mensagero matava. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


II. 

Letters to the monarch tell 
How Albania's city fell : 
In the fire the scroll he threw, 
And the messenger he slew. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 


III. 


III. 


Descavalga de una mula, 
Y en un cavallo cavalga. 
For el Zacatin arriba 
Subido se avia al Alhambra. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


He quits his mule, and mounts his horse, 
And through the street directs his course; 
Through the street of Zacatin 
To the Alhambra spurring in. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 


IV. 


IV. 


Como en el Alhambra estuvo, 
Al mismo punfo mandava 
Que se toquen las trompetas 
Con anafiles de plata. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


When the Alhambra walls he gain'd, 
On the moment he ordain'd 
That the trumpet straight should sound 
With the silver clarion round. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 


V. 
Y que atambores de guerra 
Apriessa toquen alanna ; 
For que lo oygan sus Moros, 
Los de la Vega y Granada. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


V. 

And when the hollow drums of war 
Beat the loud alarm afar, 
That the Moors of town and plain 
Might answer to the martial strain. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 


VI. 


VL 


Los Moros que el son oyeron, 
Que al sangriento Marte llama, 
Uno a uno, y dos a dos, 
Un gran esquadron forma van. 

Ay de mi, Alhama! 


Then the Moors, by this aware 
That bloody Mars recall'd them there. 
One by one, and two by two, 
To a mighty squadron grew. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 


VII. 


VII. 


Alii hablo un Moro viejo ; 
Desta maiiera hablava : — 
Para que nos llamas, Rey ? 
Para que es este llamada? 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


Out then spake an aged Moor 
In these words the king before, 
" Wherefore call on us, oh King? 
What may mean this gathering ? " 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 


VIIL 


VIII. 


Aveys de saber, amigo?, 
Una nueva de^dichada : 
Que Chrislianos, con braveza, 
Ya nos han tornado Alhama, 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


" Friends ! ye have, a'as ! to know 
Of a most disastrous blow, 
That the Christians, stern and bold, 
Have obtain'd Alhama's hold." 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 


IX. 

AUi hablo un viejo Alfaqui, 
De barba crecida y cana : — 
Bien se te emplea, buen Rey, 
Buen Rey ; bien se emplea va. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


IX. 

Out then spake old Alfaqui, 
With his t)eard so white to see, 
" Good King ! thou art justly served. 
Good King ! this thou hast deserved. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 


X. 


X. 


Mataste los Bencerrages, 
Que era la flor de Granada ; 
Cogiste los tornadizos 
De Cordova la nombrada. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

1 The effect of the original ballad— which existed both 
in Spanish and Arabic — was such, that it was forbidden 


•'By thee were slain, in evil hour, 
The Abencerrage, Granada's flower ; 
And strangers were received by thee 
Of Cordova the Chivalry, 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 


to be sung by the Moors, on pain of death, within 
Granada, 



—^ ,1 

1816.] OCCASIONAL PIECES. 231 1 


XI. 


XI. 


For esso mereces, Rey, 
Una pene bieii doblada ; 
Que te pieidas tu y el reyno, 
y que se pierda Granada. 

A.y de mi, Alhama ! 


« And for this, oh King ! is sent 
On Ihee a double chastisement : 
Thee and thine, thy crosvn and realm. 
One last wreck shall overwhelm. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 


XII. 


XIL 


Si no se respetan leyes, 
Es ley que todo se pierda ; 

Y que se pierda Granada, 

Y que te pierdas en ella. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


" He who holds no laws in awe, 
He must perish by the law j 
And Granada must be won, 
And thyself with her undone." 

Woe is me, Alhama! 


XIII. 


XIII. 


Fuego por los ojos vierte, 
El Rey que esto oyera. 
Y como el otro de leyes 
De leyes tambien hablava. 

Ay demi, Albama! 


Fire flash 'd from out the old Moor's eyes, 
The Monarch's wrath began to rise. 
Because he answer'd, and because 
He spake exceeding well of laws. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 


XIV. 


XIV. 


Sabe un Rey que no ay leyes 
De darle a Reyes disgusto — 
Esso dize el Rey Moro 
Reliachaado de colera. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


" There is no law to say such things 
As may disgust the ear of kings :"— 
Thus, snorting with his choler, sud 
The Moorish King, and doom'd him dead. 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 


XV. 


XV. 


Moro Alfaqui, Moro Alfaqui, 
El de la vellida barba, 
El Rey te manda prender, 
Por la perdida de Alhama. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


Moor Alfaqui ! Moor Alfaqui ! 
Though ihy beard so hoary be, 
The King hath sent to have thee seized, 
For Albania's loss displeased. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 


XVI. 


XVI. 


Y cortarte la cabeza, 

Y ponerla en el Alhambra, 
Por que a ti castigo sea 

Y otros tiemblen en miralla. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


Ai\d to fix thy head upon 
High Alhambra's loftiest stone ; 
That this for thee should be the law. 
And others tremble when they saw. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 


XVII. 


XVII. 


Cavalleros, hombres buenos, 
Dezid de mi parte al Rey, 
Al Rey Moro de Granada, 
Como no le devo nada. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


"Cavalier, and man of worth ! 
Let these words of mine go forth; 
Let the Moorish Monarch know, 
That to him I nothing owe. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 


XVIII. 


XVIII. 


De averse Alhama perdido 
A mi me pesa en al alma. 
Que si el Rey perdio su tierra, 
Otro mucho mas perdiera. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


" But on my soul Alhama weighs, 
And on my inmost spirit preys ; 
And if the King his land hath lost, 
Yet others may have lost the most. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 


XIX. 


XIX. 


Perdieran hijns padres, 
Y casados las casadas s 
Las cosas que mas amara 
Perdio I' un y el otro fama. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


"Sires have lost their children, wives 
Their lords, and valiant men their lives ! 
One what best his love might claim 
Hath lost, another wealth, or fame. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 


XX. 


XX. 


Perdi una hija donzella 
Que era la flor d' esta tierra, 
Cien doblas dava por ella, 
No me las eslimo en mda. 

Ay de uii, Alhama ! 


"I lost a damsel in that hour. 
Of all the land the loveliest flower; 
Doubloons a hundred I would pay, 
And think her ransom cheap thai day." 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 


XXI. 


XXI. 


Diziendo assi al hacen Alfaqui, 
Le cortaron le cabeca, 
Y la elevan al Alhambra, 
Assi come el Rey lo manda. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


And as these things the old Moor sTid, 
They sever'd from the trunk his head ; 
And to the Alhambra's wall with speed 
'T was carried, as the King decreed. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 


XXII. 


XXIL 


Hombres, ninos y mugeres, 
Lloran tan grande perdida. 


And men and infants therein weep 
Their loss, so heavy and so deep ; 



J 



232 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



[1816. 



Lloravan todas las damas 
Quantas en Granada avia. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

XXIII. 

Por las calles y ventanas 
Mucho luto parecia ; 
Llora el Key como fembra, 
Qu' es mucho lo que perdia. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 



SONETTO DI VITTORELLI. 



PER MONACA. 



Granada's ladies, all she rears 
Within her walls, burst into tears. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

XXIII. 

And from the windows o'er the walls 
The sable web of mourning falls; 
The King weeps as a woman o'er 
His loss, for it is much and sore. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 



TRANSLATION FROM VITTORELLI. 



ON A NUN. 



Sonetto compoeto in nome di un genitore, a cui era morta Sonnet composed in the name of a father, whose daughter 
poco innanzi una figlia appena maritata : e diretto al ! had recently died shortly after her marriage ; and ad- 
genitore della sacra sposa. dressed to the father of her who had lately taken the veil. 



Di due vaghe donzelle, oneste, accorte 
Lieti e miseri padri il ciel ne feo, 
II ciel, che degne di piu nobil sorts 
L' una e 1' altra veggendo, ambo chiedeo. 

La mia fu tolta da veluce morte 
A le fumauti tede d' imeneo : 
La tua, Francesco, in sugellate porte 
Eterna prigioniera or si rendeo. 

Ma tu ahneno potrai de la gelosa 
Irremeabil soglia, ove s' asconde, 
La sua tenera udir voce pieto^a. 

lo verso un fiume d' amarissim' onde, 

Corro a quel marnio, in cui la figlia or posa, 
Batto, e ribatto, ma nessun rispoude. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 



Bright be the place of thy soul ! 

No lovelier spirit than thine 
E'er burst from its mortal control, 

In the orbs of the blessed to shine. 
On earth thou wert all but divine, 

As thy soul shall immortally be; 
And our sorrow may cease to repine 

When we know that thy God is with thee. 

IT. 
Light be the turf of thy tomb ! 

May its verdure like emeralds be ! 
There should not be the shadow of gloom 

In aught that reminds us of thee. 
Young flowers and an evergreen tree 

May spring from the spot of thy rest : 
But nor cypress nor yew let us see ; 

For why should we mourn for the blest ? 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

I. 

They say that Hope is happiness ; 

But genuine Love must prize the past, 
And Memory wakes the thoughts that bless ; 

They rose the first — they set the last ; 

n. 

And all that Memory loves the most 
Was once our only Hope to be. 

And all that Hope adored and lost 
Hath melted into Memory. 

in. 

Alas ! it is delusion all : 

The future cheats us from afar, 

Nor can we be what we recall. 
Nor dare we think on what we are. 



Of two fair virgins, modest, though admired, 
Heaven m:ide us happy ; and now, wretched sires, 
Heaven for a nobler doom their worth desires, 
And gazing upon either, both required. 

Mine, while the torch of Hymen newly fired 
Becomes extinguish'd, soon — too soon — expires : 
But thine, within the closing grate retired, 
Eternal captive, to her God aspires. 

But thou at least from out the jealous door. 
Which shuts between your never-meeting eyes, 
May'st hear her sweet and pious voice once more : 

I to the marble, where my danghter lies. 
Rush, — the swoln floodl of bitterness I pour. 
And knock, and knock, and knock — but none replies. 



TO THOMAS MOORE. 
I, 

My boat is on the shore. 
And my bark is on the sea ; 

But, before I go, Tom Moore, 
Here 's a double health to thee ! 

II. 

Here 's a sigh to those who love me, 
And a smile to those who hate; 

And, whatever sky 's above me. 
Here 's a heart for every fate. 

IIL 

Though the ocean roar around toe, 
Yet it still shall bear me on ; 

Though a desert should surround me, 
It hath springs that may be won. 

IV. 



Wer't the last drop in the well, 
As I gasp'd upon the brink, 

Ere my fainting spirit fell, 
'T is to thee that I would drink. 



With that water, as this wine, 

The libation I would pour 
Should be — peace with thine and mine. 

And a health to thee, Tom Moore. 



ON THE BUST OF HELEN BY CAN0VA.1 

In this beloved marble view, 
Above the works and thoughts of man. 

What Nature could, but would notj do, 
And Beauty and Canova can ! 



l"The Helen of Canova (a bust which is in the house 
of Madame the Countess d'Albriizi) is," says Lord Byron, 
"without exception, to my mind, the most perfectly beau- 



...^MmJji 



1817.] 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



233 



Beyond imagination's power, 

Beyond the Bard's defeated art, 
With immortality her dower, 

Behold the Helen of the heart ! 

November, 1816. 



SONG FOR THE LUDDITES. 



As the Liberty lads o'er the sea 
Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood, 
So we, boys, we 
Will die fighting, or live free, 
And down with all kings but King Ludd ! 

IL 

When the web that we weave is complete, 
And the shuttle exchanged for the sword, 

We will fling the winding sheet 

O'er the despot at our feet. 
And dye it deep in the gore he has pour'd. 

in. 

Though black as his heart its hue, 
Since his veins are corrupted to mud, 

Yet this is the dew 

Which the tree shall renew 
Of Liberty, planted by Ludd ! 



SO, WE 'LL GO NO MORE A ROVING. 
I. 

So, we '11 go no more a roving 

So late into the night, 
Though the heart be still as loving. 

And the moon be still as bright. 

IL 

For the sword outwears its sheath, 
And the soul wears out the breast. 

And the heart must pause to breathe, 
And love itself have rest. 

IIL 

Though the night was made for loving, 

And the day returns too soon. 
Yet we '11 go no more a roving 

By the light of the moon. 



TO THOMAS MOORE. 

What are you doing now, 

Oh Thomas Moore ? 
What are you doing now. 

Oh Thomis Moore ? 
Sighing or suing now, 
Rhyming or wooing now, 
Billing or cooing now, 

Which, Thomas Moore ? 

But the Carnival 's coming. 

Oh Thomas Moore ! 
The Cirnival 's coming. 

Oh Thomas Moore ! 
Masking and humming. 
Fifing and drumming, 
Guitarring and strumming. 

Oh Thomas Moore ! 



tiful of human conceptions, and far bpyond my ideas of 
human execution." — Lord Byron to Mr. Murray, Nov. 
25, 1816.— E. 



VERSICLES. 

I read the « Christabel ;» 

Very well : 
I read the '' Missionary j" 1 

Pretty — very : 
I tried at " Ilderim j" 

Ahem ! 
I read a sheet of " Marg'ret of Anjou ;V 

Can you ? 
I turn'd a "page of Scott's " Waterloo j " 

Pooh ! pooh ! 
I look'd at Wordsworth's milk-white '* Rylstone Doe ; " 

HiUo! 
&c. &c. &c. 

March, 1817. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

To hook the reader, you, John Murray 
Have publish "d " Anjou's Margaret," 
Which won't be sold off in a hurry 
(At least, it has not been as yet); 
And then, still further to bewilder 'em. 
Without remorse, you set up " Ilderim ; " 

So mind you don"t get into debt, 
Because as how, if you should fail. 
These books would be but baddish bail. 

And mind you do not let escape 
These rhymes to Morning Post or Perry, 
Which would be vtry treacherous — very. 

And get me into such a scrape ! 
For, firstly, I should have to sally, 
All in my little boat, against a Galley; 

And, should I chance to slay the Assyrian wight, 

Have next to combat with the female knight, 

March 25, l817. 



THE LAMENT OF TASSO.^ 

ADVERTISEMENT. 



At Ferrara, in the Library, are preserved the original 
MSS. of Tasso's Gierusalemme and of Guarini's Pas- 
tor Fido, with letters of Tasso, one from Titian to 
Ariosto, and the inkstand and chair, the tomb and the 
house, of the latter. But, as misfortune has a greater 
interest for posterity, and little or none for the cotem- 
porary, the cell where Tasso was confined in the hos- 
pital of St. Anna, attracts a more fixed attention than 
the residence or the monument of Ariosto — at least it 
had this effect on me. There are two inscriptions, 
one on the outer gate, the second over the cell itself, 
inviting, unnecessarily, the wonder and the indignation 
of the specator. Ferrara is much decayed, and de- 
populated : the castle still exists entire; and I saw the 
court where Parisina and Hugo were beheaded, ac- 
cording to the annal of Gibbon. 



I. 

Long years ! — It tries the thrilling frame to bear 

And eagle-spirit of a child of Song — 

Long years of outrage, calumny, and wrong; 

Imputed madness, prison'd solitude, 

And the mind's canker in its savage mood. 

When the impatient thirst of light and air 

Parches the heart ; and the abhorred grate, 

Marring the sunbeams with its hideous shade, 

1 The "Missionary" was written by Mr. Bowles, "Ilde- 
rim" by Mr. Gaily Knight, and "Margaret of Anjou" by 
Miss Hoi ford. — K. 

2 The original MS. of this poem is dated, "The Apen- 
nines, April 20, 1817." It was written in consequence of 
Lord Byron having visited Ferrara, for a single day, on 
his way to Florence. — E. 



20* 



Li 



234 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



[1817. 



Works through the throbbing eyeball to the brain, 

With a hot sense of heaviness and pain ; 

And bare, at once, Captivity display'd 

Stands scoffing through the never-open'd gate, 

Which nothing through its bars admits, save day, 

And tasteless food, which I have eat alone 

Till its unsocial bitterness is gone ; 

And 1 can banquet like a beast of prey. 

Sullen and lonely, couching in the cave 

Which is my lair, and — it may be — my grave. 

All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear, 

But mus be borne. 1 stoop not to despair j 

For I have battled with mine agony. 

And made me wings wberewith to overfly 

The narrow circus of my dungeon wall, 

And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall ; 

And revell'd among men and things divine, 

And pour'd my spirit over Palestine, 

In honour of the sacred war for Him, 

The God who was on earth and is in heaven. 

For he has strengthened me in heart and limb. 

That through this sufferance I might be forgiven, 

I have employed my penance to record 

How Salem's shrine was won and how adored. 

II. 

But this Is o'er — my pleasant task is done : — 

My long-sustaining friend of many years ! 

If I do blot thy final page with tears, 

Know, that my sorrows have wrung from me none. 

But thou, my young creation ! my soul's child ! 

Which ever playing round me came and smiled, 

And woo'd me from myself with thy sweet sight, 

Thou too art gone — and so is my delight : 

And therefore do I weep and inly bleed 

With this last bruise upon a broken reed. 

Thou too art ended — what is left me now ? 

For I have anguish yet to bear — and how ? 

I know not that — but in the innate force 

Of my own spirit shall be found resource. 

I have not sunk, for I had no remorse, 

Nor cause for such : they call'd me mad — and why ? 

Oh Leonora I wilt not thun reply ? 

I was indeed delirious in my heart 

To lift my love so lofty as thou art ; 

But still my frenzy was not of the mind ; 

I knew my fault, and feel my punishment 

Not less because I suffer it unbent. 

That thou wert beautiful, and I not blind, 

Hath been the sin which shuts me from mankind ; 

But let them go, or torture as they will, 

My heart can multiply thine image still j 

Successful love may sate itself away, 

The wretched are the fai'hful ; 't is their fate 

To have all feeling save the one decay. 

And every passion into one dilate. 

As rapid rivers into ocean pour; 

But ours is fathomless, and hath no shore. 

III. 

Above me, hark ! the long and maniac cry 

Of minds and bodies in ciptivily. 

And hark ! the lash and the increasing howl, 

And the half-inarticulate blasphemy ! 

There be some here with worse than frenzy foul, 

Some who do still grad on the o'erlabour'd miud. 

And dim the little light that's left behind 

With needless torture, as their tyrant will 

Is wound up to the lust of doing ill : 

With these and with their victims am I class'd, 

'Mid sounds and sights like these long years have pass'd; 

'Mid sights and sounds like these my life may close : 

So let it be — for then I shall repose. 

IV. 

I have been patient, let me be so yet ; 

I had forgotten half I would forget, 

But it revives — Oh ! would it were my lot 

To be forgetful as I am forgot ! — 

Feel I not wroth with those who bade me dwell 



In this vast lazar-house of many woes ? 

Where laughter is not mirth, nor thought the mind, 

Nor words a language, nor ev'n men mankind j 

Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows, 

And each is tortured in his separate hell — 

For we are crowded in our solitudes — 

Many, but each divided by the wall, 

Which echoes Madness iti her babbling moods ; — 

While all can hear, none heed his neighbour's call — 

None ! save that One, the veriest wretch of all. 

Who was not made to be the mate of these, 

Nor bound between Distraction and Disease. 

Feel I not wroth with those who placed me here? 

Who have debased me in the minds of men, 

Debarring me the usage of my own. 

Blighting my life in best of i;s career, 

Branding my thoughts as things to shun and fear? 

Would 1 not pay them back these pangs again, 

And teach them inward Sorrow's stifled groan ? 

The struggle to be calm, and cold distress. 

Which undermines our Stoical success ? 

No ! — still too proud to be vindictive — 1 

Have pardon'd princes' insults, and would die. 

Yes, Sister of my Sovereign ! for thy sake 

I weed all bitterness from out my breast, 

It hath no business where thou art a guest; 

Thy brother hates— but I can not detest ; 

Thou pitiest not — but I can not forsake. 

V. 

Look on a love which knows not to despair, 
But all unquench'd is still my better part. 
Dwelling deep in my shut and silent heart, 
As dwells the gather'd lightning in its cloud, 
Encompass'd with its dark and rolling shroud, 
Till struck,— forth flies the all-ethereal dart! 
And thus at the collision of thy name, 
The vivid thought still flashes through my frame, 
And for a moment all things as they were 
Flit by me ; — they are gone— I am the same. 
And yet my love without ambition grew j 
I knew thy state, my station, and I knew 
A Princess was no love-mate for a bard; 
I told it not, I breathed it not, it was 
Sufficient to itself, its own reward ; 
And if my eyes reveal'd it, they, alas ! 
Were punish'd by the silentness of thine. 
And yet I did not venture to repine. 
Thou wert to me a crystal-girded shrine, 
Worshipp'd at holy distance, and around 
Hallow'd and meekly kiss'd the saintly ground; 
Not for thnu wert a princess, but that Love 
Had robed thee with a glory, and array'd 
Thy lineaments in beauty that dismay'd — 
Oh ! not dismay'd — but awed, like One above ! 
And in that sweet severity there was 
A something which all softness did surpass — 
I know not how — thy genius master'd mine — 
My star stood still before thee : — if it were 
Presumptuous thus to love without design. 
That sad fatality hath cost me dear ; 
But thou art dearest still, and I should be 
Fit for this cell, which wrongs n)e — but for thcc. 
The very love w hich lock'd me to my chain 
Hath lighten'd half its weight ; and for the rest. 
Though heavy, lent me vigour to sustiin. 
And look to thee with undivided breast, 
And foil the ingenuity of Pain. 

VL 

It is no marvel — from my very birth 

My soul was drunk with love,— which did pervade 

And mingle with wha'e'er I saw on earth ; 

Of objects all inanimate 1 made 

Idols, and out of wild and lonely flowers, 

And rocks, whereby they grew, a paradise, 

Where I did lay me down within the shide 

Of waving trees, and dream'd uncounted hours. 

Though I was chid for wandermg ; and the wise 

Shook their white aged heads o'er me, and said. 

Of such materials wretched men were made. 



1817.] 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



235 



And such a truant boy would end in woe, 
And that the only le/son was a blow ; — 
And then they smote me, and I did not weep, 
But cursed ihem in my heart, and to my hiunt 
Return'd and wept alone, and dreim'd again 
The visions which arise without a sleep. 
And with my years my soul began to pant 
With feelings of strange tumult and soft pain; 
And the whole heart exhaled into one Want, 
But undefined and wandering, till the day 
I found the thing I sou<ht — and that was thee ; 
And then I lost my being, all to be 
Absorb'd in thine — the world was past away — 
Thou didst annihilate the earth to nie ! 

VII. 

I loved all Solitude — but little thought 
To spend 1 know not what of life, remote 
From all communion with existence, save 
The maniac and his tyrant j — hid I been 
Their fellow, m\ny years ere this had seen 
My mind like theirs corrupted to its grave: 
But who hath seen me writhe, or heard me rave ? 
Perchance in such a cell we suffer more 
Than the wreck'd sailor on his desert shore 5 
The world is all before him — mine is here, 
Scarce twice the space they must accord my bier. 
What though he perish, he may lift his eye. 
And with a dying glance upbraid the sky — 
I will not raise my own in such reproof. 
Although 't is clouded by my dungeon roof. 

VIII. 
Yet do I feel at times my mind decline, 
But with a sense of its decay : — I see 
Unwonted lights along my prison shine. 
And a strange demon, who is vexing me 
With pilfering prjnks and petty pains, below 
The feeling of the healthful and the free 5 
But much to One, who long hath sufFer'd so, 
Sickness of heart, and narrowness of place, 
And all that may be borne, or can debase. 
I thought mine enemies had been but Man, 
But spirits may be leagued with them — all Earth 
Abandons — Heaven forgets me : — in the dearth 
Of such defence the Powers of Evil can, 
It may be, tempt me further, — and prevail 
Against the outworn creature they assail. 
Why in this furnace is my spirit proved, 
Like steel in tempering fire ? because I loved? 
Because I loved what not to love, and see. 
Was more or less than mortal, and than me. 

IX. 

I once was quick in feeling — that is o'er ; — 

My scars are callous, or I should have dash'd 

My brain against these bars, as the sun flash'd 

In mockery through them : — If I bear and bore 

The much I have recounted, and the more 

Which hath no words,— 't is that I would not die 

And sanction wih self-slaughter the dull lie 

Which snared me here, and with the brand of shame 

Stamp Madness deep into my memory. 

And woo Compassion to a blighted name, 

Sealing the sentence which my foes proclaim. 

No — it shall be immortal ! — and I make 

A future temple of my present cell, 

Which nations yet shall visit for my sake. 

While thou, Ferrara! when no longer dwell 

The ducal chiefs within thee, shalt fall down. 

And crumbling piecemeal view thy hearthless halls, 

A poet's wreath sh^ll be thine only crown, — 

A poet's dungeon thy most far renown, 

While strangers wonder o'er thy unpeopled walls ! 

And thou, Leonora ! — thou — who wert ashamed 

That such as I could love — who blush'd to hear 

To less than monarchs that thou couldst be dear, 

Go ! tell thy brother, that my heart, untamed 

By grief, years, weariness — and it may be 

A taint of that he would impute to me — 



From long infection of a den like this. 
Where the mind rots congenial with the abyss, 
\ Adores thee still ; — and add — that when the towers 
I And battlements which guard his joyous hours 
! Of banquet, dance, and revel, are forgot, 
Or left untended in a dull repose. 
This — this— shall be a consecrated spot! 
But thou — when all that Birth and Beauty throws 
Of magic round thee is extinct — shalt have 
One half the laurel which o'ershades my grave. 
No power in deaih can tear our names apart. 
As none in life could rend thee from my heart. 
Yes, Leonora ! it shall be our fate 
To be entwined for ever — but too late ! 



EPISTLE FROM MR. MURRAY TO DR. 
POLIDORI. 

Dear Doctor, I have read your play, 
Which is a good one in its way, — 
Purges the eyes and moves the bowels, 
And drenches handkerchiefs like towels 
With tears, that, in a tiux of grief, 
Aiibrd hysterical relief 
To shatter'd nerves and quicken'd pulses, 
Which your catastrophe convulses. 

I like your moral and machinery ; 
Your plot, too, has such scope for scenery ; 
Your dialogue is apt and smart ; 
The play's concoction full of art ; 
Your hero raves, your heroine cries. 
All stab, and every body dies. 
In short, your tragedy would be 
The very thing to hear and see: 
And for a piece of publication. 
If I decline on this occasion. 
It is not that I am not sensible 
To merits in themselves ostensible, 
But — and I grieve to speak it — phys 
Are drugs — mere drugs, sir — now-a-days. 
I had a heivy loss by " Manuel," — 
Too lucky if it prove not annual, — 
And Sotheby, with his " Orestes," 
(Which, by" I he by, the author's best is,) 
Has lain so very long on hand, 
That I despair of all demand. 
I 've advertised, but see my books, 
Or only wa'ch my shopman's looks; — 
Still Ivan, Ina, and such lumber. 
My back-shop glut, my shelves encumber. 

There's Byron too, who once did better, 
Has sent me, folded in a letter, 
A sort of — it 's no more a drama 
Than Darnley, Ivan, or Kehama; 
So alter'd since last year his pen is, 
I think he's lost his wits at Venice. 
In short, sir, what with one and t' other, 
I dare no* venture on another. 
I write in has'e ; excuse each blunder ; 
The coaches through the street so thunder ! 
My room 's so full — we 've Gilford here 
Reading MS., with Hookham Frere, 
Pronouncing on the nouns and particles. 
Of some of our forthcoming Articles. 

The Quarterly — Ah, sir, if you 
Had but the genius to review ! — 
A smart critique upon St Helena, 
Or if you only would but tell in a 

Short compass what but, to resume : 

As I was siying, sir, the room — 

The room 's o full of wits and bards, 

Crabbes, Campbells, Crokers, Freres, and Wards, 

And others, neither bards nor wits : — 

My humble tenement admits 

All persons in the dress of gent, 

From Mr. Hammond to Dog Dent. 



J 



236 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



[1818. 



A party dines with me to-day, 
All clever men, who make their way: 
Crabbe, Malcolm, Hamilton, and Chantrey, 
Are ail partakers of my pantry. 
They 're at this moment in discussion 
On poor De S^ael's la'e dissolution. 
Her book, they say, was in advance — 
Pray Heaven, 'she tell 'he truth of France! 
Thus run our time and tongues away, — 
But, to return, sir, to your play : 
Sorry, sir, but I cannot deal. 
Unless 't were acted.by O'Neill, 
My hands so full, my head so busy, 
I 'm almost dead, and always dizzy ; 
And so, with endless truth and hurry, 
Dear Doctor, I am yours, 

JOHN IVIURRAY. 

August, 1817. 

EPISTLE TO MR. MURRAY. 

My dear Mr. Murray, 
You 're in a danin'd hurry 

To set up this ultimate Canto j i 
But (if they don't rob us) 
You 'II see Mr. Hobhouse 

Will bring it safe in his portmanteau. 

For the Journal you hint of, 
As ready to print off. 

No doubt you do right to commend it ; 
But as yet I "have writ off 
The devil a bit of 

Our " Beppo : "— when copied, I '11 send it. 

Then you 've * * * * 's Tour,— 
No great things, to be sure, — 

You could hardly bejin with a less work; 
For the pompous rascallion, 
Who don't speak Italian 

Nor French, must have scribbled by guesswork. 

You can make any loss up 
With " Spence" and his gossip, 

A work which must surely succeed ; 
Then Queen Mary's Epistle-craft, 
With the new " Fytte"'of " Whistlecraft," 

Must make people purchase and read. 

Then you 've General Gordon, 
Who girded his sword on. 

To serve with a Muscovite master, 
And help him to polish 
A nation so owlish, 

They thought shaving their beards a disaster. 

For the man, " poor and shrewd," 2 
With whom you 'd conclude 

A compact without more delay, 
Perhaps some such pen is 
Still extant in Venice ; 

But please, sir, to mention your pay. 

Venice, January 8, 1818. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

Strahan, Tonson. Lintot of the times, 
Patron and publisher of rh>me5, 
For thee the bard up Pindus climbs, 
My Murray. 

To thee, with hope and terror dumb. 
The unfledged MS. authors come; 
Thou printest all — and sellest some — 
My Murray. 



1 The fourth cauto of 

2 Vide your letter. 



Childe Harold." — E. 



Upon thy table's baize so green 
The last new Quarterly is seen, — 
But where is thy new Magazine, 
My Murray ? 

Along thy sprucest bookshelves shine 
The works thou deemest most divine — 
The "Art of Cookery," and mine, 
My Murray. 

Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist, 
And Sermons to thy mill bring grist ; 
And then thou hast the " Navy List," 
My Murray. 

And Heaven forbid I should conclude, 
Without " the Boird of Longitude," 
Although this narrow paper would, 
My jNIurray. 

Venice, March 25, 1818. 



ON THE BIRTH OF JOHN WILLIAM RIZZO 
HOPPNER. 

His father's sense, his mother's grace. 
In him, I hope, will always fit so ; 

With — still to keep him in good case — 
The health and appetite of Rizzo. 

February, 1818. 



ODE ON VENICE. 3 



Oh Venice ! Venice ! when thy marble walls 

Are level with the waters, there shall be 
A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls, 

A loud lament along the sweeping sea ! 
If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee, 
What should thy sons do ? — any thing but weep : 
And yet they only murmur in their sleep. 
In contrast with their fathers — as the slime, 
The dull green ooze of the receding deep. 
Is with the dashing of the spring tide foam 
That drives the sailor shipless to his home, 
Are they to those that were ; and thus they creep, 
Crouchmg and crab-like, through their sapping streets. 
Oh ! agony — that centuries should reap 
No mellower harvest ! Thirteen hundred years 
Of wealth and glory turn"d to dust and tears; 
And every monument the stranger meets, 
Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets; 
And even the Lion all subdued appears. 
And the harsh sound of the barbarian drum, 
With dull and daily dissonance, repeats 
The echo of thy tyrant's voice along 
The soft waves, once all musical to song, 
That heaved beneath the moonlight with the throng 
Of gondolas — and to the busy hum 
Of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful deeds 
Were but the overheating of the heart, 
And flow of too much happiness, which needs 
The aid of age to turn its course apart 
From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood 
Of sweet sensations^ battling with the blood. 
But these are bet'er than the gloomy errors, 
The weeds of nations in their last decay, 
When Vice walks for;h with her unsoften'd terrors, 
And Mirth is madness^ and but smiles to slay ; 
And Hope is nothing but a false delay. 
The sick man's lightning half an hour ere death, 
When Faintiiess, the last mortal birth of Pain, 
And apathy of limb, the dull beginning 
Of the cold staggering race which Death is winning, 
Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away ; 
Yet so relieving the o'er-tortured clay, 
To him appears renewal of his breath, 

3 This Ode was transmitted from Venice, in 1819, along 
wi th " M azeppa. " — E. 



mh 



1819.] 



OCCASIONx\L PIECES. 



237 



And freedom the mere numbness of his chain j — 
And then he talks of life, and how again 
He feels his spirits soaring — albeit weak, 
And of the fresher air, which he would seek } 
And as he whispers knows not that he gasps, 
That his thin finger feels not what it clasps. 
And so the film comes o'er him — and the dizzy 
Chamber swims round and round — and shadows busy, 
At which he vainly catches, flit and gleam. 
Till the last rattle chokes the strangled scream, 
And all is ice and blickness, — and the earth 
That which it was the moment ere our birth. 

II. 

There is no hope for nations ! — Search the page 

Of many thousand years — the daily scene, 
The flow and ebb of each recurring age. 
The everlasting to be which hath been, 
Hath taught us nought, or little : still we lean 
On things that rot beneath our weight, and wear 
Our strength away in wrestling with the air : 
For 't is our nature strikes us down : the beasts 
Slaughter'd in hourly hecatombs for feasts 
Are of as high an order — they must go 
Even where their driver goads them, though to 

slaughter. 
Ye men, who pour your blood for kings as water, 
What have they given your children in return ? 
A heritage of servitude and woes, 
A blindfold bondage, where your hire is blows. 
What ! do not yet the red-hot plough-shares burn, 
O'er which you stumble in a false ordeal. 
And deem this proof of royalty the real ; 
Kissing the hand that guides you to your scars, 
And glorying as you tread the glowing bars? 
All that your sires have left you, all that Time 
Bequeaths of free, and History of sublime. 
Spring from a different theme ! — Ye see and read, 
Admire and sigh, and then succumb and bleed ! 
Save the few spirits who, despite of all, 
And worse than all, the sudden crimes engender'd 
By the down-thundering of the prison-wall. 
And thirst to swallow the sweet waters tender'd. 
Gushing from Freedom's fountains — when the crowd 
Madden'd with centuries of drought, are loud. 
And trample on each other to obtain 
The cup which brings oblivion of a chain 
Heavy and sore, — in which long yoked they plough'd 
The sand,— or if there sprung the yellow grain, 
'T was not for them, their necks were too much bow'd, 
And their dead palates chevv'd the cud of pain : — 
Yes ! the few spirits — who, despite of deeds 
Which they abhor, confound not with the cause 
Those momentary starts from Nature's laws, 
Which, like the pestilence and earthquake, smite 
But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth 
With all her seasons to repair the blight 
With a few summers, and again put forth 
Cities and generations — fair, when free — 
For, Tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee ! 

'ill. 

Glory and Empire ! once upon these towers 

With Freedom — godlike Triad ! how ye sate ! 
The league of mightiest nations in those hours 
When Venice was an envy, might abate, 
But did not quench her spirit — in her fate 
All were enwrapp'd : the feasted monarchs knew 
And loved their hostess, nor could learn to hate. 
Although they humbled — with the kingly few 
The many felt, for from all days and climes 
She was the voyager's worship ; — even her crimes 
Were of the softer order — l)orn to Love, 
She drank no blood, nor fatten'd on the dead. 
But gladden'd where her harmless conquests spread; 
For these restored the Cross, that from above 
Hallow'd her shelterine banners, which incessant 
Flew between earth and the unholy Crescent, 
Which, if it waned and dwindled, Earth may thank 
The city it has clothed in chains, which clank 
Now, creaking in the ears of those who owe 



The name of Freedom to her glorious struggles ; 
Yet she but shares with them a common woe, 
And call'd the " kingdom" of a conquering foe, — 
But knows what all — and, most of all, toe know — 
With what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles ! 

IV. 
The name of Commonwealth is past and gone 

O'er the three fractions of the groaning globe ; 
Venice is crush'd, and Holland deigns to own 

A sceptre, and endures the purple robe j 
If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone 
His chainless mountains, 't is but for a time, 
For tyranny of late is cunning grown, 
And in its own good season tramples down 
The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime, 
Whose vigorous oft'spring by dividing ocean 
Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion 
Of Freedom, which their fathers fought for, and 
Bequeath"d — a heritage of heart and hand. 
And proud distinction from each other land, 
Whose sous must bow them at a monarch's motion, 
As if his senseless sceptre were a wand 
Full of the magic of exploded science — 
Still one great clime, in full and free defiance, 
Yet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublime. 
Above the far Atlantic ! — She has taught 
Her Esau-brethren that the haughty flag, 
The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag, 
May strike to those whose red right hands have bought 
Rights cheaply earn'd with blood.— Still, still, for ever 
Better, though each man's life-blood were a river, 
That it should flow, and overflow, than creep 
Through thousand lazy channels in our veins, 
Damm'd like the dull canal with locks and chains, 
And moving, as a sick man in his sleep. 
Three paces, and then faltering : — better be 
Where the extinguish'd Spartans still are free, 
In their proud charnel of Thermopylae, 
Than stagnate in our marsh, — or o'er the deep 
Fly, and one current to the ocean add, 
One spirit to the souls our fathers had, 
One freeman more, America, to thee ! 



STANZAS TO THE PO.i 

River, that rollest by the ancient walls,a 
Where dwells the lady of my love, when she 

Walks by thy brink, and there perchance recalls 
A faint and fleeting memory of me j 

What if thy deep and ample stream should be 
A mirror of my heart, where she may read 

The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee. 
Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed ! 

What ao I say — a mirror of my heart ? 

Are not thy waters svveeping,"dark, and strong ? 
Such as my feelings were and are, thou art ; 

And such as thou art were my passions long. 

Time may have somewhat tamed them, — not for ever ; 

Thou overflow'st thy banks, and not for aye 
Thy bosom overboils, congenial river! 

Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk away : 

1 About the middle of April, 1819, Lord Byron travelled 
from Venice to Ravenna, at which last city he expected to 
find the Countess Guiccioli. The above stanzas were 
composed, according to Madame Guiccioli's statement, 
during this journey, and while Lord Byron was actually 
sailing on the Po. They were first printed in 1624.-- K. 

2 Ravenna — a city to which Lord Byron afterwards de- 
clared himself more attached than to any other place, 
except Greece. He resided in it rather more than two 
years, "and quitted it," says Madame Guiccioli, " with 
the deepest regret, and with a presentiment that his de- 
parture would be :he forerunner of a thousand evils: he 
was continually performing generous actions: many fami- 
lies owed to him the few prosperous days they ever en- 
joyed; his arrival was spoken of as a piece of public good 
fortune, and his departure as a public calamity." — E. 



238 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



[1819.1 



But left long wrecks behind, and now again, 
Borne in our old unchanged career, we move j 

Thou tendest wildly onwards to the niain, 
And 1 — to loving one. 1 should not love. 

The current I behold will sweep beneath 
Her native walls, and murmur at her feet; 

Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe 
The twilight air, unharm'd by summer's heat. 

She will look on thee,— I have look'd on thee. 
Full of that thought : and, from that moment, ne'er 

Thy waters could I dream of, name, or see, 
Without the inseparable sigh for her ! 

Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream, — 
Yes ! they will meet the wave I gaze on now : 

Mine cannot witness, even in a dream. 
That happy wave repass me in its flow ! 

The wave that bears my tears returns no more : 
Will she return by whom that wave sh:ill sweep? — 

Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore, 
I by thy source, she by the dark blue deep. 

But that which keepeth us apart is not 

Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth, 

But the distraction of a various lot. 
As various as the climates of our birth. 

A stranger loves the lady of the lard, 
Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood 

Is all meridian, as if never fann'd 
By the black wind that chills the polar flood. 

My blood is all meridian ; were it not, 
I had not left my clime, nor should I be, 

In spite of tortures, ne'er to be forgot, 
A slave again of love, — at least of thee. 

'T is vain to struggle — let me perish young — 
Live as I lived, and love as I h»ve loved; 

To dust if I return, from dust I sprung. 
And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be moved. 
April, 1819. 



SONNET TO GEORGE THE FOURTH, 

ON THE REPEAL OF LORD EDWARD FITZGE- 
RALD'S FORFEITURE. 

To be the father of the fatherless, 

To stretch the hand from the throne's height, and 
raise 

His offspring, who expired in other days 
To make thy sire's sway by a kingdom less,— • 
This is to be a monarch, and repress 

Envy into unutterable praise. 

Dismiss thy gu-vrd, and trust thee to such traits, 
For who would lift a hand, except to bless? 

Were it not ea-y. sir, and is "t not sweet 

To make thyself beloved ? and to be 
Omnipotent by mercy's means ? for thus 

Thy sovereign'y would grow but more complete ; 
A despot thou, and yet thy people free, 

And by the heart, not hand, enslaving us. 

Bologna, August 12, 1S19. 



EPIGRAM. 
FROM THE FRENCH OF RDLHIERES. 

If, for silver or for gold, 

You could melt ten thousand pimples 

Into half a dozen dimples. 
Then your face we might behold. 

Looking, doubtless, much more snugly ; 

Yet even then 't would be d — d ugly. 

August 12, 1819. 



STANZAS. i 

Could Love for ever 
Run like a river. 
And Time's endeavour 

Be tried in vain — 
No other pleasure 
With this could measure; 
And like a treasure 

We 'd hug the chain. 
But since our sighing 
Ends not in dying, 
And, foim'd for flying, 

Love plumes his wing; 
Then for this reason 
Let's love a season ; 
But let that season be only Spring. 

When lovers parted 
Feel broken-hearted. 
And, all hopes thwarted, 

Expect to die; 
A few years older. 
Ah ! how much colder 
They mighi behold her 

For whom they sigh! 
When liuk'd together, 
In every we ither, 
They pluck Love's feather 

From out his wing — 
He'll stiy for ever, 
But sadly shiver 
Without his plumage when past the Spring. 

Like chiefs of Faction, 
His life is action — 
A formal paction 

That curbs his reign, 
Obscures his glory, 
Despot no more, he 
Such territory 

Quits with disdain. 
Still, still advancing, 
With banners glancing, 
His power enhancing, 

He must move on — 
Repose but cloys him, 
Retreat destroys him. 
Love brooks not a degraded throne. 

Wait not, fond lover ! 
Till years are over. 
And then recover, 

As from a dream. 
While each bewailing 
The other's failing, 
With wrath and railing, 

All hideous seem — 
While first decreasing. 
Yet not quite ceasing. 
Wait not till teasing. 

All passion blight: 
If once diniinish'd 
Love's reign is finish'd — 
Then part in friendship,— and bid good-night. 

So shall Affection 
To recollection 
The dear connexion 

Bring back with joy: 
You had mt waited 
Till, tired or hated, 
Your passions sated 

Began to cloy. 



1 A friend of Lord Byron's, who wai with him at Ra- 
venna when he wrote these Stanzas, says, — "They were 
composed, like many others, with no view of publiration, 
but merely to relieve himself in a moment cf suffering. 
He had been painfully excited by some circumstances 
which appeared to make it necessary that he shnuld im- 
mediately quit Italy; and in the day and the hour that he 
wrote the song w^ labouring under an access of fever."— E. 



1820.] 



OCCASIONAL PIECES, 



239 



Your last embraces 
Leave no cold traces — - 
The same fond faces 

As through the past : 
And eyes, the mirrors 
Of your sweet errors, 
Reflect but rapture — not least though last. 

Tnie, separations 

Ask more than patience j- 

What desjjerations 

From such have risen ! 
But yet remaining, 
What is', but chaining 
Hearts which, once waning, 

Beat 'gainst their prison ? 
Time can but cloy love, 
And use destroy love : 
The winged boy, Love, 

Is but for boys — 
You '11 find it torture 
Though sharper, shorter, 
To wean, and not wear out your joys. 



FRANCESCA DA RIMINI.^ 

DANTE L'INFERNO.i 

CANTO V. 

Siede la terra dove nata fui 

Su la marina, dove il Po discende, 
Per aver pace coi seguaci sui. 

Amor, che al cor gentil ratio s' apprende, 
Prese costui della bella persona 
Che mi fu loita ; e il modo ancor m' offende. 

Amor, che a nullo amato amar perdona, 
Mi prese del costui piacer si forte, 
Che, come vedi, ancor non m' abbandona; 

Amor condusse noi ad una morte: 
Caina3 attende chi in vita ci spense. 
Queste parole da lor ci fur porte. 

Da ch' io intesi quell' anime offense 
Chinai il viso, e tanto il tenni basso 
Fin che il Poeta mi dis e : '• Che pense ?" 

Quando risposi incomminciai : " Ahi lasso ! 
Quanti dolci peiisier, quanto desio 
Meno cosioro al doloroso passo 1 " 

Poi mi rivoisi a loro, e parlai io, 

E cominciai : Francesc\, i tuoi martiri 
A lagrimar mi fann > tristo e pio. 

Ma dimmi : al tempo de' dolci sospiri 
A che, e come concedeite Amore 
Che conosceste i dubbiosi desiri ? 

Ed ella a me : nessun maggior dolore 
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice 
Nella miseria ; e cio sa il tuo dottore. 

Ma se a conoscer la prima radice 
Del nostro amor tu hai cotanto afifetto 
Faro come colui che piange e dice. 

Noi leggevamo un giorno per diletto 
Di Laiicillotto, Ci)me Amor Io stiinse : 
Soli eravamo, e senza alcun sospetto. 

Per pin fiate gii occlii ci sospinse 
Quella lettura, e scolorocci il viso: 
Ma solo un punJo fu quel che ci vinse. 

Quando leggemmo il disiato riso 



ON MY WEDDING-DAY. 

Here 's a happy new year ! but with reason 

I beg you '11 permit me to say — 
Wish me many returns of the season, 

But as few as you please of the day. 

January 2, 1820. 



EPITAPH FOR WILLIAM PITT. 

With death doom'd to grapple, 

Beneath this cold slab, h6 
Who lied in the Chapel 

Now lies in the Abbey. 



January, 1820. 



EPIGRAM. 



In digging up your bones. Tom Paine, 

Will. Cobbett has done well : 
You visit him on earth again, 

He '11 visit you in hell. 

January, 1820. 



FRANCESCA OF RIMINI. 

FROM THE INFERNO OF DANTE. 
CANTO V. 

" The land where I was born4 sits by the seas, 
Upon that shore to which the Po descends. 
With all his followers, in search of peace. 

Love, which the gentle heart soon apprehends, 
Seized him for the fair person which was ta'en 
From me, and me even yet the mode offends. 

Love, who to none beloved to love again 
Remits, seized me with wish to please, so strong, 
That, as thou seest, yet, yet it doth remain. 

Love to one death conducted us along. 
But Caina waits for him our life who ended :" 
These were the accents utter'd by her tongue. — 

Since I first listen'd lo these souls offended, 
I bow'd my visage, and so kept it till — [bended, 
" What think'st thou? "said the bard; when 1 un- 

And recommenced : " Alas ! unto such ill 

How many sweet thoughts, what strong ecstasies. 
Led these iheir evil fortune to fulfil ! " 

And then I turn'd unto their side my eyes, 
And Slid, " Francesca, thy sad destinies 
Have made me sorrow till the tears arise. 

But tell me, in the season of sweet sighs, 
By what and how thy love to passion rose, 
So as his dim desires to recognise ? " 

Then she to me : " The greatest of all woes 
Is to remind us of our happy days 
In misery, and that thy teacher knows. 

But if to learn our passion's first root preys 
Upon thy spirit with such sympathy, 
I will do even as he who wee| s and says. — 

We read one day for pastime, seated nigh, 
Of Lancilot, how love enchain"d him too. 
We were alone, quite unsuspiciously. 

But oft our eyes met, and our cheeks in hue 
All o'er discolour'd by that reading were; 
But one point only wholly us o'erthrew ; 

When we read the long-sigh'd-for smile of her. 



1 This translation, of what is generally considered the 
most exquisitely pathetic episode in the Divina Comme- 
dia, was executed in March, 1820. at Ravenna, where, juet 
five centuries befiie, and in the very house in which the 
unfortunate lady was born, Dante's poem had been com- 
posed.-- E. 

SiFrancesca, daughter of Giiido da Polenta, Lord of Ra- 
venna and of Cervia, was given by her father in marriage 
to Lanciotto, son of Malutesta, Lord of Rimini, a man of 
extraordinary rouraBi-i but deformed in his person. His 
brother, Paolo, who unhappily possessed those graces which 
the husband of Francesca wanted, engaged her affections; 



and being taken in adultery, they were both put to death 
by the enraged Lancioifo. 

Guido was the son of Ostasio da Polenta, and made him- 
self master of Ravenna in 1265. In 1322, he was deprived 
of his sovereignty, and died at Bologna in the year follow- 
ing. He is enumerated, by Tiraboschi, among the poeta 
of his time. — E. 

3 From Cain, the first fratricide. By Caina we are to 
understand that part of the Inferno to which murderen 
are condemned.— E. 



i 



240 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



[1821. 



Esser baciato da cotanto amante, 
Questi, che mai da me non fia diviso, 

La bocca mi bacio futto tremante : 
Galeotto fu il libro, e chi lo scrisse — 
Quel giorno piu non vi lesgemmo avante. 

Alentre die 1' uno spirto questo disse, 
L'al;ro piangeva si che di pietade 
lo venni men cosi com' io morisse, 

E caddi come corpo morto cade. 



STANZAS. 

When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home, 

Let him combat for that of his neighbours ; 
Let him thinli of the glories of Greece and of Rome, 

And get knock'd on the head for his labours. 
To do good to mankind is the chivalrous plan, 

And is always as nobly requited ; 
Then battle for freedom wherever you can, 

And, if not shot or hang'd, you 11 get knighted. 

November, 1820. 



EPIGRAM. 

The world is a bundle of hay, 
Mankind are the asses who pull j 

Each tugs it a different way, 
And the greatest of all is John Bull. 



THE CHARITY BALL. 

What matter the pangs of a husband and father, 
If his sorrows in exile be great or be small, 

So the Pharisee's glories around her she gather, 
And the saint patronizes her "charity ball ! " 

What matters — a heart which, though faulty, was 
feeling, 

Be driven to excesses which once could appal — 
That the sinner should suffer is only fair dealing, 

As the saint keeps her charity back for " the ball ! " i 



EPIGRAM ON MY WEDDING-DAY. 
TO PENELOPE. 

This day, of all our days, has done 

The worst for me and you : — 
'T is just six years since 'we were otu. 

And five since we were two. 

January 2, 1821. 

ON MY THIRTY-THIRD BIRTH-DAY. 
JANUARY 22, 1821. 
Through life's dull road, so dim and dirty, 
I have draxg'd to three and thirty. 
What have these years left to me 
Nothing — except thirty-three. 



EPIGRAM 
ON THE braziers' COMPANY HAVING RE- 
SOLVED TO PRESENT AN ADDRESS TO 
QUEEN CAROLINE. 

The braziers, it seems, are preparing to pass 
An address, and present it themselves all in brass; — 
A superfluous pageant — for, by the Lord Harry ! 
They '11 find where they 're going much more than 
they carry. 



1 These lines were written on reading in the news- 
papers, that Lady Byron hid been patroness of a ball in 
aiil of some charity at Hinckley. — E. 



To be thus kiss"d by such devoted lover. 
He who from me can be divided ne'er 

Kiss'd my mouth, trembling in the act all over. 
Accursed was the book and he who wrote! 
That day no further leaf we did uncover. 

While thus one spirit told us of their lot, 
The other wept, so that with pity's thralls 
I swoon'd, as if by death I had been smote, 

And fell down even as a dead body falls. 



MARTIAL, Lib. I. Epig. I. 

"Hie est, quern legis, ille, quem requijria, 
Tota notus in orbe Martialis," &c. 

He, unto whom thou art so partial, 
Oh, reader ! is the well-known Martial, 
Ttie Epigrammatist : while living. 
Give him the fame thou vvouldst be giving; 
So shall he hear, and feel, and know it — 
Post-obits rarely reach a poet. 



BOWLES AND CAMPBELL. 

To the tune of " Why, how now, saucy jade ? " 

Why, how now, saucy Tom ? 

If you thus must ramble, 
I will publish some 

Remarks on Mister Campbell. 

ANSWER. 

Why, how now, Billy Bowles? 

Sure the priest is maudlin ! 
{To the public) How can you, d — n your souls ! 

Listen to his twaddling ? 

February 22, 1821. 

EPIGRAMS. 

Oh, Castlereagh ! thou art a patriot now; 
Cato died for his country, so didst thou : 
He perish'd rather than see Rome enslaved, 
Thou cutt'st thy throat that Britain may be saved ! 



So Castlereagh has cut his throat ! — The worst 
Of this is,— that his own was not the first. 



So He has cut his throat at last ! — He ! Who ? 
The man who cut his country's long ago. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

For Orford 2 and for Waldegrave 3 
You give much more than me you gave; 
Which is not fairly to behave, 

My Murray. 

Because if a live dog, 't is said. 
Be worth a lion fairly sped, 
A live lord must be worth two dead. 
My Murray. 

And if, as the opinion goes, 
Verse hath a better sale than prose, — 
Certes, I should have more than those, 
My Murray. 

But now this sheet is nearly cramm'd. 
So, if yott will, I shan't be shamm'd, 
And if you wonH, you m:»y be damn'd, 
My Murray. 



2 Horace Walpole's Memoirs of the last nine years of 
the Reign of George II. — E. 

3 Memoirs by James Earl Waldegrave, Governor of 
George III. when Prince of Wales. — E. 



.^-i ■' ^■jeij.A!. ^ .,^^^. 



1821.] 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



241 



JOHN KEATS. 1 

Who kill'd Johii Keats ? 

" I," says the Quarterly, 
So savage and Tartarly ; 

" 'T was one of my feats." 

Who shot the arrow ? 

" The poet-priest Milman 
(So ready to kill man), 

Or Southey, or Barrow." 



July, 1821. 



THE CONQUEST. 2 

March 8-9, 1823 
The Son of Love and Lord of War I sin°: ; 

Him who bade England bow to Normandy, 
And left the name of conqueror more than king 

To his unconquerable dynasty. 
Not fann'd alone by Victory's fleeting wing. 

He rear'd his bold and brilliant throne on high; 
The Bastard kept, like lions, his prey fast. 

And Britain's bravest victor was the last. 



THE IRISH AVATAR. 3 

"And Ireland, like a bastinadoed elephant, kneeling to 
receive the paltry rider." — Curran, 

Ere the daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave, 
And her ashes still tioat to their home o'er the tide, 

Lo ! George the triumphant speeds over the wave, 
To the long-cherish'd isle which he loved like his — 
bride. 

True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone. 
The rainbow like epoch where Freedom could pause 

For the few little years, out of centuries won. 
Which betray'd not, or crush'd not, or wept not her 
cause. 

True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags. 
The castle still stands, and the senate 's no more. 

And the famine which dwelt on her freedomless crags 
Is extending its steps to her desolate shore. 

To her desolate shore — where the emigrant stands 
For a moment to gaze ere he flies from his hearth ; 

Tears fall on his chain, though it drops from his hands. 
For the dungeon he quits is the place of his birth. 

But he comes ! the Messiah of royalty comes ! 

Like a goodly Leviathan roll'd from the waves ! 
Then receive him as best such an advent becomes, 

With a legion of cooks, and an army of slaves ! 

He comes in the promise and bloom of threescore. 
To perform in the pageant the sovereign's part — 

But long live the shamrock which shadows him o'er ! 
Could the green in his hat be transferr'd to his 
Iieart ! 

Could that long-wither'd spot but be verdant again. 

And a new spring of noble affections arise — 
Then might freedom forgive thee this dance in thy 
ch:\in. 
And this shout of thy slavery which saddens the 
skies. 



1 " Are you aware that Shelley has written an elegy on 
Keats, and accuses the Quarterly of killing him?" — 
Lord Byron to Mr, Murray, July 30, 18'21. — E. 

2 This fragment was found amongst Lord Byron's papers, 
after his departure from Genoa for Greece. — E. 

3 "The enclosed lines, as you will directly perceive, are 

written by the Rev. W. L. B . Of course it is for him 

to deny them, if > hey are not." -- Lord Byron to Mr. 
Moore, Sept. 17, 1821.— E. 



Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now ? 

Were he God — as he is but the commonest clay, 
With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his brow — 

Such servile devotion might shame him away. 

Ay, roar in his train ! let thine orators lash 
Their fanciful spirits to [saniper his pride — 

Not thus did thy Grattan indignantly flash 
His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied. * 

Ever glorious Gratti^n ! the best of the good ! 

So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest! 
With all which Demosthenes wanted endued, 

And his rival or victor in all he possess'd. 

Ere Tully arose in the zenith of Rome, 

Though unequall'd, preceded, the task was begun — 
But Grattan sprung up like a god from the tomb 

Of ages, the first, last, the saviour, the one ! 

With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute ; 

With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind ; 
Even Tyranny listening sate melted or mute. 

And Corruption shrunk scorch'd from the glance of 
his mind. 

But back to our theme ! Back to despots and slaves ! 

Feasts furnish'd by Famine ! rejoicings by Pain ! 
True freedom but welcomes., while slavery still raves, 

When a week's saturnalia halh loosen'd her chain. 

Let the poor squalid splendour thy wreck can afford, 
(As the bankrupt's profusion his ruin would hide) 

Gild over the palace, Lo ! Erin, thy lord ! 

Kiss his foot with thy blessing, his blessings denied ! 

Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last. 
If the idol of brass find his feet are of clay. 

Must what terror or policy wring forth be class'd 
With what monarchs ne'er give, but as wolves yield 
their prey ? 

Each brute hath its nature ; a king's is to reign, — 
To reign '. in that word see, ye ages, comprised 

The cause of the curses all annals contain. 
From Caesar the dreaded to George the despised ! 

Wear, Fingal, thy trapping ! O'Connell, proclaim 
His accomplishments! His!!! and thy country 
convince 
Half an age's contempt was an error of fame. 
And that " Hal is the rascaliest, sweetest young 
prince ! " 

Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fingal, recall 
The fetters from millions of Catholic limbs? 

Or, has it not bound thee the fastest of ail 
The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with hymns? 

Ay ! " Build him a dwelling ! " let each give his mite ! 

Till, like B;\bel, the new royal dome hath arisen ! 
Let thy beggars and helots their pittance unite — 

And a palace bestow for a poor-house and prison ! 

Spread — spread, for Vifellius, the roj'al repast. 
Till the gluttonous despot be stufl'd to the gorge ! 

And the roar of his drunkards proclaim him at last 
The Fourth of the fools and oppressors call'd 
*' George ! " 

Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they groan ! 

Till they groan like thy people, through ages of woe ! 
Let the wine flow around the old Bacchanal's tlirone. 

Like their blood which has flovv'd, and which yet 
has to flow. 

But let not his name be thine idol alone — 
On his right hand behold a Sejanus appears ! 

Thine own Castlereagh ! let him still be thine own ; 
A wretch never named but with curses and jeers ! 



4 "After the stanza on Grattan, will it please you to 
cause to insert the following addenda, which I dreamed of 
during to-dav's siesta." — Lord Byron to Mr, Moore, 
Sept. 20, 1821. — E. 



21 



16 



242 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



[1823. 



Till now, when the isle which should blush for his 

birth, 

Deep, deep as the gore which he shed on her soil. 

Seems proud of the reptile which crawl'd from her 

earth, 

And for murder repays him with shouts and a smile. 

Without one single ray of her genius, without 
The fancy, the manhood, the fire of her race — 

The miscreant who well might plunge Erin in doubt 
If she ever gave birth to a being so base. 

If she did — let her long-boasted proverb be hush'd, 
Which proclaims that from Erin no reptile can 
spring — 

See the cold-blooded serpent, with venom full flush'd, 
Still warming its folds in the breast of a king ! i 

Shout, drink, feast, and flatter ! Oh ! Erin, how low | 

Wert thou sunk by misfortune and tyranny, till i 

Thy welcome of tyrants hath plunged thee below ! 

The depth of thy deep in a deeper gulf still. i 

My voice, though but humble, was raised for thy right, 
My vote, as a freeman's, still voted thee free, 

This hand, though but feeble, would arm in thy fight, 

And this heart, though outworn, had a throb still 

for thee ! i 

Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not my 
land, 
I have known noble hearts and great souls in thy 
sons. 
And I wept with the world, o'er the patriot band 
Who are gone, but I weep them no longer as once. 

For happy are they now reposing afar, — 
Thy Grattan, thy Curran, thy Sheridan, all 

Who, for years, were the chiefs in the eloquent war, 
And redeem'd, if they have not retarded, thy fall. 

Yes, happy are they in their cold English graves ! 

Their shades cannot start to thy shouts of to-day — 
Nor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing slaves 

Be stamp'd in the turf o'er their fetterless clay. 

Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore. 
Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties 
fled; 

There was something so warm and sublime in the core 
Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy — thy dead. 

Or, if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour 

My contempt for a nation so servile, though sore. 
Which though trod like the worm will not turn upon 
power, 
'T is the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore ! 
September, 1821. 



There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee ; 
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee ; 
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my 

story, 
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. 

November, 1821. 



STANZAS 
TO A HINDOO AIR.'^ 

Oh ! my lonely — lonely — lonely — Pillow ! 
Where is my lover ? where is my lover? 
Is it his bark which my dreary dreams discover? 

Far — far away ! and alone along the billow ? 

Oh ! my lonely — lonely — lonely — Pillow ! 
Why must my head ache where his gentle brow lay ? 
How the long night flags lovelessly and slowly. 

And my head droops over thee like the willow ! 

Oh ! thou, my sad and solitary Pillow! 
Send me kind dreams to keep my heart from breaking, 
In return for the tears I shed upon thee waking ; 

Let me not die till he comes back o'er the billow. 

Then if thou wilt — no more my Icmely Pillow, 
In one embrace let these arms again enfold him, 
And then expire of the joy — but to behold him ! 

Oh ! my lone bosom ! — oh ! my lonely Pillow ! 



STANZAS 

WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN FLO- 
RENCE AND PISA.^ 

Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story ; 
The days of our youth are the'days of our glory ; 
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty 
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. 

What are garlands and crowns to the brov^r that is 

wrinkled ? 
'T is but as a dead-flower with May-dew besprinkled. 
Then away with all such from the head that is hoary ! 
What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory? 

Oh Fame ! — if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 
'T was less for the sake of thy his:h-sounding phrases. 
Than lo see the bright eyes of the deir one discover, 
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. 



IMPROMPTU. 3 

Beneath Blessington's eyes 

The reclaini'd Paradise' 
Should be free as the former from evil ; 

But if the new Eve 

For an Apple should grieve. 
What mortal would not play the Devil ? * 



TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON. 

You have ask'd for a verse : — the request 
In a rhymer 't were strange to deny ; 

But my Hippocrene was but my breast. 
And my feelings (its fountain) are dry. 

Were I now as I was, I had sung 
What Lawrence has painted so well ; 

But the strain would expire on my tongue, 
And the theme is too soft for my shell. 

I am ashes where once I was fire, 
And the bard in my bosom is dead ; 

What I loved I now merely admire, 
And my heart is as grey as my head. 

My life is not dated by years — 

There are moments' which act as a plough j 
And there is not a furrow appeai-s 

But is deep in my soul as my brow. 



1 "I composed these stanzas (except the fourth, added 
now) a lew days aeo, on the road from Florence to Pisa." 
—Byron Diary, Pisa, Cth Nov. 1621.— E. 



2 These verses were written by Lord Byron a little be- 
fore he left Italy for Greece. They were meant to suit 
the Hindostanee air — " Alia Malla Punca," which the 
Countess Guiccioli was fond of singing. — E. 

3 With a view of inducing Lord and Lady Blcssingtou 
to prolong their stay at Genoa, Lord Byron suggested their 
taking a pretty villa called "II Paradiso," in the neigh- 
bourhood of his own, and accompanied them to look at it. 
I'pon th.it occasion it was that, on the lady expr»'8siDg 
s;:me intentions of residing there, he produced this im- 
promptu.— MOORE.— E. 

4 The Genoese wits had already applie<l this threadbare 
jest to himself. Taking it into their heads that this villa 
(which was also, I believe, a Casa Sahizzo) had been the 
one fixed on for his own residence, they said. "II Diavolo 
e ancora eutrato in Paradiso." — MOORE.— E. 



1824.J 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



243 



Let the young and the brilliant aspire 
To sing what I gaze on in vainj 

For sorrow has torn from my lyre 
The string which was worthy the strain. 



ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY- 
SIXTH YEAR. 

Missolonghi, Jnn. 22, 1824. 1 
'T is time this heart should he unmoved, 

Since others it hath ceased to move : 
Yet, though I cannot be beloved, 
Still let me love ! 

My days are in the yellow leaf; 

The flowers and fruits of love are gone ; 
The worm, the canker, and the grief 
Are mine alone ! 

The fire that on my bosom preys 

Is lone as some volcanic isle ; 
No torch is kindled at its blaze — 
A funeral pile. 

The hope, the fear, the jealous care, 

The exalted portion of the pain 
And power of love, I cannot share, 
But wear the chain. 

But 't is not thus — and 't is not here — 

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor noWf 
Where glory decks the hero's bier. 
Or binds his brow. 

The sword, the banner, and the field, 
Glory and Greece, around me see ! 
The Spartan, borne upon his shield, 
Was not more free. 

Awake ! (not Greece — she is awake !) 

Awake, my spirit ! Think through whom 
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, 
And then strike home ! 

Tread those reviving passions down, 
Unworthy manhood ! — unto thee 
Indifferent should the smile or frowa 
Of beauty be. 

If thou regret'st thy youth, why live ? 

The land of honourable death 
Is here : — up to the field, and give 
Away thy breath ! 

Seek out — less often sought than found — 

A soldier's grave, for thee the best ; 
Then look around, and choose thy ground, 
And take thy rest. 



APPENDIX. 



REMARKS 

ON THE, ROMAIC OR MODERN GREEK LAN- 
GUAGE, WITH SPECIMENS AND TRANS- 
LATIONS. 

These " Remarks " were written, in the tprinf^ of 
\S\\, while Lord Byron wds residing in the Capu- 
chin Convent at Athens. See p. 207. 

Amongst an enslaved people, obliged to have re- 
course to foreign jjresses even for their books of religion 

1 ThiH mnriiing, Lord Byron came from his bedroom 
into lli« uparliiient where Colonel Stanhope and s'.mo 
friends were aHNeiiibled, and said with a smile — "You 
were cuinplaininiti the other day, that I never writ» any 



it is less to be wondered at that we find so few publi- 
cations on general subjects, than that we find any at 
all. The whole number of the Greeks, scaitered up 
and down the Turkish empire and eh.ewhere, may 
amount, at most, to three millions; and yet, for so 
scanty a number, it is impossible to discover any nation 
with so great a proportion of books and their authors, 
as the Greeks of the present century. " Ay, but," say 
the generous advocates of oppression, who, while they 
assert the ignorance of the Greeks, wish to prevent 
them from dispelling it, "ay, but these are mostly, if 
not all, ecclesiastical tracts, and consequently good for 
nothing." Well, and pray what else can they write 
about ? It is pleasant enough to hear a Frank, par- 
ticularly an Englishman, who may abuse the govern- 
ment of his own country ; or a Frenchman, who may 
abuse every government except his own, and who 
may range at will over every philosophical, religious, 
scientific, sceptical, or moral subject ; sneering at the 
Greek legends. A Greek must not write on politics, 
and cannot touch on science for want of instruction; 
if he doubts, he is excommunicated and damned; 
therefore his countrymen are not poisoned with modern 
philosophy; and as to morals, thanks to the Turks! 
there are no such things. What then is left him, if he 
has a turn for scribbling? Religion, and holy bio- 
graphy: and it is natural enough that those who have 
so little in this life should look to the next. It is no 
great wonder, then, that in a catalogue now before me 
of lifty-five Greek writers, many of whom were lately 
living, not above fifteen should have touched on any 
thing but religion. The catalogue alluded to is con- 
tained in the twenty-sixth chapter of the fourth volume 
of Meletius's Ecclesiastical History. From this I sub- 
join an extract of those who have written on general 
subjects ; which will be followed by some specimens 
of the Romaic. 



LIST OF ROMAIC AUTHORS. 9 

Nenphitus, Diakonos (the deacon) of the Morea, has 
published an extensive grammar, and also some politi- 
cal regulations, which last were left unfinished at his 
death. 

Prokopius, of Moscopolis (a town in Epirus), has 
written and published a catalogue of the learned 
Greeks. 

Seraphin, of Periclea, is the author of many works 
in the Turkish language, but Greek character ; for the 
Christians of Cararnania, who do not speak Romaic, 
but read (he character. 

Eustathius Psalidas, of Bucharest, a physician, made 
the tour of England for the purpose of study (;^<£ptv 
IxaO'qcrEM^) : but though his name is enumerated, it is 
not stated that he has written any thing. 

Kallinikus Torgeraus, Patriarch of Constantinople; 
many poems of his are extant, and also prose tracts, 
and a catalogue of patriarchs since the last taking of 
Constantinople. 

Anastasius Macedon, of Naxos, member of the royal 
academy of Warsaw. A church biographer. 

Demetrius Parnperes, a Moscopolite, has written 
many works, particularly " A Conmientary on Hesiod's 
Shield of Ijercules," and two hundred tales (of wiiat 
is not specified), and has published tiis correspondence 
with the celebrated George of Trebizond, his contem- 
pnra ry. 

Meietius, a celebrated geographer ; and author of 
the book from whence these notices are taken. 

Dorotheus, of Mifylene, an Aristotelian philoso- 
pher: his Hellenic works are in great repute, and he 

poetry now. This is my birth-day, nnd I hare just finish- 
ed Hoinething, which, I (hinic, is better Ihun wliul I usual- 
ly write." lie Ihen produced these noble uiid ulFecting 
versiH. — COL'WT CiAMD/V.--E. 

2 It is to bo observed that the niimes given are not in 
chronoJogicul order, but consist of some seleclwl at a ven- 
ture from BmongHt those who tlourislied from the taking 
of Constantinople to the limt) of Meleliua. 



244 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



is esteemed by the moderns (I quote the words of 
Meletius)/i£r(i rov QovKvf^ldiyv teal "Eivocpwvra 
Soiaros 'K/\Ai)i'wv. 1 add further, on the authority 
of a well-iuloruied Greek, tliat he was so famous 
amongst his countrymen, that they were accustomed to 
say, if Tliucydides and Xenophon were wanting, he 
was capable cf repairing the loss. 

RIannus Count Tharboures, of Cephalonia, profes- 
sor of chemistry in the ac;»demy of Padua, and mem- 
ber of tliat .acidemv, and those of Stockholm and 
Upsal. He has published, at Venice, an account of 
some marine animal, and a treatise ou the properties 
of iron. 

Marcus, brother to the former, famous in mechanics. 
He removed to St. Petersburg the immense rock on 
which the statue of Peter tlie Great was fixed in 17G9. 
See the dissertation whicli he publislied in Paris, 
1777. 

George Constautine has published a four-tongued 
lexicon. 

George Ventote ; a lexicon iu French, Italian, and 
Romaic. 

There exist several other dictionaries in I^atin and 
Romaic, Frencii, ^cc. ; besides grammars, iu every 
modern language except English. 

Aniongst^ the living authors the following are most 
celebrated i : — 

Athanasius Parios has written a tre.atise on rhetoric 
in Hellenic. 

Chri>todoulos, an Acarn;\nian, has published, iu 
Vienna, some physical treatises in Hellenic. 

Panagiotes Kodrikas. an Athenian, the Romaic 
translator of Fontenelie's "Plurality of Worlds'' (a 
favourite work amongst the Greeks), is stated to be a 
teacher of the Hellenic and Arabic languages iu I'aris; 
iu both of which he is an adept. 

Athanasius, the Parian, author of a treatise on rhe- 
toric. 

Vicenzo Daniodos, of Cephalonia, has written *' slj 
TO /L(£(ro/.>ap,oapoi'," on logic and iihysics. 

John Kamarases, a liy/antine, has translate!.! into 
French Ocellus on the I'nivei-be. He is said to be au 
excellent Hellenist and Latin scholar. 

Gregorio Demetrius published, in Vienna, a geo- 
graphical work : he has also tixinslated several Italian 
authors, and printed his versions at Venice. 

(If Coray aud I'salida some account has been ali"eady 
given. 



GREEK WAR SONG. a 
AEY'TE, naZC'ss toJv 'E\Xt}vcov : 

6 KaXf^ios Ti)s ^(-HVS jfXQev, 
A's 0at'tD/i£i' rtjioi iKiivuiv 

A J rrarijcro/tsi' dvC^pdoJS 

TOii ^vyov Tfis TV^avvi^oS' 
'EicCiucija-tofisv narpli^os 

Ka9' oi'£i(To5 al<r XQov. 
Td (J.T/Xtt fiij Xa6'u)/t£i; 

naWts ' KAXf^vwv nyw/isv 

5jTp^;j i/no noCwfL, 

*09tv ttffOt Ttx)V 'V,XXi)vmv 

KdiCKaXa dvi^ptio^si-a, 

nvti'i-idTa icTKopniafUva, 

Tcopa Xo6'sTt ni'ofjv. 
Vt' i}v (})idvi)v ti)s <raXrrtyy<5s l^ov ; 
<rvvaxOi)Tt S\a 6/iov. 

1 These namei are not taken from any publication, 
fix translation of this BoiiK will bo found amoug the 
Occosioual Pieces, ante, p. 307. 



rfjv inraXofpov ^ijrsXrSy 
Kal viKars rrpi) rravroi). 

Td OTXa as XdSuj/xsv, kc. 

Errdpra, ErrdpTa, ri KoinacrOt 

(Jffvov XiJ'Jopyov ^advv ; 
lvnvr)(rov Kpdls WO'^vas, 

<rii/i/ia;\;ov navTOTsivi)v. 
^Ei>Ovf.t£iOi]Ts Asovvii^ov 

ijpwoj Toi) lanova-Toi), 
Tov dvd()ds iTran'snivov 

0o6'£pov Kal Tpo/ispov. 

Td oTrXo &s XdCajfuv, &c. 

"Orrov eIs rds OspixonvXas 

noXsfiov aiiTOs K^onX. 
Kal Toi'S n^paas di^iarC^u 
Kal avTibv Kara KgarEX' 
Mi TpiaKoa-iovs <lWpas 

els '^'^ KsvTgov n-pd^topst, 
Kal uiS XiuiV Svnwfitvos, 
sis T* affia Tw 1' ^ovTtX. 

Td OTrXa as Xd/Jou/xsv, &c. 



ROMAIC EXTRACTS. 

Twca-os, *'AyKXos, Kul TdXXos xd/ivovTjj ti)v 
7r£pi7)> 7;cr»v Ti)s 'EXXddos, Kal ^Xinovrss rfjv 
a9Xiav rfjv Karda-Taa-iv, ElpcoTTjcav Karapxas 
s'varpaiKov 4>i\iXXrjva ^id vh fidOovv t^v al- 
rlav, /(.£r' ai<Tovsi'a firjTpoKoXiTfjv, s'ra sva 
(iXaxV-T^siv, i'nuraiva n'pay/iar«VTj)v, Koi tva 
TTposo-TtUra. 

Etrrs /(.as, cL <^i\iXXrjva, toJs <}>£ptis rfjv <rKXa(iav 
Kal Tijv dnapCyopijTov rdv TcvpKwv TVpar'vCav; 
n<x>s raXs ItXa^s "^"i v/Jpta/iiot^s '^a' (ri^i)iJOi^c(rp,iav 
iraiSuiV, nap6ivu)V, yvraiKiov dvi)Kova-Tov ^6o- 

pcTav. 
Aiv s[(T$at i<TtXs ai^dyoi'oi iKilvwv t&v 'EXX»}va»v 
T<3v iXsvQipoiV Kai ao4>u>v Kal twv (^XoKarpi^ov 
Kal Tt u)S iKsIvoi dKs6vi]CK0V fui Tyv iXsvOegiav, 
Kal Tft'ipa ijEis inovKiiadai sis riroiav rvpavviav, 
Kai noXov yivos Cos icrsXs l<TTdd£ (j^wrtcr/itvov 
£iS T?)v (ro<}>iav, t^vvanijv, tls k' oXo ^aKovanivov. 
rrdJs vvv i/corao-TiJcrars t*)v t^univijv EXXdfa 
jSajSa ! cbssi'a (r>c£X£Spov, ths ctkoteiv^jV Xafjurd^av. 
'OfilXii, (plXrars FpaiKi, dns nas t^v olrtav ; 
fif) KgiinTtjs TiTTOTj/s i)/iuiv, Xv£ T-ijv dnoplav. 
•O *1AF/ AAHNOL. 

'Poxrcr-ay/cXo-ydXXoi, 'EAXAj, Kal OA^uTX.Xoi, 

^Toi\ t'os XiTs, rdaov /isydXf;, 

\)K)v ci aOXCa, Kal dvalia 

dv*)' 001") ft'p;\;'^sv ') a^aOla. 

oo-t' 7//t7ropot'<rav vd Tt)v |v7rv7j<nj 

toCt' jIs rd .^trpov t^v (Jfi/^oCai 

avri) CTTtvd^u rd riKva Kpd^u, 

a-Td vd irpoKOKTOvv oXa npovrd^Si 

Kal TOTE iXTrf^ct on Kspti^tt. 

ti)ptXv, inroi)' ;^£i I'Cv Tt)v ({>Xoy(^tl. 

Md* oo-Tts ToX/iT)<r»;i vd rf/v |v>rvt}<ri7 

TToyti (rrbv &dr]v .\'«>P^S f^va Kgiaiv. 



APPENDIX, 



245 



The above is the coiumeiicenient of a long dramatic j 
satire on the Greek \>rieslhooil, princes, and gentry ; 
it is contemptible as a composition, but perhaps curi- ] 
ous as a >pecimen of their rhyme. I have the whole j 
in MS., but this extract will be lound sufficient. The 
Romaic in this composition is so e^isy as to render a 
version an insult to a scholar; but those who do not 
understand the original will excuse the following bad 
translatiou of what is in itself indifferent. 



TRANSLATION. 

A Russian. Ensllshman, and Frenchman, makin? the 
tour of Greece, and observing the miserable state of 
the country, interrOijUe, in turn, a Greek Patriot, to 
learn tiie cause: afterwards an Archbishop, then a 
Vlackbey,i a Merchant, and Cogia Eachi or Pri- 
mate. 

Thou friend of thy coun'ry ! to strangers record, 

Why bear ye the yok? of the Ottoman Lord ? 

Why bear ye these fetters thus tamely display 'd, 

The wrongs of the matron, tlie stri|)linj, and maid ? 

The descendants of Hellas's race are not ye ! 

The patriot sons of tb.e sage and the free, 

Thus sprung from the blood of the noble and brave, 

To vilely exist as the Mussulman slave ! 

Not such were the fatliers your annaU can boast. 

Who couquer'd and died for the freedom you lost ! 

Not sucli was your land in her earlier hovir, 

The daystar of nations in wisdom and power ! 

And still will you thus unresisting increase. 

Oh shameful di^honour ! the darkness of Greece? 

Then tell us, beloved Achiean I reveal 

The cause of the woes whifh you cannot conceal. 

The reply of the Philellenist I have not translated, 
as it is no better than the question of the travelling! 
triumvii-ate ; and the above will sutHciently show with 
what kind of composition the Greeks are now satis- 
fied. I trust I have not much injured the original in 
the few lines given as faithfully, and as near the " Oh, | 
Miss Bailey 1 unfortunate Miss Hailey!" measure of 
the Romaic, as I could make them. Almost all their 
pieces, above a song, which aspire to the name of poe- 
try, contain exactly the quantity of feet of 

" A captain bold of Halifax, who lived in country 
quarters," 

which is in fact tlie present heroic couplet of the 
Romaic. 



SCENE FROM '0 KA$ENEE. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF GOL- 

DONI, BY SPIRIDION VLANTI. 

EKIINH Kr'. 

riAATZTAA ds tijV Troprav tov xo.'viov, Kal 
ol avcjOev. 

IIAA. p 0£^ ! dnb to napaOvpi. fiov k^xxvi) vd. 
aKoia-io tJ)v (puivyv roii dvdpd^ /tov av avTog 
tivui idco, EtpOaaa (rt Kai.gov va tov ltVTQOitid<TiD. 
[V.hyaivu tvas (ov\o^ dno to ipyaa-rt'ipt..] TlaXi- 
Kdpi,Kis fiov (rt TTapaftoXd) noids elvai iKtl els 
iKi(vov<i TOX'S bvrdi^ES > 

AOYA. T()£ls x'(")o"'/^°' flvfpES. ''Eva? 6 »c^^p 
Ei'yii'ios, 6 aXXos i> kvq JMaprioj Nsan-oXirdvos, 
KciX tqCtos b KvQ Ko'vte A^avfpoj 'Apc^^i'r?/?. 

riAA. ('Avd/t£o-a £ti ai)Tovs Slv tivat. b 'iXani- 
vios, &v o/Au>s 6iv aWaltv ovofia.) 



1 Vlackbey, Prince of Wallaohia. 



AEA. Na^l) ij KaXJj rvxr} toO icuq Eiytviov. 
[Ulv(tiVTas.] 
OAOL N<i V). va^i). 

IIAA. (AvTd£ tivai b avdpas /aoC X'^Q^S ^XXo, 
KaXi^vOgmns, Kd/i£ fioi) rfjv ;^apiv vd /ii <rvv- 
Tpo(f>£V(Tv,s dndvw tlj aiiroi'S Toi>s d(pEVTddiS, 
bnoii ■^iXio vd Tois Tat'lw iiiav. [Ilpdj tov Coi- 
Xov.] 

AOY. 'Ogia-fids aas' (<rvvi]di<mivov i00fKcov 
TcSv iovXiVTuiv.) [T/yv i/irrd^£i dno rd ipyaorijpi 
Toi) naiyvidiov.] 

PIA. KapfKi, Kapfii^, KdfiSTS KaXi^v KagSidv, 
div slvat TlnoTts. [IIpoj t>)v HirTOpiov.] 

BIT. 'Eyu» alaOdi'Ofiai niLs dniOalvw. [Lvvip' 
X^rai els toi' iavTov t7/j.] 

['And rd napdOvpa tu5v bvTaSwv (^aCvoV' 
TaioXoi, bnoi) aijKoviovrai dno to rpo- 
TTs^i (Tvyxicfi'^voi, did tov |a0vKr/itfv toO 
AEdvdpov jSXfTTwvraj ti)i< UXdT^Lda,Kal 
diarl avTos dtrvvst nu>s -^sXci, vd t})v (po- 
vcva-rj.] 

EYr. ''OXh (TTdOlJTS. 

MAP. M»)v KdfivsTi. . . 

AEA. HiKu), (pvyi djr' idco. 

IIAA. Boiptia, (SojOcia. [$£t5y«t d?r^ tiJv (r/cd- 
Xav, 6 Aiavdpos -^dXu vd tj)v dKoXovdi^<rj] fii to 
arraOl, koI b Kvy. tov fiaaTR.] 

TP.V. [Mi svaidro fii t^ayt eIj [tCav ntT^iTa 
ntjSd d/To TO nagaOvpi, Kal 0£ijy£i eIj tov Ka(l>svL] 

flAA. [EiyaivEi dnd Td ipyaa-ri^pi tov Traiyvi- 
diov Tp£_\'wvras% Kai (jitvysi, ds to xdvi.] 

EYr. [Ml (Tp/Aara ds ro ,\ipi npos 6i.a<{>{vTtv- 
<nv Tf)s TLXdT^idas, ivavilov tov Aedvdgov, bn<Ji 
Ti)y KUTaTpixu.] 

MAP. [EvyaivH Kal wbrds a-iyd myd dnb t6 
ipya(TTY]pi, Kal (psvyu X^ycovraj.] Rumores fuge. 
['Poi'/AJpsg 0£iiy£.] 2 

01 AovXot. ['And Tb ipyo(rT»}p6 dnegvoiv (1$ 
T() xdvi, Kai kXclovv t^/V nroprdi'.] 

BIT. [M^VEi £ls TdvKa(p£vi lioijdijfiivi] dnd tov 
'PieoXt^ov.] 

A E A. Ao'crsTS Tonov ■^eXta vd ^'/.i^oi vd tuPw tlj 
iKdvo TO xdvL. [Mk TO (TTTadi elj rd x^Qi- ivaV' 
Tiov TOV Evyzvtov.] 

EYr. "0,\'t, /A)) yfivoiTO 7roT£* zXcrai, svas <rX7jp6' 
Kapdos ivavTLov tTjs yvvaiKos aov, Kdl ^y«> ■$^iXti 
T»)v 6ia<l>£VT£va-(a uiS dg to ia-rspov affia, 

AEA. Hoii Kdfivu) 6pKo%> nJJS -B-eXu to fi€Tavottu- 
(Tjjg. [KtTj;ya rdv F.vyiviov fii to anadi.] 

EYr. A^v a-t cpoOoviiai. [KaTaTp^x£i tov Ai- 
av6pov, Koi TOV j8cd^£c va cvpOJi bnla-ut T6(rov, 
bnoii tbpi<TKwvTas dvoiKTOV to o-rrfjrt T'i)s %opetJ- 
Tpiaj, iii(iaivti. ds avTo, Kai aiavsTai,] 



TRANSLATION. 
Platzida, from the Door of the Hotel, and the others. 

Pla. Oh God ! from the window it seemed that I 
heard my husband's voice. If he is here, I have ar- 
rived in time to make him ashamed. [A servant enters 
from ihc Shop.] Roy, tell me, pray, who are in those 
chambers ? 

Serv. Three gentlemen : one. Signer Eugenio ; the 

2Arfyos XttTiviK^s, AffoD .^^£4 vd «trrf) ^rtJy* 
TaZs (rvy;\;icrts. 



21* 



246 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



other, Signor Martio, the Neapolitan ; and the third, 
my Lord, the Count Leander Ardenti. 

Pla. Flaniinio is not amongst these, unless be has 
changed his name. 

Leander. [Wuhin drinking.] Long live the good 
fortune of Sigaor Eugenio. 

IThe whole company, Long live, &c.] (Literally, 
Na ^Tj, va ^i): May he live.) 

Pla. Without doubt that is my husband. [To the 
Serv.} My good man, do me the favour to accompany 
me above to those gentlemen : I have some business. 

Serv. At your commands. [Aside ] The old office 
of us waiters. [He goes out of the Gaming-House.] 

Ridolpho. [To Victoria on another part of the 
Stage] Courage, courage, be of good cheer, it is 
nothing. 

Victoria. I feel as if about to die. [Leaning on 
him as if fainting.] 

[From the windows above all within are seen 
risiyig from table in confusion : Leander starts 
at the sight of Platzida, and appears by his ges- 
tures to threaten her life.] 

Eugenio. No, stop 

Martio. Don't attempt • 

Leander. Away, fly from hence ! 

Pla. Help ! help ! [Flies doum the stairs, Leander 
attempting to follow with his sword, Eugenio hin- 
ders him.] 

[Trapolo, with a plate of meat, leaps over the bal- 
cony from the window, and runs into the Coffee- 
House.] 

[Platzida runs out*of the Gaming-House, and 
takes shelter in the Hotel.] 

[Martio steals softly out of the Gaming-House, and 
goes off, exclaiming -'Rumores fuge." The Servants 
from the Gaming-House enter the Hotel, and shut 
the door.] 

[Victoria remaiiis in the Coffee-House assisted by 
Ridolpho.] 

[Leander, sword in hand, opposite Eugenio, ex- 
claims, Give way — I will enter that Hotel.] 

Eugenio. No, that shall never be. You are a scoun- 
drel to your wife, and I will defend her to the last 
drop of tny blood. 

Leander, I will give you cause to repent this. 
[Menacing with his sword,] 

Eugenio. I fear you not. [He attacks Leander, 
and makes him give back so much, that, finding the 
door of the dancing girVs house open, Leander 
escapes through, and so finishes.] i 



AIA'AOrOI 0IKL4K0r 



FAMILIAR DIA- 
LOGUES. 

Ati va ^rirria-r]Ztva npayiia. To ask for any thing. 
Zas napaKaXu), dda-ere jxe av I pray you, give me if 

6gl^tT£. you please. 

i£p£Ti fie. Bring me. 

* EwVETOt— "finishes" — awkwardly enough, but it is 
the literal translation of the Romaic. The original of 
this comedy of Goldoni's I never read, but it does not ap- 
pear one of his best. " II Bugiardo" is one of the most 
lively : but I do not think it has been translated into Ro- 
maic : it is much more amusing than our own " Liar," 
by Foote. The character of Lelio is better drawn than 
Young Wilding. Goldoni's comedies amount to fifty; 
some perhaps the best in Europe, ;ind others the worst. 
His life is also one of the best specimens of autobiogra- 
phy, and, as Gibbon has observed, " more dramatic than 
any of his plays." The above scene was selected as con- 
taining some of the most familiar Romaic idioms ; not for 
any wit which it displays, since there is more done than 
said, the greater part consisting of stage directions. The 
original is one of the few comedies by Goldoni which is 
without the buffoonery of the speaking Harlequin. 



AavdartTi {it. Lend me. 

HrfyaCvETt va ^tjt^ctete. Go to seek. 

Twpa fbdi}^. Now directly, 

■^ii aKgijii jj-ot Kvpie, Kajj-ETi My dear Sir, do me 

fit airyv rf/v xdpiv. this favour. 

'Eyw aas nagaKaXw. I entreat you. 

'Eyw a-as ilopKC^ui. I conjure you. 

'Eyw eras '''d ^rjTat 6ui x<^ptv. I ask it of you as a fa. 

vour. 
"YnoxptdxrETd fit tls roa-ov. Oblige me so much. 



Ao'yta IgixiTiKa, j^ dXdnrjs. 

Zwifj fiov. 

'A/cpi/?ij fiov xfjvxrj- 

'AyaJTrjri fiuv, d.K.gi^i fiov. 

KapStT^a fiov. 

'AydTTT? fiov. 

Atd va si/^opto-T^o-ij?, va Kd- 
fiT^S n£.pinot7](Tts, Kai 0iXt- 
KaZs d£|ttt)cr£5. 

'Eyw o-as fbxO'Pi.crTCj. 

Has yviupl^w xdpLV. 

Zas tijiai vnoxpeos Kara 

noXXd. 
'Eyw ■S-tXd} TO Kdfiti fitra x^-- 

pas. 
Me oAijv fiov rijV Kapdlav. 
Mk KaX'ffV fiov KapdCav. 
Zas tifiaX v-noxp^os. 
Eifiai oXos idiKos (raS' 
Eifiai dovXoso-as- 
Tanti.v6raTos 6ovXoS' 

EiCTTt Kara noXXd. ti/ytviKdS' 
UoXXd. ntipd^EcQt. 

To l'%a) dio, %apdv fiov va 

ras doXiva-ui. 
EitTTE EiytviKds Kal tiKpo- 

c^yopos. 
Aird tivai npinov. 
Tt MXete ; 

Ti bpl^ETt ; 

Zas napuKaXw va fik fitra- 

%£tpt^£o-fl£ iXtvdEpa. 
Xwpij nEpiKoirjCTES. 
Z&s dyanu) ilo^VS fi-ov Kap- 

dias. 
Kal iyd) bfioioiS- 
TlfiTja-ETE fik raXs TTpoa-ayaXs 

(Tas. 
"ExETE rLnoTES va fii npoa- 

Td^ETE ; 
npo(rTd|£T£ Tov dovXavaas- 

Upoa-fiivui ras npoa-ayas (ras- 

Mi KdfiVETE fiEydXrfVTifi^v. 

^Odvovv if nEpntolrfO'ES (rag 

TTopa/coXw. 
TLpo(j-Kvvq(TETE ixfiipovs fiov 



Affectionate expres- 
sions. 

My life. 
My dear soul. 
My dear. 
My heart. 



My love. 

To thank, pay com- 
pliments, and tes' 
tify regards. 

I thank you. 

I return you thanks. 

I am much obliged to 
you. 

I will do it with plea- 
sure. 

W^ith all my heart. 

Most cordially. 

I am obliged to yoa. 

I am wholly yours. 

I am your servant. 

Your most humble 
servant. 

You are too obliging. 

You take too much 
trouble. 

I have a pleasure m 
serving you. 

You are obliging and 
kind. 

That is right. 

What is your plea- 
sure? 

What are your com- 
mands ? 

I beg you will treat 
me freely. 

Without ceremony, 

I love you with all 
my heart. 

And I the same. 

Honour me with your 
commands. 

Have you any com- 
mands for me ? 

Command your ser- 
vant. 

I wait your com- 
mands. 

You do me great ho- 
nour. 

Not 80 much ceremo- 
ny, I beg. 

Present my respects to 



APPENDIX. 



247 



rbv olpxovTa,^ tovicOqiov. 

^t^aL<ii(Ttri tov nSiS to v iv- 

Qvjiovfiat. 
Bt(iai(ji(TtT£ TO V TTwj TOV ay a- 

n(a. 
Aiv S-iXu} XeCipf.1 va tov to 

eIttu). 
Ilpo(rK.vv7JfiaTa sis T^yv dp- 

X(^VTca(Tav. 
UTjyaCvETE iinrgocrQaKalcras 

dKoXovOuj. 
'Hgsiipou icaXa t6 xpio^ liov. 
'H^EVpoj TO tlvai fiov. 
Mt KdjMvzTt vd ivTQinuiiJ^ai 

fit Tacg Tocrais (pt\o(pgoa-v- 

VMS o-cis- 
QeXsTE Xoiirbv va /cd/ico fiiav 

dp;^;£tdT;jTa ; 

")Cndyoi kyLirgoa-da 6vh va (rag 

■bTTaKova-u). 
Ata va Kd/Mui t^v ngocnayfiv 

(ras- 
Atv dyand Toarais nzgntoLri- 

a-ES- 
Akv sffiai (TreXstcos itEQinoit]- 

tik6s. 

AijTO EtVai Tfi KaXiTEQOV, 

Tocrov TO KaXCTEpov. 
E;^£T£ Xoydv, e'xete SLicaiov. 



the gentleman, or 
his lordship. 

Assure him of my re- 
membrance. 

Assure him of my 
friendship. 

I will not fail to tell 
him of it. 

My compliments to 
her ladyship. 

Go before, and I will 
follow you. 

I well know my duty. 

I know my situation. 

You confound me 
with so much civi- 
lity. 

Would you have me 
then be guilty of an 
incivility ? 

I go before to obey 
you. 

To comply with your 
command. 

I do not like so much 
ceremony. 

I am not at all cere- 
monious. 

This is better. 

So much the better. 

You are in the right. 



Aiavci (iEftaL(i)CTris,va dpvr}- To affirm, deny, con- 
Ofjs, va (TvyKaTavEva-^jS, sent, &c. 

Koi t|. 

"Elvai dXif^QLVov, ElvaidXr}- It is true, it is very 
Bia-TaTov. true. 

Ata va a-as tl'iron t^jv dXTJ- To tell you the truth. 
9£cav. 

. "OvT(x)S, ET^r) tlvai. Really, it is so. 

Uolos diM(pi(3dXX£i ; Who doubts it ? 

Akv Elvai Koa-Sis dpi(f)tl3oXCa. There is no doubt. 

To nia-TEvu), 6kv to nia-TEva. I believe it, I do not 
believe it. 

Asyw ro vaC 

A^yw Tc oxt: 

BdXXw a-Tlxrjixa on Efvai. 

BdXXoi a-Tlxrfiia otl 6kv tl- 
vai ET^rj. 

Nal, jia TTjv nlcTTiv fiov. 

El; T7)v a-vvECdrjo-Cv fiov. 

Ma Ti/V ^UJT^V jXOV. 

Nat, craj bjivvia. 

Ea? bfLVV(xi coo-dv rBfjurjuivos l swear to you as an 

avOpwTTos. honest man. 

Las bfivvu) indvoi eIj t?)v I swear to you on my 

Ti/A7yv fiov. honour. 

Uia-TEvaETEjiE. Believe me. 

'H/iTTopw va ads to (iEpaidli- I can assure you of it. 

(TO). 

"WdiXa fidXrj (TTixrjiia, ort I would lay whit bet 
SiXETE dia TovTo. you please on this. 

Mr) t{)xv Kai da-TEC^Ea-dE (xo- You jest by chance ? 
parEVETE) ; 

'OfilXEiTE Ilk TO, clXa <ras ', Do you speak seri- 
ously ? 



I say yes. 

I say no. 

I wager it is. 

I wager it is not so. 

Yes, by my faith. 
In conscience. 
By my life. 
Yes, I swear it to you. 



'Eyo) crds dfit,Xw /jle to. oXa 
fiov, /cat eras A^yw riy/t 
dXrjOEiav. 

'Eyo) a-as to (Se^ aid) vat. 

To inpocprjTEdaETE. 

To ^7rtT£ii;^;£r£. 

Sa? TTtCTTfiiw. 

np^TTit va ads niaTEiaca. 
Aijro fihv Eivai dSvvaTOV, 
To Xotnov (is Eivai, /A£ KaXyv 

upav. 
KaXa, KaXd. 
Akv Ecvai dXrjOLvdv. 
Eivac ipEvdts. 
Atv Eivai TiTcoTES dno aijTO. 

Etvai Eva i}jev6os, {lia dnd- 

T-q. 
'Eyw daTEi^ofiovv {txopd- 

T3Va. 

'Eyuj TO Eina did va yEXdaw. 

T^ dXriezia. 

M.i. dpiaei KaTh noXXd. 

I.vyKaTav£xi(x} £ts tovto. 

ACdui TijV xpfjCpov fiov. 

A'iv dvTiaTEKOfiai eIs tovto. 

Ei'iiai aiiKpMVOS, in avjicpd- 
vov. 

'Eydjdkv^iXtx). 

'Eyw ivavriwvoiiai eIs tov- 
to. 

Atd va avfil3ov\£vdfjS, va 

aTOxaaO'qs, >7 va dno^aai- 

arjs. 
Tt npin£i va KdfiwjiEV ; 
Tt -S-tc KdiiajfiEV ; 
Tt ft£ avjifiovXtvETE va Kd- 

[iw ; 
'Ottoiov TpdTrov -S-eXoiiev [ie- 

TaxEipiaQfj '^fiEis ; 

"A? KdflUJllEV ET^I]. 

Eivai KaXiTEpov ly^ va 

HTddrjTE bXiyov. 

Aev ^QeXLv Eivai KaXiTEpov 

va, 

'Eyo) dyanovTa KaXtTzpa. 
QiXETE KujiEi KaXlTEpa av 

^'AcpijaETi fiz. 

'Av ^jiovv e\s TOVTOTtov aus 

^ycb— 
E^vat TO i'diofi. 



I speak seriously to 
you, and tell you 
the truth. 

I assure you of it. 

You have guessed it. 

You have hit upon it. 

I believe you. 

I must believe you. 

This is not impossible. 

Then it is very well. 

Well, well. 

It is not true. 

It is false. 

There is nothing of 

this. 
It is a falsehood, an 

imposture. 
I was in joke. 

I said it to laugh. 

Indeed. 

It pleases me much. 

I agree with you. 

I give my assent. 

I do not oppose this. 

1 agree. 

I will not. 

I object to this. 

To consult, consider, 
or resolve. 

What ought we to do? 
What shall we do ? 
What do you advise 

me to do ? 
What part shall we 

take? 
Let us do this. 

It is better that I 

Wait a little. 
Would it not be better 

that 

I wish it were better. 
You will do better 

if 

Let me go. 

If I were in your 

place I 

It is the same. 



The reader by the specimens helow will be enabled to 
compare the modern with the ancient tongue. 

PARALLEL PASSAGES FROM ST. JOHN'S 
GOSPEL. 
"Niov. AitOEVTiKdv. 

Ksc^dX. d. K£<pdX. d. 

1. ET'S TijV dpx^jV 1. 'EN dpxf) »?v 6 Xo'- 
7JT0V 6 Xdyos' (cat 6 Xoyos yoj, /cot 6 Xdyog^v n-poj 
j^Tov fiETd Qeov' Kal 6tds tov Qeov, Kal Qtos ^v b 
^JTov 6 XoyoS' Xdyos. 



248 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



2. 'Etovtos tJtov eIs 
T^v agxV'^ fif-To, Qzov. 

3. ''OAa [to npdyfia- 
ra] duiiiiarov lov \\6yov'j 
iyCvrjicav, /cat x^P'^S av- 
rdv 6kv Eyifie icaviva si'- 
TL syLVt. 

4. Eis airbv^TOV ^ai7j' 
Kal ij ^(jjy i-jTov to ^wj 

5. Kal TO (pas els rfjv 
a-KOTsCav ^iyytij Kal 'fj 
(TKOTEia dkv to KardXaSs. 

6. ^' Eycvev e'vas avdgix)- 
TTos anE(TTa\fiivos d/rd 

TtV QeoV, to OVOfld TOV 

^Iwdvvrjs. 



2. OvTos^v iv dgXTI 

TTpOJ t6v 0£OV. 

3. UdvTa 61 avTov 
tyivETO- Kal ^wplj ai- 
Tov lyiVETo oidk iv, S 
yiyovEV. 

4. 'Ev aijTuj ^oj?) rjv^ 
Kal fj ^coy rjV TO (pu>s ^wv 
dv9p(i)Kov. 

5. Kal TV (pw; iv Tf/ 
(TKOTiq (paCvEi, Kal rj <tko 
Tla avTQ ov KaTiXaSEV. 

6. 'EyEVETo av9pu)7ros 
dKEcrraXfjiEVos napd Qe 
ov, ovojia a^T^ 'Iwdv 
vris. 



THE INSCRIPTIONS AT ORCHOMENUS FROM 
MELETIUS. 

'OPXOMENO'S, Koivws Lkqittov, UoXis ttote 
nXovaicuTdTi] Kal la-xvpwTdTTj, npoTEpov KaXov- 
IJiiv7)BotuiTCKal 'Adfivai, eIj t^jv bnotav 9jtov b 
NacJS Twv '^aplrixsv, eIj tov birolov kTrX-fjpoivov 
teXt) ol QrjSaZoi, ovtlvos to sdacpos dvEa-Kd(p6t 
iroTk vnd tu>v \\crnaXdyKiiiV. 'EKav7)yvpi,^ov eIs 
avTyv Tyv IIoAtv to, XapiT^crta, tov bKolov 
'Ayojvos Evpov k7nypa(()ag iv crr^Aats evSov tov 
ktl(t9evtos Naoi) in'' bvojMarL Tfjs Qeotokov, vtto 
TOV HpuiToazaOapCov AiovTog, inl tS>v BaaiXiiDV 
Baa^l.XElov, AiovTos,Kal KwvcrTavTCvov, ixov(ras 

OVTWS- ^Ev jXil' Tf) flLCt KOLVWS. 

" ''(?£ evCkldv TOV dyjiva tu)V ;^aptT5;(rta)v. 

" ZaXTTLO-Tyg. [dpov. 

" M^vtS ^A-TToXXuiviov 'Avtiox^-vS drrd Matdv- 

" Kypvl. 
" ZwiXos Tiw'iXov Ild^tof. 

" ^Paipwdds. 
" 'NovfiiiviosNovurjviov 'AOrjvaZos. 

" HoLTjTys inihv. 
" 'A/iijvfas Atjij-okXeovs QySaZos. 

" AvXtjti^s- 
" ^AnoWodoTOS 'AttoXXoSotov Kpi/js. 

" AvXui^os. 
*' 'FddtTiTTos, 'Fodtrrnov 'Apy^oj. 

" KLOapccTTijg. [Kviivg. 

" ^avCas ^AnoXXofoTov tov ^avCov AioXEvgdno 

" KiOapwdds- 
" Arjix^Tpios UapiiEvCcTKov KaA;^eJ(^vtos. 

" Tpay^do's. 

" 'iTTKOKpdTTJS 'AOLC-TOflEVOVS 'Pddtos- 

" Kw^cofo's. 
*' KaXA^cTTparos 'Ega/c^o-Tov QrjSaZos. 

"IIotTjT/yS Sariipwv. 
•' 'Aiir]vlas ArjiioKXiovsQESaZos. 

" 'YTTo/cpir^j. 
" Acopd^EOj Aa)po9^ot; TapavTivdj. 

" llou]Ty£Tpay(f)dL(jjv, 
" So0o/cX^s "LocpoKXiovs ^AOijvaZos- 

" 'T/ro/cpiTijs. 
'• KapCpixos OEodoJpov Gtj/Joios. 

" Iloiijrjys KuiH(/)dLU)V. 



" 'AXEgavdpos 'Ap^o-Twvoj 'Afliyvacos. 

" 'T/ro/cptT^j. 
^'"AttuXos 'AttciAov 'AGi^vaZog. 

" OTds ivLKwv TOV vrjiiriTov dy&fjba t&v 

" Ilatdas a'bXytnds- [bfiodwuiV. 
" AioKXfjs KaXXifjLydov Qy^aZog. 

" Ilatdas 'f/yE/jLovas, 
" I.TpaTZvos E^vviKov QrjpaZos. 

" ''Ai^iJpas AvXrjTds. 
" AiokX'Tjs KaXXifiydov 9^/3ato?. 

""Avdpas "(jyEfidvas. 
" 'PoftTrn'os 'PodtTTTTot; 'ApyEtos. 

" Tpayojcfo's. 
"'In-TTOKpdriys 'Apto-ro/A^vors 'PJdtoj. 

" Kco^wddj. 
" KaAAta-TpaTos'E|a/c£0-rov QrjfiaZos. 

" Td iniVLKia. 
*' KwyU,(;(;f/,a)V notT^r^f. 
" 'AXfgavdpos Apto-Ti'wvos 'A^T^vatos." 
" 'Ev (J^ T^ lT£pa dtoptKajj, 
" jMvao-^vw 3p;^;ovTos dycovo^ETiovTOS rdv 
" XaptrtiVtov, f^apioo-Tu) n'dvTcov ot" TvfJe 

" iVLKMO-aV TO. XO.piTELTia. 

" EaXTTty/crdj. 
" $iXtvos ^tXtvo) '^i9dv£Jos. 

" Kdpoi'l. 
" Elpcodas Ew/cpdrios Qel^elos. 

" XloEtTds. 
" Mijo-Twp M^o-Topos ^w/catevj. 

" 'PaT/zEtidds. 
" Rpdrwi- KXiuivos QeC^elos- 

" AiX£i,7ds. 
"irsptyEt-Elj 'Hp/t<A£tdao Kov^i.Kriv6%. 

" Ai;Aa£t;d'o's. 
" AaiMTjVETos rXavKw " Apytoj. 

" Kt^apicrrds. 
*' AdjiaTpos 'AfjLaXiow AIoXevs o,nb Movptvaj. 

" Tpaya£V(Jds. 
*' ^Aa-KXantodwpos UovdEdo Tapavrivoj. 

" KajfiaEvdos- 
" NtKo'o-rpaTos ^tAoo-Tpdrw QeIj3eios. 

" 'I'd imvLKEia KiofiasvdoS' 
" E{)ap;\;os 'HpodoVw KopwvE'iis." 

'Ev aXA^tj Ai9(f). 
' M<}pt;\;osnoXi'Kpdro'us 'lapwvv/ios (Jioy^rtovos 
' a'vd'p£o-o-t %opay£f(rav7£s M/cdo-avTES 6iovv(tov 

■ dviOTjKav Tifi(x)vos apxovTos aiXioVTOS icXios 
' d'dovros dA«:tor9ivtos." 

'Ev ir£pcj AC9(f). 
' ^vvdpx'o apxovTos, fiEivog ■5-£iXow0ia>, dp;^i , . 
' ais" Ei'l/SojAi dpxECdfio) (pwKEZa . . . . o? dTr^dwKa 
' and TCts croi'yypa^w TTEc^ft twv KoXEfidpX'-^v, Ki) 
' Twv KaTOTTTdiov, dvEXojXEVos Tas a-ovyypa(pwS 
'• Tas KLjiEvaq nap £V(pp6va, K)j (^iSlav kij naaiK- 
' XfZv .... Ky tlhoijlelSov (})(i)KECas, <^l dafiOTsXEZv 
Xva-iddfiu), Ky diovvaov Kacpto-odcbu) ;^ijpwi'£ta 

■ KaT TO xpdipia-na tw ddfitf), 

' 3-vvdpxa apxovTos, fiEivds aXaXKofiEvCw F 
dpv&v noXvKXEios Ta/ilas dniSwKE EvfituXv dpx- 
'■ eMjxw (pMKEli and Tag crovyypnfpio rd KOTaXvnov 



APPENDIX, 



249 



" Kar TO T//<f0to-^a tw ddfuu, dvEXo/Mtvos rds 
«<(rovyypa0a)S t^S KljjiEvas Trap crttxpihov, Ky £^- 
" (ppova 0ajK^ag. Kt) nap Siwvicnov /ca^tcrodwpaj 
" ;\;;ijpwv£a, k?) XvcriCafiov dafioreXLOs ttiSa twv 
" TroKEfidpx'^'^: "'/ ■'■<*'^ /caTOTTTdoiv. 

" "Ap;\;;ovTOS ^v ip;\;o/i£v^ ^Dvap^w, /a£vos 'AXa- 
*' XKOfitvltJi, iv 6s F iXarlrj MevulTuo 'Ap^sXaw 
" iXEcvos rrpdrw. 'O/iioXoya Eii^cuAi; F iXaris, 6 
'•k?/ r^ TToXt ip;\;o/i£viwv, 'ErraiJ,/ KSKofiCa-Tj] 
" Kii/JouXos Trap t^j ttoAioj to ddvuov anav k-clt 
" Tas bfioKoyias ras Tedicras-S-vvapx^" ap%oi/TOS, 
" fiuvbs -^uXovOiu), /c?) oir i^ctAiri/ a'^rtb eti 
" oiGtv nap rav irdXtv, dAA' drr^;^i ndvra nepl 
^'•Kavrds, Kfj dnoSidoavSi jfj rroAt to e'xovte^ rdj 
" (5/i.oAoytas, £l /Aff ttotI dEdopLsvov XQOVov Ev- 
" jSwAi; ^TTt vo[ji,ias F ETL dnsTTapa fSoveaa-i crovv 
" c'TTTrKS (Jta K.aTlr]<; Ft Kan npojSdTVS (roiiv 'fjyi'? 
" x^'-^^VS dpx^ '■<** xpo'vttj 6 ^vtavTOS 6 fiETCt ■&'6v- 
" ap%ov apx°'^'''^ ipxofJ'Evivs dnoypacpea-OT) 6k 
*' EijjSiuXov KUT^ kviavTov ekuo-tov nap tov 
'^ rafiCav icy tov voiiwv av rdvE Kaii/xara twv 
" 7rpo/?dT(juv, /C7/ Twv i]YUiV, /ci) twv ^ovwv, Ki) 
" Twv innoDV, /ci) Kdriva dcraixaCuiV ■&iK.7} rb 
" ttAeI^oj /i£l dnoypd<j)Ea-o wde nXCova twv yeyp- 
" a/i/AEVwv iv T^ (roiJ y;^6op£i<r6 ij 6dicarig . ... it] 
"to ivvdlJLLOV E{i/3ttjAov bcpEiXsi, . . . . Xts tmv 
'^ ipXoiiEvCwv dpyovpiuj .... TZTTapaKovra Ev- 
" ^ouAxJ /ca9" tKaarov iviavrov, Ky roicov (pEpETtu 
" dpa^/ids .... Tas /ivdj E/cdo-Tas /caTa /XEtva 

". . . . TOV K^ EfinpaKTOS i'ffTO) TOV ipxo/iivLov 

" /cat Tffl ^l^s." 

'Ev d'AAot? AlOoLS. 
"'Avo6wpa(T'6v(f)opovxalpE." NOKYEE. »' Kd\- 
XCniTov diM(pdpixos Kal aAAat." 'Ev oiidEixCa 
^Eni.ypa(Pf) t'dov rdvov, ■?) nvtvfia, a di. 'fjfJLEls 
-bnoypdipoiitv, ol naXacoi npoaeypacpov. Kai rd 



The following is the Prospectus of a translation of 
Anacharsis into Romaic, by my Romnic master, Mar- 
marotouri, who wished to publish it in England. 

EIAH' EIS TYnorPA$IKH. 
Ilpos Tovs iv ipiXoyEVEcs Kai cptXiXXTjvas- ' 

"OEOr £ls fiifiXla navrodand ivTpvcJMcnv, 
Tj'^Evpovv nocrcv Eivat to xpyo'ifJiov t7js 'IcnogCas, 
dt' ai)Tf)s ydp ilEvpia-KETac rj nXiov fiEiJbaKpva-- 
li,ivy) naXaiOTriSj "o^' ^^fwpovvTat wj iv KaTompoj 
ii9r), 7rpd^£t? Kai dtot/C9jo-£tg noXX&v Kai dta^opwv 
E^vdiv Kai Fsvoiv cbv ti/v fivrjixyv diEaojaaTO 
Kai dLacMO-Et i} 'lo'TopiK'^ AcyyTjais £is aiwva tov 
fiTravTa. 

M^flf TETOta ^Eni<TTijiM7) zlvai sianoKTriTos, Kai 
iv TavTif) <j!i(piXiiM7}, ^i KpELTTov ElniZv dvayKata. 
StaTl Xomov ijiiEls iidvot vd t'/)v "ba-TEpoviiEOa, jU,/) 
i}lEvpovTES oiJTE Tttj dpxds Twv TLpoyovuiv [las, 
nddsv noTE Kalnws EvpiQyaav ft? Tns liaTpiSas 
fias, oiJTE TdiiOi], T/i KaTopOdifiaTa Kai ti/V dto- 
iK'Tjclv Ttov; "Av ipwTijo-w/AEV TOVS 'AAAoyEVEts, 
i}lE'6povv vd fids Stujovv o;^tju,6vov lo-ropiKws 
rfjv dpx'f/V Kai Tyv npoodov tcDv rrpoyovtuv fias, 
dXXa Kai ronoypacpLKus /*«■? fftCxvovv tos ■5io-£is 



Twv JQaTptdcov ixag, Kai oIoveI ^ftpaycoyol yivd- 
^£VOt /ii TOVS y£wypa(/)t(covs twv IlivaKas, fias 
Xiyovv, idij} sivai al ^Adrivai, ioc-j i) UndpT-rj, iKsZ 
at OySac, Tocra crTddta ij nLXLa dnix^'' V i'-'-o- 'ETrap- 
XicL dno TijV aXXyv. Tovtoj MKodd/MrjaE Tyv fiCav 
noXiv, iKtXvos Tyv aXXrjv Kai rg. IIpoo-ETt av 
ipw7ijo-co/i£V a^TOVs Tois l^'h '^^Xyvas X^'PO^Y"*" 
yoiis /Aas, nodzv inapaKLvydyaav vd i^^EpEVvrj- 
crovv dp,Yas toVov TraAatas, dvvTrocTo'Acos fids 
dnoKpCvovTai fj,£ avTovS tovs Xoyovs- " Ka6'ws 
" 6 iK T.KvOCas 'Avdxap(ns, av tJiv i7r£p£jp%£To 
" tA navEVfppocrvva IkeZvu KXifxaTa T^j'EAAa- 
" dos, av 6ev ificpopElTo Ta dliwfiaTa, Ta ^Qy Kai 
" Tovj No'/iovg Tcuv 'EAA^vujv, r\6£XE fiEivj) Zkv- 
" B-qs Kat TO o^ofia Kul to npayiiw ovtu) Kai 6 
" -fjfiETEpos 'laTpcs, av Stv ifidvOavE Ta tov 'In- 
'' TTo/cpdTOVS, div idvvaTO vd npoxo)pya-'rj sis ti/V 
" TEXvyv tov. "Av 6 iv '///vJv NofjboOETTjs ^^v 
" i^ETa^E Ta TOV So'Acovos, Av/co-fipyov, Kai Uit- 
" TUKov, dkv idvvaTo vd pvOfi'qari] Kai vd KaXcsp- 
" YV^V ■'"" ^^V ■'■'"^ '0/Aoy£vc<jv tov av b 'PryTwp 
" dfv dnrjvOC^ETo Tas £V(ppa6£Cas Kai Toijs X"?'' 
"Evrtcr/iovs tov AyiMOcrOivovs, 6iv ivEpyovaEV 
" £is Taj xl^vxds TMV dKpoaTu)v tov. '''Av b Ne'os 
" 'Avd%apo-ts, b Kvpioj ^ A66as Bap9oXo[iaXos dkv 
" dv£ytvwo-K£ fit fiEydXrjV inLjiovyv Kai aKixpiv 
" TOVS TrAiov iyKptTovs o-vyypa^£i:s twv'EAA-ij- 
" vcuv, i%EpEvvGiv aiTovs kuto (idOos inl Tpia- 
" KOVTa dvu) ET7], dfivrj^EAEV ilv(t>dvri tovttjv tijV 
" TTEp^ 'EAAtjvwv 'laTopCav tov, ^tls IlEptijyijcrts 
" tov Ne'ov 'Ava;^dpo-£ws wap' aiiTov Ttpoctovo- 
" iidcrOrj. Kai eIs oXas ras Eijpwna'iKds AcaXiKTOVS 
" ii.£T£yXoiTTi(T6riy Kai iv ivl Xoyu), ol Newte- 
pot, av 6iv knEpvav 6ia bSyyovs tovs Hpoyo'vovs 
fias, ^Ss^av I'cTOiS nEOKpipwvTat /iaTaiws M^'/YP' 
TOV vvv, Ai)Td 6iv Efvat, Aoyia iv9ov<na(Tfiivov 
did TO <piXoy£vis TpaiKov, sivat, 61: (PcXaXrjdovs 
TEpfiavov, ocTTis ifJt'ETd(j)pacrE tov Ne'ov 'Ava^ap- 
o-tv dTTd TOV FaAAiKov eIs to FEpfiaviKov. 

'■'Av AotTTov Kai fffiEis -S-iXuifiEV va fizOi^MfiEV 
TrjS yvwcEws tJjv Xafinpwv KaTopdwfidTutv bnoi 
EKafiav ol -S-avtMacrTol iKslvoi UpondTOpES iffioiV, 
av iniQvfi&fiEV vtifidOwfiEVTyv npooSov Kai ai'ilrj- 
aiv T(uv eIs TasTix''^'^^ ^al 'Ema-TiijiMas Kai eIs 
KdOE aXXo Ei6os fMadrjo-EOiS, av e'^co/aev TTEptipyEiav 
vd yvuypiawfiEV nodEv KdTay6fi£9a, Kai bnoCovs 
■S-avfJiacTTOvs Kai fiEydXovs av6pas, eI Kai npoyo- 
vovs '^fioiv, 0EV, ^fiEls 6EV yvMpC^ofiEV , eIs Kaipcv 
bnov ol 'AXXoysvEls -S-avfid^ovcnv aijTovs, Kai (hs 
naTipas navToiacrovv fiaQrjcrEUiS (riSovTai, as (tvv- 
6pdfi(xifLEV anavTES npodifx^s ^Is ^i/V EKdoatv tov 
■S-avfjiaa-iov toUtov crvyypdfifiaTOS tov 'i'iiov 
'Avn^dpcEcos- 

'H/i£ts oiTv ol vnoyEypafLfiivoi S-iXofisv iKTsXi- 
(TEi npoBvfioiS T'ljV fiETd(})pacnv tov BiSXCov fil t>/V 
KaTa TO 6vvaTdv ijfiZv KaXfjV ^pd(ri,v t^s vvv 
KaO'' ijfids bfiiXCas, Knl i/cdovTss tovto fls Tvnov, 
■S-iXofXEV TO KaX.XujnCa-Ei fit 7oi)S FEwypa^t/covs n^ 
vaKas fii dnXds 'Pwfia'iKas Ai^Eis iy/C£;^apay/i£'- 
vovs eIs i6LKdfias ypdfifiaTa, npoa-TtOivTES qtl 
d'AAo X9'Q^''P'0v Kai dpfioSiov eIs t?}v 'lo-ropfav. 

"OAov Td (T<6yypafifjia -^iXEi. yivEL eIs Tdfxovs d(t>' 
6EKa KaTa fil firja-iv t^s 'IraAi/cf/s ixdrfo-Ews. 'H 
Tifjufi 6'Aov TOV Evyypd/i^aTos ct^vat c^iopivia de- 



250 



MANB^RED. 



[Scene I. 



Kai^E TfisBUvviS dia ryv ngoa-di^KTjv tuiv ycwypa- 
<j>iKu>v nivdKuiv. '0 (piKoyeviiS ovv LvvdpofirjTfi£ 
itginei va nXrjgdJcrr] els i^o-Se Tofiov (piogLvi k'va /cat 
Kagavravia eikoctl ttjs Biivvrjs, nai tovto ^w- 
plS Kajjifiiav Trpddocnv, dAA' sv6vs bnov -^eKu t^ 
nagadodfi b Tdyi.oSTVTXujp.EV0S Kal CejizvoS' 

' Ep^cufiEvoi. K.ai E'bdaLy.ovts diaBidbotTE 'EXX'^vcov 

ILaZdES' 
TijS iffiETipas dydirrjs ilTjgrrjfiivoi. 

^lujdvvES MagiJ.agoTO'Ogrjs- 
A')]jir)Tg{.os \iEVug7)S. 
"LnvgLSiuv HgESiros. 
'Ev TgiE<TTL(ii, Tfi ngwTj] ^OKTUifigiov, 1799. 



THE LORD'S PRAYER IN ROMAIC. 

Q. IIATE'PAMAS 6 nov tlcrai. eIs rohs ohga- 

voiij, OS dyiao-fl^ to ovofid crov. "As eKB^ ij /Ja- 



o-iXtta (Tov. *s yivj} rb S-iX-qfid <rov, KaOlbS tls 
Tov ovgavov, et^t) /cat tig rfjv yrfv. To rpujfii- 
jias TO KaOrjiiegivdv, ddj /zaj to arjfiEgov. Kai 
a-vyx^gw^ /Aas ra xP^VI^f^S, KadCbs /cat 17/ierg 
avyxfJ^povfiEV fovs KgBo(pELXiTas fias- Kai iirjv 
fias (pigELS nEigaa-fjuov, &XXa iXEvdiguivi /aoj dno 
TOV novrjgdv. 'On idiKij (tov Eivai ■/) fiaatXEla 
6k, ij dvvafiiSi Kai ■f) 66^a, eIs Tois aluivaS' 'Afii/jv. 

IN GREEK. 
IIA'TEP 17/4WV 6 iv toIs oi/pavotj, 4yia(r07jTaj 
TO QVOfid crov. 'EXOiru) -fj (iacrtXEla crov yzv^dTJ 
TO) TO S^^Xritid (TOV, cbs iv ovgavif) , Kai M ttjs y^f. 
Tov agTov i^/awv tov iKiovatov 605 r]fiiv ai^fiE 
gov. Kai a(j>ES 7]filv to, b(j)iiX7] iiut g rjiiCbv, tbs /ca 
r)fji,Els d(plEfi£V toZs bcpEiXETais ■jj/awv. Kat /ai) eIo-e 
viyKi)S Tfjids eIs TTEtgaafidv, dXXa gvaaL r)fids dn-o 
Toti novTjgov. "'Ort crov icnlv ^ (iaaiXEia, Kalff 
ovvafiLS, Kai 7] 661a etj tovj aldJvas. 'Ajiriv. 



MANFRED: 
A DRAMATIC POEM.' 



• There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, 
Than are dreamt of iu your philosophy." 



DRAMATIS PERSON.E. 



Manfred. 

Chamois Hunter. 

Abbot of St. Maurice. 

Manuel. 

Herman. 

Witch of the Alps. 

Arimanes. 

Nemesis. 

The Destinies. 

Spirits, &c. 



Tfie Scene of the Drama is amongst the Higher Alps 
— partly in the Castle of Manfred, and partly in 
the Mountains. 



MANFRED. 
ACT I. 

SCENE I. 

Manfred alone. — Scene, a Gothic Gallery. — Time, 
Midnight. 
Man. The lamp must be replenish'd, but even then 
It will not burn so lon^ as I must watch : 
My slumbers — if I slumber — are not sleep, 
But a continuance of enduring thought. 
Which then I can resist not : in my heart 
There is a vigil, and these eyes but close 



1 Written at Venice, in 1817. 



To look within ; and yet I live, and bear 

The aspect and the form of breathing men. 

But grief should be the instructor of the wise ; 

Sorrow is knowledge : they who know the most 

Must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth, 

The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life. 

Philosophy and science, and the springs 

Of wonder, and the wisdom of the world, 

I have essay'd, and in my mind there is 

A power to make these subject to itself — 

But they avail not : I have done men good, 

And I have met with good even among men — 

But this avail'd not : I have hnd my foes, 

And none have baffled, many fallen before me — 

But this avail'd not : — Good, or evil, life. 

Powers, passions, all I see in other beings, 

Have been to me as rain unto the sands, 

Since that all-nameless hour. I have no dread, 

And feel the curse to have no natural fear, 

Nor fluttermg throb, that beats with hopes or wishes, 

Or lurking love of something on the earth. — 

Now to my task. — 

Mysterious Agency ! 
Ye spirits of the unbounded Universe ! 
Whom I have sought in darkness and in light — 
Ye, who do compass earth about, and dwell 
In subtler essence — ye, to whom the toj;s 
Of mountains inaccessible are haunts, « 

And earth's and ocean's caves familiar things— 
I call upon ye by the written charm 

Which gives me power upon you Rise ! appear ! 

[A pause. 
They come not yet. — Now by the voice of him 
Who is the first among you — by this sign. 
Which makes you tremble — by the claims of him 

Who is undying, — Rise ! Appear ! Appear ! 

lA pause. 
If it be so — Spirits of earth and air, 
Ye shall not thus elude me : by a power. 
Deeper than all yet urged, a tyrant-spell, 
Which had its birthplace in a star condemn'd, 
The burning wreck of a demolish'd world, 
A wandering hell in the eternal space ; 



Scene I.J 



MANFRED. 



251 



By the strong curse which is upon my soul, 
The thought which is within me and around me, 
I do compel ye to my will. — Appear ! 

[j3 star is seen at the darker end of the gal- 
lery : it is stationary ; and a voice is 
heard singing. 

First Spirit, 
Mortal ! to thy bidding bow'd, 
From my mansion in the cloud, 
Which the breath of twilight builds, 
And the summer's sunset gilds 
With the azure and vermilion, 
Which is mix'd for my pavilion ; 
Though thy quest may be forbidden, 
On a star-beam I have ridden j 
To thine adjuration bow'd, 
Mortal — be thy wish avovv'd I 

T-'oice of the Second Spirit. 
Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains} 

They crown'd him long ago 
On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, 

With a diadem of snow. 
Around his waist are forests braced. 

The Avalanche in his hand ; 
But ere it fall, that thundering ball 

Must paifse for my command. 
The Glacier's cold and resiless mass 

Moves onward day by day j 
But I am he who bids it pass. 

Or with its ice delay. 
I am the spirit of the place. 

Could make the mountain bow 
And quiver to his cavern'd base — 

And what with me would'st Thou ? 

Voice of the Third Spirit. 
In the blue depth of the waters, 

Where the wave hath no strife, 
Where the wind is a stranger. 

And the sea-snake hath life, 
Where the Mermaid is decking 

Her green hair with shells ; 
Like the storm on the surface 

Came the sound of thy spells; 
O'er my calm Hall of Coral 

The deep echo roll'd — 
To the Spirit of Ocean 

Thy wishes unfold ! 

Fourth Spirit. 

Where the slumbering earthquake 

Lies pillow'd on fire, 
And the lakes of bitumen 

Rise boilingly higher; 
Where the roots of the Andes 

Strike deep in the earth. 
As their summits to heaven 

Shoot soariiigly forth ; 
I have quitted my birthplace, 

Thy bidding to bide — 
Thy spell hath subdued me, 

Thy will be my guide ! 

Fifth Spirit. 
I am the Rider of the wind, 

The Stirrer of the storm ; 
The hurricane I left behind 

Is yet with lightning warm ; 
To speed to thee, o'er shore and sea 

I swept upon the blast : 
The fleet I met sail'd well, and yet 

'T will sink ere night be past. 

Sixth Spirit. 
My dwelling is the shadow of the night, 
Why doth thy magic torture me with light? 



Seventh Spirit. 
The star which rules thy destiny 
Was ruled, ere earth began, by me: 
It was a world as fresh and fair 
As e'er revolved round sun in air; 
Its course was free and regular. 
Space bosom'd not a lovelier star. 
The hour arrived — and it became 
A wandering mass of shapeless flame, 
A pathless comet, and a curse, 
The menace of the universe; 
Still rolling on with innate force. 
Without a sphere, without a course, 
A bright deformity on high, 
The monster of the upper sky ! 
And thou ! beneath its influence born — 
Thou worm ! whom I obey and scorn — 
Forced by a power (which is not thine. 
And lent thee but to make thee mine) 
For this brief moment to descend, 
Where these weak spirits round thee bend 
And parley with a thing like thee — 
What would'st thou. Child of Clay ! with me ? 

The Seven Spirits. 
Earth, ocean, air, night, mountains, winds, thy star. 

Are at thy beck and bidding, Child of Clay I 
Before thee at thy quest their spirits are — 

What would'st thou with us, son of mortals — say ? 

Man. Forgetfulness 

First Spirit. Of what — of whom — and why ? 

Man. Of that which is within me; read it there — 
Ye know it, and I cannot utter it. 

Spirit. We can but give thee that which we possess : 
Ask of us subjects, sovereignty, the power 
O'er earth, the whole, or portion, or a sign 
Which shall control the elements, whereof 
We are the dominators, each and all. 
These shall be thine. 

Man. Oblivion, self-oblivion — 

Can ye not wring from out the hidden realms 
Ye offer so profusely what I ask ? 

Spirit. It is not in our essence, in our skill ; 
But — thou may'st die. 

Man. Will death bestow it on me ? 

Spirit. We are immortal, and do not forget; 
We are eternal ; and to us the past 
Is, as the future, present. Art thou answer'd ? 

Mem. Ye mock me — but the power which brought 
ye here 
Hath made you mine. Slaves, scoff not at my will ! 
The mind, the spirit, the Promethean spark. 
The lightning of my being, is as bright. 
Pervading, and far darting as your own, 
And shall not yield to yours, though coop'd in clay ! 
Answer, or I will teach you what I am. 

Spirit. We answer as we answer'd ; our reply 
Is even in thine own words. 

Man. Why say ye so ? 

Spirit. If, as thou say'st, thine essence be as ours, 
We have replied in telling thee, the thing 
Mortals call death hath nought to do with us. 

Man. I then have call'd ye from your realms in 
vain ; 
Ye cannot, or ye will not, aid me. 

Spirit. Say ; 

What we possess we offer ; it is thine : 
Bethink ere thou dismiss us, ask again — 
Kingdom, and sway, and strength, and length of 
days 

Man. Accursed ! what have I to do with days ? 
They are too long already. — Hence — begone ! 

Spirit. Yet pause : being here, our will would do 
thee service ; 
Bethink thee, is there then no other gift 
Which we can make not worthless in thine eyes ? 

Man. No, none : yet stay — one moment, ere we 
part — 
I would behold ye face to face. I hear 
Your voices, sweet and melancholy sounds, 



252 



MANFRED. 



[Scene II. 



As music on the waters ; and I see 
The steady aspect of a clear large star ; 
But nothing more. Approach me as ye are, 
Or one, or ail, in your accustonrd fornjs. 

Spirit. We have no forms, beyond the elements 
Of which we are the mind and principle : 
But choose a form — in that we will appear. 

Man. I have no choice ; there is no form on earth 
Hideous or beautiful to me. Let him, 
Who is most powerful of ye, take >uch aspect 
As unto him may seem most fitting — Come ! 
Seventh Sph-'it. {Apptarivg in the shape of a 

beautiful fcm.ile figure.) Behold ! 
Man. Oh God ! if it be thus, and thou 
Art not a madness and a mockery, 
I yet might be most happy. 1 will cla«p thee, 

And we again will be [T/ie figure vanishes. 

My heart is crush'd ! 
IManfred falls seiiseless. 
(*a Voice is heard in the Incantation which follows.) ^ 
When the moon is on the wave, 

And the glow-worm in the grass, 
And the meteor on the grave, 

And the wisp on the morass ; 
When the falling stars are shooting, 
And the answered owls are hooting, 
And the silent leaves are s'.ill 
In the shadow of the hill. 
Shall my soul be upon thine. 
With a power and with a sign. 

Though thy slumber may be deep. 

Yet thy spirit shall not sleep ; 

There are shades which will not vanish, 

There are thoughts thou canst not banish j 

By a power to thee unknown, 

Thou canst never be alone ; 

Thou art wrapt as v^ith a shroud. 

Thou art gather'd in a cloud ; 

And for ever shalt thou dwell 

In the spirit of this spell. 

Though thou seest me not pass by, 
Thou shalt feel me with thine eye 
As a thing that, though unseen, 
Must be near thee, arTd hath been ; 
And when in that secret dread 
Thou hast turn'd around thy head. 
Thou shalt marvel I am not 
As thy shadow on the spot, 
And the power which thou dost feel 
Shall be what thou must conceal. 

And a magic voice and verse 

Hath baptized thee with a curse; 

And a spirit of the air 

Hath begirt thee with a snare ; 

In the wind there is a voice 

Shall forbid thee to rejoice ; 

And to thee shall night deny 

All the quiet of her "sky ; 

And the day shall have a sun, 

Which shall make thee wish it done. 

From thy false tears I did distil 
An essence which hath strength to kill ; 
From thy own heart I then did wring 
The black blood in its blackest spring ; 
From thy own smile I snatch'd the snake, 
For there it coil'd as in a brake ; 
From thy own lip I drew the charm 
Which gave all these their chiefest harmj 
In proving every poison known, 
I found the strongest was thine own. 



1 These verses were written in Switzerland, in 1816, 
and transmitted to England for publication, with the third 
canto of Childe Harold. "As they were written," says 
Mr. Moore, "immediately after the last fruitless attempt 
at reconciliation, it is needless to say who was in the 
poet's thoughts while he penned some of the opening 
sitanzas." — E. 



By the cold breast and serpent smile, 

By thy unfathom'd gulfs of guile. 

By that most seeming virtuous eye. 

By thy shut soul's hypocrisy ; 

By the perfection of thine art 

Which pass'd for human thine own heart j 

By thy delight in others' pain, 

And by thy brotherhood of Cain, 

I call upon thee ! and compel 

Thyself to be thy proper Hell ! 

And on thy head I pour the vial 

Which doth devote thee to this trial; 

Nor to slumber, nor to die, 

Shall be in thy destiny ; 

Though thy death shalt still seem near 

To thy wish, but as a fear ; 

Lo ! the spell now works around thee, 

And the clankless chain hath bound thee; 

O'er thy heart and brain together 

Hath the word been pass'd — now wither ! 



SCENE II. 

The Mountain of the Junpfrau. — Time, Morning.— 
Manfred alone upon the Cliffs. 

Man. The spirits I have raised abandon me — 
The spells which I have studied baffle me — 
The remedy I reck'd of tortured me; 
I lean no more on superhuman aid, 
It hath no power upon the past, and for 
The future, till the past be gulf'd in darkness, 
It is not of my search. — My mother Earth ! 
And thou fresh breaking Day, and you, ye Mountains, 
Why are ye beautiful ? I cannot h-ve ye. 
And thou," the bright eye of the universe. 
That openest over all, and unto all 
Art a delight — thou shin'st not on my heart. 
And you, ye crass, upon whose extreme edge 
I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath 
Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs 
In dizziness of distance ; when a leap, 
A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring 
My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed 
To rest for ever — wherefore do I pause ? 
I feel the impulse — yet 1 do not plunge; 
I see the peril — yet do not recede ; 
And my brain reels — and yet my foot is firm : 
There is a power upon me which withholds. 
And makes it my fatality to live ; 
If it be life to wear within myself 
This barrenness of spirit, and to be 
My own soul's sepulchre, for I have ceased 
To justify my deeds unto myself — 
The last infirmity of evil. Ay, 
Thou winged and cloud-cleaving minister, 

[An eagle passes. 
Whose happy flight is highest into heaven, 
Well may'st thou swoop "so near me — I should be 
Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets ; thou art gone 
Where the eye cannot follow thee; but thine 
Yet pierces downward, onward, or above, 
With a pervading vision. — Beautiful ! 
How beautiful is all this visible world ! 
How glorious in its action and itself! 
But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we, 
Half dust, half deity, alike unfit 
To sink or soar, with our mix'd essence make 
A conflict of its elements, and breathe 
The breath of degradation and of pride, 
Contending with low wants and lofty will. 
Till our mortality predominates. 
And men are — what they name not to themselves, 
And trust not to each other. Hark 1 the note, 

[The Shepherd'' s pipe in the distance is heard. 
The natural music of the mountain reed — 
For here the patriarchal days are not 
A pastoral faille — pipes in the liberal air, 
Mi.x'd with the sweet bells of the sauntering herd ; 
My soul would drink those echoes.— Oh, that I were 



Scene II.] 



MANFRED. 



253 



The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, 
A living voice, a breathing harmony, 
A bodiless enjoyment — born and dying 
With the blest tone which made me ! 

Enter from below a Chamois Hunter. 

Chamois Hunter. Even so 

This way the chamois leapt : her nimble feet 
Have baffled me ; my gains to-day will scarce 
Repay my breakneck travail, — What is here? 
Who seems not of my trade, and yet hath reach'd 
A height which none even of our mountaineers, 
Save our best hunters, may attain : his garb 
Is goodly, his mien manly, and his air 
Proud as a free-born peasant's, at this distance — 
I will approach him nearer. 

Man. (not perceiving the other.) To be thus — 
Grey-hair'd with anguish, like these blasted pines, 
Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchless, 
A blighted trunk upon a cursed root. 
Which but supplies a feeling to decay — 
And to be thus, eternally but thus, 
Having been otherwise ! Now furrow'd o'er 
With wrinkles, plough'd by moments, not by years 
And hours — all tortured into ages — hours 
Which I outlive ! — Ye toppling crags of ice ! 
Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down 
In mountainous o'erwhelming, come and crush me ! 
I hear ye momently above, beneath, 
Crash with a frequent conflict ; but ye pass. 
And only fall on things that still would live ; 
On the young flourishing forest, or the hut 
And hamlet of the harmless villager, 

C. Hun. The mists begin to rise from up the valley; 
I '11 warn him to descend, or he may chance 
To lose at once his way and life together. 

Man. The mists boil up around the glaciers ; clouds 
Rise curling fast beneath me, white and sulphury, 
Like foam from the roused ocean of deep Hell, 
Whose every wave breaks on a living shore, 
Heap'd with the damn'd like pebbles. — I am giddy. 

C. Hun. I must approach him cautiously j if near, 
A sudden step will startle him, and he 
Seems tottering already. 

Man. Mountains have fallen, 

Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shock 
Rocking their Alpine brethren ; filling up 
The ripe green valleys with destruction's splinters; 
Damming the rivers with a sudden dash, 
Which crush'd the waters into mist, and made 
Their fountains find another channel — thus, 
Thus, in its old age, did Mount Rosenberg — 
Why stood I not beneath it ? 

C. Hun. Friend ! have a care, 

Your next step may be fatal ! — for the love 
Of him who made you, stand not on that brink ! 
Man. {not hearing him.) Such would have been 
for me a fitting tomb; 
My bones had then been quiet in their depth ; 
They had not then been strewn upon the rocks 
For the wind's pastime — as thus — thus they shall 

be — 
In this one plunge. — Farewell, ye opening heavens ! 
Look not upon me thus reproachfully — 
You were not meant for me — Earth ! take these 
atoms ! 

[.As Manfred is in act to spring from the 
cliff, the Chamois Hunter seizes and 
retains him with a sudden grasp. 
C. Hun. Hold, madman ! — though aweary of thy 
life. 
Stain not our pure vales with thy guilty blood — 

Away with me I will not quit my hold. 

Man. I am most sick at heart — nay, grasp me 
not-- 
I am all feebleness — the mountains whirl 

Spinning around me 1 grow blind— —What art 

thou ? 
C. Hun. I '11 answer that anon. — Away with 
me 

22 



The clouds grow thicker there — now lean on 

me — 
Place your foot here — here, take this staff, and cling 
A moment to that shrub — now give me your hand, 
And hold fast by my girdle — softly — well — 
The Ch;Uet will be gain'd within an hour — 
Come on, we 'II quickly find a surer fooling. 
And something like a pathway, which the torrent 
Hath wash'd since winter. — Come, 't is bravely done — 
You should have been a hunter.— Follow me. 

[^y they descend the rocks with dif- 
ficuliy, the scene closes. 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. 

A Cottage amongst the Bernese Alps. 

Manfred and the Chamois Hunter. 

C. Hun. No, no — yet pause — thou must not yet 
go forth : 
Thy mind and body are alike unfit 
To trust each other, for some hours, at least ; 
When thou art better, I will be thy guide — 
But whither.? 

Man. It imports not: I do know 

My route full well, and need no further guidance. 

C. Hun. Thy garb and gait bespeak thee of high 
lineage — 
One of the many chiefs, whose castled crags 
Look o'er the lower valleys— which of these 
May call thee lord ? I only know their portals ; 
My way of life leads me but rarely down 
'J"o bask by the huge hearths of those old halls, 
Carousing with the vassals; but the paths, 
Which step from out our mountains to their doors, 
I know from childhood — which of these is thine ? 

Man. No matter. 

C. Hun. Well, sir, pardon me the question. 

And be of better cheer. Come, taste my wine; 
'T is of an ancient vintage ; many a day 
'T has thaw'd my veins among our glaciers, now 
Let it do thus for thine — Come, pledge me fairly. 

Man. Away, away I there's blood upon the brim! 
Will it then never — never sink in the earth? 

C. Hun. What dost thou mean ? thy senses wander 
from thee. 

Man. I say 't is blood — my blood ! the pure warm 
stream 
Which ran in the veins of my fathers, and in ours 
When we were in our youth, and had one heart, 
And loved each other as we should not love, 
And this was shed : but still it rises up. 
Colouring the clouds, that shut me out from heaven. 
Where thou art not — and I shall never be. 

C. Hun. Man of strange words, and some half- 
maddening sin. 
Which makes thee people vacancy, whate'er 
Thy dread and sufferance be, there 's comfort yet — 
The aid of holy men, and heavenly patience 

Man. Patience and patience ! Hence — that word 
was made 
For brutes of burthen, not for birds of prey ; 
Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine,— 
I am not of thine order. 

C. Hun. Thanks to heaven ! 

I would not be of thine for the free fame 
Of William Tell ; but whatsoe'er thine ill. 
It must be borne, and these wild starts are useless. 

Man. Do I not bear it ? — Look on me — I live. 

C. Hun. This is convulsion, and no healthful life. 

Man. I tell thee, man ! I have lived many years, 
Many long years, but they are nothing now 
To those which I must number: ages — ages — 
Space and eternity — and consciousness, 
With the fierce thirst of death — and still unslaked! 

C. Hun. Why, on thy brow the seal of middle age 
Hath scarce been set ; I am thine elder far. 



^54 



MANFRED. 



[Act II. 



Man. Think'st thou existence doth depend on time? 
It dotli ; but actions are our epochs : mine 
Have made my days and nights imperishable, 
Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore, 
Innumerable atoms ; and one desert, 
Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break, 
But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks, 
Rock^, and the salt surf weeds of bitterness. 

C. Huji. Alas ! he 's mad — but yet I must not leave 
him. 

Man. I would I were — for then the things I see 
Would be but a distemper'd dream. 

C. Hun. What is it 

That thou dost see, or think thou look'st upon ? 

Man. Myself, and thee — a peasant of the Alps — 
Thy humble virtues, hospitable home. 
And spirit patient, pious, proud, and free; 
Thy self respect, grafted on innocent thoughts ; 
Thy days of health, and nights of sleep ; thy toils, 
By danger dignified, yet guiltless ; hopes 
Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave, 
With cross and garland over its green turf, 
And thy grandchildren's love for epitaph ; 
This do 1 see — and then I look within — 
It matters not — my soul was scorch'd already ! 

C. Hun. And vvould'st thou then exchange thy lot 
for mine ? 

Man. No, friend! I would not wrong thee, nor 
exchange 
My lot with living being : I can bear — 
However wretchedly, 't is still to bear — 
In life what others could not brook to dream. 
But perish in their slumber. 

C.Hun. And wi!h this — 

This cautious feeling for another's pain, 
Canst thou be black with evil ? — say not so. 
Can one of gentle thoughts have wreak'd revenge 
Upon his enemies? 

Man, Oh ! no, no, no '. 

My injuries came down on those who loved me — 
On those whom I best loved : I never queli'd 
An enemy, save in my just defence — 
But my embrace was faial. 

C. Hun. Heaven give thee rest ! 

And penitence restore thee to thyself j 
My prayers shall be for thee. 

Man. I need them not, 

But can endure thy pity. I depart — 
'T is time — farewell ! — Here 's gold, and thanks for 

thee — 
No words — it is thy due.— Follow me not — 
I know my path — the mountain peril 's past : 
And once again I charge thee, follow not ! 

[Exit Manfred. 

SCENE II. 
A lower Valley in the Alps. — A Cataract. 
Enter Manfred. 
It is not noon — the sunbow's rays i still arch 
The torrent with the many hues of heaven. 
And roll the sheeted silver's waving column 
O'er the crag's headlong perpendicular, 
And fling its lines of foaming light along, 
And to and fro, like the pale courser's tail, 
The Giant steed, to be bestrode by Death, 
As told in the Apocalypse. No eyes 
But mine now drink this sight of loveliness; 
I should be sole in this sweet solitude, 
And with the Spirit of the place divide 
The homaee of these waters. — I will call her. 

[Manfred tnkes some of the water into the palm 
of his hand, and flings it into the air, mt/tter- 
ing the ndjuration. After a pause, the Witch 
of the Alps rises beneath the arch of the sun- 
bow of the torrent. 



1 This iris is formed by the rays of the sun over the 
lower part of the Alpine torrents: it is exactly like a 
rainbow come down to pay a visit, and so close th;it you 
may walk into it: this effect lasts till noon. 



Beautiful Spirit ! with thy hair of light. 

And dazzling eyes of glory, in whose form 

The charms of earth's least mortal daughters grow 

To an unearthly staiure, in an essence 

Of purer elements; while the hues of youth, — 

Carnation'd like a sleeping infants cheek, 

Rock'd by the beating of her mother s heart, 

Or the rose tints, which summer's twilight leaves 

Upon the lofty glacier's virgin snow, 

The blush of earth, embracing vviili her heaven, — 

Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make tame 

The beauties of the sunbow which bends o'er thee. 

Beau iful Spirit ! in thy calm clear biow, 

Wherein is glass'd serenity of soul. 

Which of itself shows immortality, 

I read that thou wilt pardon to a Son 

Of Earth, whom the abstruser powers permit 

At times to commune with them — if that he 

Avail him of his spells — to call thee thus, 

And gaze on thee a moment. 

Witch. Son of Earth ! 

I know thee, and the powers which gave thee power; 
I know thee for a man of many thoughts, 
And deeds of good and ill, extreme in both, 
Fatal and fated in thy sutlerings. 
I have expected this — what wouldst thou with me ? 
Man. To look upon thy beauty — nothing further. 
The face of the earth hath madden'd me, and I 
Take refuge in her mysteries, and pierce 
To the abodes of those who govern her — 
But they can nothing aid me. I have sought 
From them what they could not bestow, and now 
I search no further. 

Witch. What could be the quest 

Which is not in the power of the most powerful. 
The rulers of the invisible ? 

Man. A boon ; 

But why should I repeat it ? 't were in vain. 
Witch. I know not that; let thy lips utter it. 
Man. Well, though it torture me, 't is but the same ; 
My pang shall hnd a voice. From my youth upwards 
My spirit walk'd not with the souls of men. 
Nor look'd upon the earth with human eyes; 
The thirst of their ambition was not mine. 
The aim of their existence was not mine; 
My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers. 
Made me a stranger ; though I wore the form, 
I had no sympathy with breathing flesh. 
Nor 'midst the creatures of clay that girded me 

Was there but one who but of her anon. 

I said with men, and with the thoughts of men, 
I held but slight communion ; but instead, 
My joy was in the wilderness, to breathe 
The difficult air of the iced mountain's top. 
Where the birds dare not build, nor insect's wing 
Flit o'er the herbless granite ; or to plunge 
Into the torrent, and to roll along 
On the swift whirl of the new-breaking wave 
Of liver-stream, or ocean, in their flow. 
In these my early strength exulied ; or 
To follow through the night the moving moon, 
The stars and their development ; or catch 
The dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew dim ; 
Or to look, list'ning, on the scatter"d leaves, 
While Autumn winds were at their evening song. 
These were my pastimes, and to be alone; 
For if the beings, of whom I was one,— 
Hating to be so^ — cross'd me in my path, 
I felt myself degraded bick to them. 
And was all clay again. And then I dived, 
In my lone wanderings, to the caves of death, 
Searching its ciuse in its effect ; and drew 
From wither'd bones, and skulls, and heap'd-up dust, 
Conclusions most forbidden. Then I pass'd 
The nights of years in sciences untaught, 
Save in the old time; and with time and toil, 
And terrible ordeal, and such penance 
As in itself hath power upon the air, 
And spirits that do compass air and earth, 
\ Space, and the peopled infinite, I made 
j Mine eyes familiar with Eternity, 



Scene II.] 



MANFRED. 



255 



Such as, before me, did the magi, and 

He who from out their fountain-dwellings raised 

Eros and Anteros,i at Gadara, 

As I do thee ; — and with my knowledge grew 

The thirst of knowledge, and ihe power and joy 

Of this most bright intelligence, until 

Witch. Proceed. 

Man. Oh ! I but thus prolong'd my words, 
Boasting these idle attributes, because 
As 1 approach the core of my heart's grief — 
But to my task. I have not named to thee 
Father or mother, mistiess, fiiend, or being, 
With whom I wore the chain of human tiesj 
If I had such, they seem'd not such to me — 
Yet there was one 

Witch. Spare not thyself— proceed. 

Man. She was like me in lineaments — her eyes, 
Her hair, her features, all, to Ihe very tone 
Even of her voice, they said were like to minej 
But soflen'd all, and temper'd into beauty : 
She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings, 
The quet.t of hidden knowledge, and a mind 
To comprehend the universe : nor these 
Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine. 
Pity, and smiles, and tears— which I had not ; 
And tenderness — but that I had for her ; 
Humility — and that I never had. 
Her faults were mine — her virtues were her own — 
I loved her, and destroy'd her ! 

Witch. With thy hand ? 

Man. Not with my hand, but heart — which broke 
her heart — 
It gazed on mine, and wither'd. I have shed 
Blood, but not hers — and yet her blood was shed — 
I saw —and could not stanch it. 

Witch. And for this — 

A being of the race thou dost despise, 
The order which thine own would rise above, 
Mingling with us and ours, thou dost forego 
The gilts of our gre »t knowledge, and shrink'st back 
To recreant mortality Away ! 

Man. Daughter of Air ! I tell thee, since that 
hour — 
But words are breath — look on me in my sleep, 
Or watch my watchings — Come and sit by me ! 
My solitude is solitude no more, 
But peopled with the Furies ; — I have gnash'd 
My teeth in darkness, till returning morn. 
Then cursed myself till sunset ; — I have pray'd 
For madness as a blessing— 't is denied me. 
I have affronted death— but in the war 
Of elements the waters shrunk from me. 
And fatal things pass'd harmless — the cold hand 
Of an all pitiless demon held me back, 
Back by a single hair, which would not break. 
In fantasy, imagination, all 
The affluence of my soul — which one day was 
A Crcchus in creation — I plunged deep. 
But, like an ebbing wave, it dash'd me back 
Into the gulf of my unfathom'd thought. 
I plunged amidst mankind — Forgetfulness 
I sousht in all, save where 't is to be found, 
And that I have to learn — my sciences, 
My long pursued and superhuman art. 
Is mortal here— I dwell in my despair — 
And live — and live for ever. 

Witch. It may be 

That I can aid thee. 

Man. To do this thy power 

Must wake the dead, or lay me low with them. 
Do so — in any shape — in any hour — 
With any torture — so it be the last. 

Witch. That is not in my province ; but if thou 
Wilt swear obedience to my will, and do 
My bidding, it may help thee to thy wishes. 

Man. I will not swear — Obey ! and whom ? the 
spirits 



1 The philosopher Jamblicus. The story of the raising 
of Eros and Anteros may be found in his life by Eunapius. 
It is well told. 



Whose presence I command, and be the slave 
Of those who served me — Never ! 

WUch. Is this all ? 

Hast thou no gentler answer ? — Yet bethink thee, 
And pause ere thou rejectest. 
Man. I have said it. 

Witch. Enough ! I may retire then — say ! 
Man. Retire ! 

[The Witch disappears. 
Man. (alone). We are the fools of time and terror : 
Days 
Steal on us, and steal from us ; yet we live, 
Loathing our life, and dreading still to die. 
In all the days of this detested yoke — 
This vital weight upon the struggling heart, 
Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick with pain. 
Or joy that ends in agony or faininess — 
In all the days of past and future, for 
In life there is no present, we can number 
How few — how less than few — wherein the soul 
Forbears to pant for deaih, and yet draws back 
As from a stream in winter, though the chill 
Be but a moment's. 1 have one resource 
Still in my science — I can call the dead. 
And ask them what it is we dread to be: 
The sternest answer can but be the Grave, 
And that is nothing — if they answer not — 
The buried Prophet anbwer'd to the Hag 
Of Endor ; and the Spartan Monarch drew 
From the Byzantine niaid's unsleeping spirit 
An answer and his destiny — he slew 
That which he loved, unknowing what he slew, 
And died unpardon'd — though he calld in aid 
The Phyxian Jove, and in Phigalia roused 
The Arcadian Evocators to compel 
The indignant shadow to depose her wrath, 
Or fix her term of vengeance — she replied 
In words of dubious imfiort, but fulfiird. 2 
If I had never lived, that which 1 love 
Had still been living ; had I never loved, 
That which I love would still be beautiful — 
Happy and giving happiness. What is she ? 
What is she now ? — a sufferer for my sins — 
A thing I dare not think upon — or nothing. 
Within few hours I shall not call in vain — 
Yet in this hour I dread the thing I dare : 
Until this hour I never shrunk to gaze 
On spirit, good or evil — now I tremble. 
And feel a strange cold thaw upon my heart. 
But I can act even what 1 most abhor, 
And champion human fears.— The night approaches. 

[Exit. 

SCENE III. 

The Summit of the Jungfrau Mountain. 

Enter First Destiny. 

The moon is rising broad, and round, and bright; 

And here on snows, where never human foot 

Of common mortal trod, we nightly tread, 

And leave no traces : o'er the savage sea, 

The glassy ocean of the mountain ice, 

We skim its rugged breakers, which put on 

The asi)ect of a tumbling tempest's foam, 

Frozen in a moment — a'deaJ whirlpool's image: 

And this most steep fantasic pinnacle. 

The fretwork of some earthquake — where the clouds 

Pause to repose themselves in pissing by — 

Is sacred to our revels, or our vigils ; 

Here do I wait my si-iters, on our way 

To the Hall of Arimanes, for to-night 

Is our great festival — 't is strange they come not. 



2 The story of Pausanias, king of Sparta (who com- 
manded the Greeks at Ihe battle of Pl^itea, and afterwards 
perished for an attempt to betray the Lacedemonians,) 
and Clennice, is told in Plutarch's life of Cimon; and in 
the Laconics of Pausanias the sophist, in his description 
of Greece. 



J 



256 



MANFRED. 



[Act II. 



A Voice, without, singing. 

The Captive Usurper, 

Hurl'd down from the throne, 
Lay buried in torpor, 

Forgotten and lone ; 
I broke throush his slumbers, 

I shivered his chain, 
I leagued him with numbers — 

He's Tyrant again ! 
With the blood of a million he'll answer my care, 
With a nation's destruction — his flight and despair. 

Second Voice, without. 
The ship siil'd on, the ship sail'd fast. 
But I left not a sail, and I left not a mast ; 
There is not a plank of the hull or the deck. 
And there is not a wretch to lament o'er his wreck ; 
Save one, whom I held, as he swam, by the hair, 
And he was a subject well worthy my care ; 
A traitor on land, and a pirate at sea — 
But I saved him to wreik further havoc for me ! 

First Destiny, answering. 

The city lies sleeping ; 

The morn, to deplore it, 
May dawn on it weeping : 

Sullenly, slowly. 
The black plague fiew o'er it — 

Thousands lie lowly ; 
Tens of thousands shall perish — 

The living shall fly from 
The sick Ihey should cherish; 

But nothing can vanquish 
The touch that they die from. 

Sorrow and anguish. 
And evil and dread, 

Envelope a nation — 
The blest are the dead. 
Who see not the sight 

Of their own desolation — 
This work of a night — 
This wreck of a realm — this deed of my doing — 
For ages I 've done, and shall still be renewing! 

Enter the Second and Third Destinies. 

The Three. 
Our hands contain the hearts of men, 

Our footsteps are their graves j 
We only give to take again 

The spirits of our slaves! 

First Des. Welcome ! — Where 's Nemesis? 
Second Des. At some great work ; 

But what I know not, for my hands were full. 
Third Dei. Behold she cometh. 

Eyiter Nemesis, 

Firxt Des. Say, where hast thou been ? 

My sisters and thyself are slow to-night. 

Nem. I was detiin'd repairing ifhatter'd thrones, 
Marrying fools, restoring dynasties, 
Avenging men upon their enemies, 
And miking them repent their own revenge ; 
Goading the wise to madness ; from the dull 
Shaping out oracles to rule the world 
Afresh, for they were waxing out of date, 
And mortals dared to ponder for themselves, 
To weigh kings in the balance, and to speak 
Of freedom, the forbidden fruit. — Away ! 
We have oulstay'd the hour — mount we our clouds ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE IV. 

The Hall of Arimanes — Arimanes on his Throne, a 
Globe of Fire, surrounded by the Spirits. 
Hymn of the Spirits. 
Hail to our Master ! — Prince of Earth and Air ! 

Who walks the clouds and waters — in his hand 
The sceptre of the elements, which tear 
Themselves to chaos at his high command ! 



He breatheth — and a tempest shakes the sea ; 

He speaketh — and the clouds reply iu thunder ; 
He gazeth — from his glance the sunb'eims flee ; 

He moveih — earthquakes rend the world asunder. 
Beneath his footsteps the volcanoes rise ; 

His shadow is the Pestilence ; his path 
The comets herald through the crackling skies; 

And planets turn to ashes at his wrath. 
To him War offers daily s tcritice ; 

To him Death pays his tribute ; Life is his, 
With all its infinite of agonies — 

And his the spirit of whatever is ! 

Enter the Destinies and Nemesis. 

First Des. Glory "o Arimanes ! on the earth 
His power increaselh — b)th my sisters did 
His bidding, nor did I neglect my duty ! 

Seco/id Des. Glory to Arimanes ! we who bow 
The necks of men, bow down before his throne ! 

Third Des. Glory to Arimanes ! we await 
His nod ! 

Nei/i. Sovereign of Sovereigns ! we are thine. 
And ail that liveth, more or less, is ours, 
And most things wholly so; still (o increase 
Our power, increasing thine, demands our care, 
And we are vigilant — Thy late commands 
Have been fulhll'd to the utmost. 

Ejiter Manfred. 

A Spirit. What is here ? 

A mor al ! — Thou most rash and fatal wretch, 
Bow down and worship ! 

Second Spirit. I do know the man — 

A Magian of great power, and fearful skill ! 

Third Spirit. Bow down and worship, slave I — 
What, know'st thou not 
Thine and our Sovereign ? — Tremble, and obey ! 

All the Spirits. Prostrate thyself, and thy condemned 
clay, 
Child of the Earth ! or dread the worst. 

Man. I know it ; 

And yet ve see I kneel not. 

FouHh Spirit. 'T will be taught thee. 

Ma7i. 'T is taught already ; — ■ many a night on the 
earth, 
On the bare ground, have I bow'd down my face, 
And strew'd my head with ashes ; I have known 
The fulness of humiliation, for 
I sunk before my vain despair, and knelt 
To my own desolation. 

Fifth Spirit. Dost thou dare 

Refuse to Arimanes on his throne 
What the whole earth accords, beholding not 
The terror of his Glory ? — Crouch ! I say. 

Ma7i. Bid him bow down to that which is above him, 
The overruling Infinite — the Maker 
Who made hitii not for worship — let him kneel. 
And we will kneel together. 

The Spirits. Crush the worm ! 

Tear him in pieces ! — 

First Des. Hence ! Avaunt ! — he 's mine. 

Prince of the Powers invisible ! This man 
Is of no common order, as his port 
And presence here denote ; his sufferings 
Have been of an immortal nature, like 
Our own ; his knowledge, and his powers and will, 
As fir as is compatible with clay, 
Which clogs the ethereal essence, have been such 
As clay hath seldom borne; his aspirations 
Have been beyond the dwellers of the earth, 
And they have only taught him what we know — 
That knowledge is' not happiness, and science 
But an exchange of ignorance for that 
Which is another kind of ignorance. 
This is not all — the passions, attributes 
Of earth and heaven, from which no power, nor being. 
Nor breath from the worm upwards is exempt, 
Have pierced his heart ; and in their consequence 
Made him a thing, which I, who pity not. 
Yet pardon those who pity. He is mine. 
And thine, it may be — be it so, or not. 



Scene IV.] 



MANFRED. 



257 



No other Spirit in this region hath 
A soul iilie his — or power upon his soul. 
Nem. What doth he here then ? 
First Des. Let him answer that. 

Man. Ye know what I have known j and without 
power 
I could not be amongst ye : but there are 
Powers deeper still beyond — I come in quest 
Of such, to answer unto what I seek. 
Nem. What would'st thou ? 

Man. Thou canst not reply to me. 

Call up the dead — my question is for them. 

Nem. Great Arimanes, doth thy will avouch 
The wishes of this mortal ? 
Ari. Yea. 

Nem,. Whom would'st thou 

Uncharnel ? 

Man. One without a tomb — call up 

Astarte. 

Nemesis, 
Shadow ! or Spirit ! 

Whatever thou art, 
Which still doth inherit 

The whole or a part 
Of the form of thy birth, 

Of the mould of thy clay, 
Which return'd to the earth, 

Re-appear to the day I 
Bear what thou borest, 

The heart and the form, 

And the aspect thou worest 

Redeem from the worm. 

Appear ! — Appear ! — Appear ! 

Who sent thee there requires thee here ! 

[The Phantom of Astarte rises and 
stands in the midst. 
Man. Can this be death? there's bloom upon her 
cheek ; 
But now I see it is no living hue, 
But a strange hectic — like the unnatural red 
Which Autumn plants upon the perish'd leaf. 
It is the same ! Oh, God ! that I should dread 
To look upon the same — Astarte ! — No, 
I cannot speak to her — but bid her speak — 
Forgive me or condemn me. 

Nemesis. 
By the power which hath broken 

The grave which enthrall'd thee, 
Speak to him who hath spoken, 
Or those who have call'd thee ! 

Man. She is silent, 

And in that silence I am more than answer'd. 

Nem. My power extends no further. Prince of Air ! 
It rests with thee alone ! — command her voice. 

Ari. Spirit — obef this sceptre ! 

Nem. Silent still ! ^ 

She is not of our order, but belongs 
To the other powers. Mortal ! thy quest is vain, 
And we are baffled also. 

Man. Hear me, hear me — 

Astarte ! my beloved ! speak to me : 
I have so much endured — so much endure — 
Look on me ! the grave hath not changed thee more 
Than I am changed for thee. Thou lovedst me 
Too much, as I loved thee: we were not made 
To torture thus each other, though it were 
The deadliest sin to love as we have loved. 
Say that thou loath'st me not — that I do bear 
This punishment for both — that thou wilt be 
One of the blessed — and that I shall die ; 
For hitherto all hateful things conspire 
To bind me in existence — in a life 
Which makes me shrink from immortality — 
A future like the past. I cannot rest. 
I know not what I ask, nor what I seek : 
I feel but what thou art — and what I am j 
And I would hear yet once before I perish 
The voice which was my music — Speak to me ! 
For I have call'd on thee in the still night, 



Startled the slumbering birds from the hush'd boughs, 
And woke the mountain wolves, and made the caves 
Acquainted with thy vainly echoed name, 
Which answer'd me — many things answer'd me — 
Spirits and men — but thou wert silent all. 
Yet speak to me ! 1 have outwatch'd the stars, 
And gazed o er heaven in vain in se;irch of thee. 
Speak to me ! I have wander'd o'er the earth, 
And never found thy likeness — Speak to me ! 
Look on the fiends around — they feel for me : 
I fear them not, and feel for thee alone — 
Speak to me ! though it be in wrath ; — but say — 
I reck not what — but let me hear thee once — 
This once — once more ! 

Phantom of Astarte. Manfred ! 

Man. Say on, say on — 

I live but in the sound — it is thy voice 1 

Phan. Manfred! To-morrow ends thine earthly ills. 
Farewell ! 

Man. Yet one word more — am I forgiven ? 

Phaii. Farewell 1 

Man. Say, shall we meet again ? 

Phan. Farewell ! 

Man. One word for mercy ! Say, thou lovest me. 

Phan. Manfred ! 

[The Spirit ofAUarte disappears. 

Nem. She 's gone, and will not be recall'd ; 

Her words will be fulfill'd. Return to the earth. 

A Spirit. He is convulsed — This is to be a mortal 
And seek the things beyond mortality. 

Another Spirit. Yet, see, he mastereth himself, and 
makes 
His torture tributary to his will. 
Had he been one of us, he would have made 
An awful spirit. 

Nem. Hast thou further question 

Of our great sovereign, or his worshippers ? 

Man. None. . 

Nem. Then for a time firewell. 

Man. We meet then ! Where ? On the earth ?— 
Even as thou wilt : and for the grace accorded 
I now depart a debtor. Fare ye well ! 

[Exit Manfred. 
{Sce7ie closes.) 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. 

A Hall in the Castle of Manfred. 

Manfred and Herman. 

Man. What is the hour ? 

Htr. It wants but one till sunset, 

And promises a lovely twilight. 

Man. Say, 

Are all things so disposed of in the tower 
As I directed ? 

Her. All, my lord, are ready : 

Here is the key and casket. 

Man. It is well : 

Thou may'st retire. [Exit Herman. 

Man. (alone). There is a calm upon me — 
Inexplicable stillness ! which till now 
Did not belong to what I knew of life. 
If that I did not know philosophy 
To be of all our vanities the motliest, 
The merest word that ever fool'd the ear 
From out the schoolman's jargon, I should deem 
The golden secret, the sought " Kalon," found, 
And seated in my soul. It will not last, 
But it is well to have known it, though but once: 
It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new sense. 
And I within my tablets would note down 
That there is such a feeling. Who is there ? 

Re-enter Herman. 
Her. My lord, the abbot of St. Maurice craves 
To greet your presence. 



22* 



17 



258 



MANFRED. 



[Act III. 



Enter the Abbot of St. Maurice. 

Abbot. Peace be with Count Manfred ! 

Man. Thanks, holy father ! welcome to these walls ; 
Thy presence honours them, and blesseth those 
Wlio dwell within them. 

Mbot. Would it were so, Count ! — 

But I would fain confer with thee alone. 

Man. Herman, retire.— What would my reverend 
guest ? 

Abbot. Thus, without prelude : — Age and zeal, my 
oflSce, 
And good intent, must plead my privilege ; 
Our near, though not acquainted neighbourhood, 
May also be my herald. Rumours strange, 
And of unholy nature, are abroad, 
And busy with thy name ; a noble name 
For centuries : may he who bears it now 
Transmit it unimpair'd 1 

Man. Proceed, — I listen. 

Abbot. 'T is said thou boldest converse with the 
things 
Which are forbidden to the search of man ; 
That with the dwellers of the dark abodes. 
The many evil and unheavenly spirits 
Which walk the valley of the shade of death. 
Thou communest. I know that with mankind, 
Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarely 
Exchange tby thoughts, and that thy solitude 
Is as an anchorite's, were it but holy. 

Man. And what are they who do avouch these 
things? 

Abbot. My pious brethren — the scared peasantry — 
Even thy own vassals — who do look on thee 
With most unquiet eyes. Thy life 's in peril. 

Man. Take it. 

Abbot. I come to save, and not destroy — 

I would not pry into thy secret soul ; 
But if these things be sooth, there still is time 
For penitence and pity : reconcile thee 
With the true church, and through the church to 
heaven. 

Man. I hear thee. This is my reply : whate'er 
I may have been, or am, doth rest between 
Heaven and myself.— I shall not choose a mortal 
To be my mediator. Have I sinn'd 
Against your ordinances ? prove and punish ! 

Abbot. My son ! I did not speak of punishment, 
But penitence and pardon ; — with thyself 
The choice of such remains — and for the last, 
Our institutions and our strong belief 
Have given me power to smooth the path from sin 
To higher hope and better thoughts ; the first 
I leave to heaven, — " Vengeance is mine alone ! " 
So saith the Lord, and with all humbleness 
His servant echoes back the awful word. 

Man. Old man ! there is no power in holy men, 
Nor charm in prayer — nor purifying form 
Of penitence — nor outward look — nor fast — 
Nor agony — nor, greater than all these. 
The innate tortures of that deep despair. 
Which is remorse without the fear of hell, 
But all in all sufficient to itself 
Would make a hell of heaven — can exorcise 
From out the unbounded spirit the quick sense 
Of its own sins, wrongs, sufferance, and revenge 
Upon itself; there is no future pang 
Can deal that justice on the self-condemn'd 
He deals on his own soul. 

Abbot. All this is well ; 

For this will pass away, and be succeeded 
By an auspicious hope, which shall look up 
With calm assurance to that blessed place, 
Which all who seek may win, whatever be 
Their earthly errors, so they be atoned : 
And the commencement of atonement is 
The sense of its necessity. — Say on — 
And all our church can teach thee shall be taught ; 
And all we can absolve thee shall be pardon'd. 



Man. When Rome's sixth emperor i was near his 
last. 
The victim of a self-inflicted wound, 
To shun the torments of a public death 
From senates once his slaves, a certain soldier, 
With show of loyal pity, would have stanch'd 
The gushing throat with his officious robe ; 
The dying Roman thrust him back, and said — 
Some empire still in his expiring glance — 
" It is too late — is this fidelity ? » 

Abbot. And what of this ? 

Man. I answer with the Roman — 

*' It is too late ! » 

Abbot. It never can be so. 

To reconcile thyself with thy own soul, 
And thy own soul with heaven. Hast thou no hope ? 
'T is strange — even those who do despair above, 
Yet shape themselves some fantasy on earth, 
To which frail twig (hey cling, like drowning men. 

Man. Ay — father 1 I have had those earthly 
visions, 
And noble aspirations in my youth, 
To make my own the mind of other men, 
The enlightener of nations ; and to rise 
I knesv not whither — it might be to fall ; 
But fall, even as the mountain-cataract, 
Which having leapt from its more dazzling height, 
Even in the foaming strength of its abyss, 
(Which casts up misty columns that become 
Clouds raining from the re-ascended skies,) 
Lies low but mighty still. — But this is past, 
My thoughts mistook themselves. 

Abbot. And wherefore so ? 

Man. I could not tame my nature down ; for he 
Must serve who fain would sway — and soothe — and 

sue — 
And warch all time — and pry into all place — 
And be a living lie — who would become 
A mighty thing amongst the mean, and such 
The mass are; I disdain'd to mingle with 
A herd, though to be leader— and of wolves. 
The lion is alone, and so am I. 

Abbot. And why not live and act with other men ? 

Man. Because my nature was averse from life ; 
And yet not cruel ; for I would not make, 
But find a desolation : — like the wind, 
The red-ht)t breath of the most lone simoom, 
Which dwells but in the desert, and sweeps o'er 
The barren sands which bear no shmbs to blast, 
And revels o'er their wild and arid waves, 
And seeketh not, so that it is not sought, 
But being met is deadly ; such hath been 
The course of my existence; but there came 
Things in my path which are no more. 

Abbot. Alas! 

I 'gin to fear that thou art past all aid 
From me and from my calling ; yet so young, 
I sMll would — 

Man. Look on me ! there is an order 

Of mortals on the earth, who do become 
Old in their youth, and die ere middle age, 
Without the violence of warlike death ; 
Some perishing of pleasure — some of study — 
Some worn with toil — some of mere weariness — 
Some of disease — and some insanity — 
And some of witherd, or of broken hearts; 
For this last is a malady which slays 
More than are number'd in the lis's of Fate, 
Taking all shapes, and bearing many names. 
Look upon me ! for even of ail these things 
Have I partaken ; and of all these things, 
One were enough ; then wonder not that I 
Am what I am, but that I ever was. 
Or having been, that I am still on earth. 



1 Otho, being defeated in a general engagement near 
Brixellum, stabbed himself. Plutarch eays, Itiat. though 
he lived full as badly as Nero, his last moments were 
those of a philosopher. Martial says : — 

" Sit Cato, dum vivit, sane vel Cesare major, 

Dum moritur, numquid major Othone fuit? " — K. 



Scene II.] 



MANFRED. 



259 



Abbot. Yet, hear me still 

Man. Old man ! I do respect 

Thine order, and,revere thy years j I deem 
Thy purpose pious, but it is in vain : 
Think me not churlish ; I would spare thyself, 
Far more than me, in shunning at this time 
All further colloquy — and so — farewell. 

[Exit Manfred. 

Abbot. This should have been a noble creature : he 
Hath all the energy which would have made 
A goodly frame of glorious elements. 
Had they been wisely mingled ; as it is, 
It is an awful chaos — light and darkness — 
And mind and dust — and passions and pure thoughts 
Mix'd, and contending without end or order. 
All dormant or destructive : he will perish. 
And yet he must not ; I will try once more, 
For such are worlh redemption ; and my duty, 
Is to dare all things for a righteous end. 
I '11 follow him — but cautiously, though surely. 

iExit Abbot. 

SCENE II. 

Another Chamber. 

Manfred and Herman. 

Her. My lord, you bade me wait on you at sunset ; 
He sinks behind the mountain. 

Man. Doth he so ? 

I will look on him. 

[Manfred advances to the Window of the Hall. 
Glorious Orb ! the idol 
Of early nature, and the vigorous race 
Of undiseased mankind, the giant sonsi 
Of the embrace of angels, with a sex 
More beautiful than they, which did draw down 
The erring spirits who can ne'er return. — 
Most glorious orb ! that wert a worship, ere 
The mystery of thy making was reveal'd ! 
Thou earliest minister of the Almighty, 
Which gladden'd, on their mountain tops, the hearts 
Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour'd 
Themselves in orisons ! Thou material God ! 
And representative of the Unknown — 
Who chose thee for his shadow ! Thou chief star ! 
Centre of many stars ! which mak'st our earth 
Endurable, and temperest the hues 
And hearts of all who walk within thy rays! 
Sire of the seasons ! Monarch of the climes, 
And those who dwell in them ! for near or far, 
Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee 
Even as our outward asjjects ; — thou dost rise. 
And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well ! 
I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first glance 
Of love and wonder was for thee, then take 
My latest look : thou wilt not beam on one 
To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been 
Of a more fatal nature. He is gone : 
I follow. [Exit Manfred. 

SCENE III. 
The Mountains — The Castle of Manfred at some 
distance — A Terrace before a Tower.— Time, Twi- 
light. 

Herman, Manuel, and other Dependants of Manfred. 

Her. 'Tis strange enough; night after night, for 
years. 
He hath pursued long vigils in this tower, 
Without a witness. I have been within it, — 
So have we all been oft times; but from it. 
Or its contents, it were impossible 
To draw conclusions absolute, of aught 



1 " And it came to pass, that the Sons of Ood saw ttie 
daughters of men, that they were fair," <Src.— "There 
were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, 
when the Sons of Oud came in unto the daughters of men, 
and they bare children to them, the same became mighty 
men which were of old, men of renown." — Genesis, ch. 
vi. verses 2 and 4. 



His studies tend to. To be sure, there is 
One chamber where none enter : I would give 
The fee of what I have to come these three years. 
To pore upon its mysteries. 

Manuel. 'T were dangerous ; 

Content thyself with what thou know'st already. 

Her. Ah ! Manuel ! thou art elderly and wise. 
And could'st say much j thou hast dwelt within the 

castle — 
How many years is 't ? 

Manuel. Ere Count Manfred's birth, 

I served his father, whom he nought resembles. 

Her. There be more sons in like predicament. 
But wherein do they differ ? 

Manuel. I speak not 

Of features or of form, but mind and habits; 
Count Sigismund was proud,— but gay and free,-— 
A warrior and a reveller ; he dwelt not 
With books and solitude, nor made the night 
A gloomy vigil, but a festal time. 
Merrier than day ; he did not walk the rocks 
And forests like a wolf, nor turn aside 
From men and their delights. 

Her. Beshrew the hour, 

But those were jocund times ! I would that such 
Would visit the old walls again ; they look 
As if they had forgotten them. 

Manuel. These walls 

Must change their chieftain first. Oh ! I have seen 
Some strange things in them, Herman ! 

Her. Come, be friendly ; 

Relate me some to while awaj our watch : 
I 've heard thee darkly speak of an event 
Which happen'd hereabouts, by this same tower. 

Manuel. That was a night indeed ! I do remember 
'T was twilight, as it may be now, and such 
Another evening ; — yon red cloud, which rests 
On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested then, — 
So like that it might be the same ; the wind 
Was faint and gusty, and the mountain snows 
Began to glitter with the climbing moon ; 
Count Manfred was, as now, within his tower,— 
How occupied, we knew not, but with him 
The sole companion of his wanderings 
And watchings — her, whom of all earthly things 
That lived, the only thing he seem'd to love,— 
As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do. 

The lady Astarte, his 

Hush ! who comes here ? 

Enter the Abbot. 

Abbot. Where is your master ? 

Her. Yonder in the tower. 

Abbot, I must speak with him. 

Manuel. 'T is impossible , 

He is most private, and must not be thus 
Intruded on. 

Abbot. Upon myself I take 

The forfeit of my fault, if fault there be — 
But I must see him. 

Her. Thou hast seen him once 

This eve already. 

Abbot. ' Herman ! I command thee. 

Knock, and apprize the Count of my approach. 

Her. We dare not. 

Abbot. Then it seems I must be herald 

Of my own purpose. 

Manuel. Reverend father, stop — 

I pray you pause. 

Abbot. Why so? 

Manuel. But step this way. 

And I will tell you further. [Exeunt. 

SCENE IV. 
Interior of the Tower, 
Manfred alone. 
The stars are forth, the moon above the tops 
Of the snow-shining mountains. — Beautiful ! 
] linger yet with Nature, for the Night 
Hath been to me a more familiar face 



260 



MANFRED. 



[Act III. ' 



Than that of man ; and in her starry shade 

Of dim and solitary loveliness, 

I learn'd ttie language of another world. 

I do remember me, that in my youth, 

When I was wandering, — upon such a night 

I stood within the Coliseum's wall, 

'Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome. 

The trees which grew along the broken arches 

Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars 

Shone through the rents of ruin ; from afar 

The watch-dog bay'd beyond the Tiber ; and 

More near from out the Caesars' palace came 

The owl's long cry, and. interruptedly, 

Of distant sentinels the fitful song 

Begun and died upon the gentle wind. 

Some cypresses beyond the time-vt-orn breach 

Appear'd to skirt the horizon, yet they stood 

Within a bowshot — Where the Caesars dwelt, 

And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst 

A grove which springs through levell'd battlements, 

And twines its roots with the imperial hearths, 

Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth; — 

But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands, 

A noble wreck in ruinous perfection ! 

While Caesar's chambers and the Augustan halls, 

Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. — 

And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon 

All this, and cast a wide and tender light, 

Which soften'd down the hoar austerity 

Of rugged desolation, and fill'd up, 

As 't were anew, the gaps of centuries ; 

Leaving that beautiful which still was so. 

And making that which was not, till the place 

Became religion, and the heart ran o'er 

With silent worship of the great of old ! — 

The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule 

Our spirits from their urns.— 

'T was such a | night ; 
'T IS strange that I recall it at this time ; 
But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight 
Even at the moment when they should array 
Themselves in pensive order. 

Eriter the Abbot. 

Abbot. My good lord ! 

I crave a second grace for this approach ; 
But yet let not my humlj|t zeal otfend 
By its abruptness — all it hath of ill 
Recoils on me ; its good in the effect 
May light upon your head — could I say heart — 
Could I touch that, with words or prayers, I should 
Recall a noble spirit which hath wander'd ; 
But is not yet all lost 

Man. Thou know'st me not; 

My days are number'd, and my deeds recorded : 
Retire, or 't will be dangerous — Away ! 

Abbot. Thou dost not mean to menace me ? 

Man. Not I ; 

I simply tell thee peril is at hand. 
And would preserve thee. 

Abbot. What dost thou mean ? 

Man. Look there ! 

What dost thou see ? 

Abbot. Nothing. 

Man. Look there. I say. 

And steadfastly ; — now tell me what thou seest ? 

Abbot. That which should shake me,— but I fear it 
not — 
I see a dusk and awful figure rise. 
Like an infernal god, from out the earth ; 
His face wrapt in a mantle, and his form 
Robed as with angry clouds : he stands between 
Thyself and me — but I do fear him not. 

Man. Thou hast no cause— he shall not harm 
thee — but 
His sight may shock thine old limbs into palsy. 
I say to thee— Retire ! 

Abbot. And I reply — 

Never — till I have battled with this fiend : — 
What doth he here? 



Man. Why — ay — what doth he here ? — 

I did not send for him,— he is unbidden. 
Abbot. Alas ! lost mortal '. what with guests like 
these 
Hast thou to do ? I tremble for thy sake : 
Why doth he gaze on thee, and thou on him ? 
Ah ! he unveils his aspect : on his brow 
The thunder-scars are graven ; from his eye 
Glares forth the immortality of hell — 
A vaunt ! — 
Mail. Pronounce — what is thy mission ? 
Spirit. Come ! 

Abbot. What art thou, unknown being ? answer ! — 

speak I 
Spirit. The genius of this mortal.— Come ! 't is 

time. 
Man. I am prepared for all things, but deny 
The power which summons me. Who sent thee 
here? 
Spirit. Thou 'It know anon — Come ! come ! 
Man. 1 h»ve commanded 

Things of an essence greater far than thine, 
And striven with thy masters. Get thee hence ! 
Spirit. Mortal ! thine hour is come — Away ! I say. 
Mail. I knew, and know my hour is come, but not 
To render up my soul to such as thee : 
Away I I '11 die as I have lived — alone. 
Spirit. Then I must summon up my brethren. — 
Rise ! [Other Spirits rise up. 

Abbot Avaunt ! ye evil ones ! — Avaunt ! I say,— 
Ye have no power where piety hath power, 

And I do charge ye in the name 

Spirit. Old man ! 

We know ourselves, our mission, and thine order; 
Waste not thy holy words on idle uses, 
j It were in vain : this man is forfeited. 
i Once more I summon him — Away ! Away ! 
Ma7i. I do defy ye, — though I feel my soul 
I Is ebbing from me, yet I do defy ye ; 
I Nor will I hence, while I have earthly breath 
To breathe my scorn upon ye — earthly strength 
j To wrestle, though with spirits; what' ye take 
Shall be ta'en limb by limb. 

Spirit. Reluctant mortal ! 

Is this the Magian who would so pervade 
The world invisible, and make himself 
Almost our equal ? — Can it be that thou 
Art thus in love with life ? the very life 
Which made thee wretched ! 

Man. Thou false fiend, thou liest ! 

My life is in its last hour, — that I know. 
Nor would redeem a moment of that hour; 
I do not combat against deith, but thee 
\ And thy surrounding angels ; my past power 
j Was purchased by no compact with thy crew, 
I But by superior science — penance — daring — 
And lensth of watching — strength of mind — and 
I skill 

; In knowledge of our fathers — when the earth 
' Saw men and spirits walking side by side, 
And gave ye no supremacy : I stand 
Upon my strength — I do defy — deny — 
Spurn back, and scorn ye ! — 
Spirit, But thy many crimes 

Have made thee 

Man. What are they to such as thee ? 

Must crimes be punish'd but by other crimes, 
' And greater criminals ? — Back to thy hell ! 
i Thou hast no power upon me, that I feel ; 
i Thou never shalt possess me, that I kliow : 
j What I have done is done ; I bear within 
A torture which could nothing gain from thine: 
The mind which is immortal makes itself 
. Requital for its good or evil thoughts — 
I Is its own origin of ill and end — 
I And its own plice and time — its innate sense, 
When stripp'd of this moriality, derives 
j No colour from the fleeting things without ; 
' But is absorb'd in sufferance or in joy. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



261 



Born from the knowledge of its own desert. 

Thou didst not tempt me, and thou couldst not tempt 

me J 
I have not been thy dupe, nor am thj' prey — 
But was my own desiroyer, and will be 
My own hereafter. — Back, ye baffled fiends'. 
The hand of death is on me — but not yours ! 

{The Demons disappear. 
Mbot. Alas ! how pale thou art — thy lips are 

w hite — 
And thy breast heaves — and in thy gasping throat 
The accents rattle — Give thy prayers to heaven — 



Pray — albeit but in thought, — but die not thus. 

Man. 'T is over — my dull eyes can fix thee not j 
But all things swim around me, and the earth 
Heaves as it were beneath me. Fare thee well — 
Give me thy hand. 

Abbot. Cold — cold — even to the heart — 

But yet one prayer — Alas ! how fares it with thee ? 

Man. Old man ! 't is not so difficult to die. 

{Manfred expires. 

Abbot. He 's gone — his soul hath ta'en its earthless 
flight - 
Whither ? I dread to think — but he is gone. 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE 

AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY, 
IN FIVE ACTS.* 



"Dux inquieti turbidus Adriae." — HORACE. 



PREFACE. 



The conspiracy of the Doge Marino Faliero is one 
of the most remarkable events in the annals of the 
most singular government, city, and people of modern 
history. It occurred in the year 1355. Everything 
about Venice is, or was, extraordinary — her aspect is 
like a dream, and her history is like a romance. The 
story of this Doge is to be found in all her Chronicles, 
and particularly detailed in the "Lives of the Doges," 
by Marin Sanuto, which is given in the Appendix. It 
is simply and clearly related", and is perhaps more dra- 
matic in itself than any scenes which can be founded 
upon the subject. 

Marino Faliero appears to have been a man of 
talents and of courage. I find him commander-in-chief 
of the land forces at the siege of Zara, where he beat 
the King of Hungary and his army of eighty thousand 
men, killing eight thousand men, and keeping the be- 
sieged at the sanie time in check ; an exploit to which 
I know none similar in history, except that of Caesar 
at Alesia, and of Prince Eugene at Belgrade. He was 
afterwards commander of the fleet in the same war. 
He took Capo d'Istria. He was ambassador at Genoa 
and Rome, — at which last he received the news of his 
election to the dukedom ; his absence being a proof 
that he sought it by no intrigue, since he was apprized 
of his predecessor's death and his own succession at 
the same moment. But he appears to have been of an 
ungovernable temper. A story is told by Sanuto, of 
his having, many years before, w-hen podesta and cap- 
tain at Treviso, boxed the ears of the bishop, who was 
somewhat tardy in bringing the Host. For this, honest 
Sanuto "saddles him with a judgment," asThwackum 
did Square ; but he does not tell us whether he was 
punished or rebuked by the Senate for this outrage at 
the time of its commission. He seems, indeed, to 
have t)een afterwards at peace with the church, for we 
find him ambassador at Rome, aisd invested with the 
fief of Val di Marino, in the march of Treviso, and 
with the title of count, by Lorenzo Count-bishop of 
Ceneda. For these facts my authorities are Sanuto, 
Vettor Sandi, Andrei Navagero, and the account of the 
siege of Zara, first published by the indefatigable Abate 



lOn thp original MS. sent from Ravenna, Lord Byron 
has written : ~" Begun April 4th, 1.-20 •— completed July 
16th, 1820 — finished copying August IGlh-nth, 1^20; the 
which copying makes ten times the toil of composing, 
considering the weather — thermometer 90 in the shade — 
and my domestic duties." — The tragedy was published 
towards the close of 1620.— E, 



I Morelli, in his " Monumenti Veneziani di varia Lette- 
ratura," printed in 1796, all of which I have looked 
over in the original language. The moderns, Daru, 
Sismondi, and Laugier, nearly agree with the ancient 
chroniclers, Sismondi attributes the conspiracy to his 
jealousy ; but I find this nowhere asserted by the na- 
tional historians, Vettor Sandi, indeed, says, that " Al- 

tri scrisseio che dalla gelosa suspizion di esso 

Doge siasi fatio (Michel Steno) staccar con violenza," 
&c, &c. ; but this appears to have been by no means 
the general opinion, nor is it alluded to by Sanuto or 
by Navagero : and Sandi himself adds, a moment after, 
that " per altre Veneziane memorie traspiri, che non il 
solo desiderio di vendetta lo dispose alia congiura ma 
' anche la innata abituale ambizion sua, per cui anelava 
a farsi principe independente," The first motive ap- 
pears to have been excited by the gross affront of the 
, words written by Michel Steno on the ducal chair, and 
by the light and inadequate sentence of the Forty on 
the oifender, who was one of their " tre Capi," The 
attentions of Steno himself appear to have been di- 
rected towards one of her dam^els, and not to the 
" Dogaressa" herself, against whose fame not the 
I slightest insinuation appears, while she is praised for 
her beauty, and remarked for her youth. Neither do I 
find it asserted (unless the hint of Sandi be an asser- 
tion), that the Doge was actuated by jealousy of his 
wife; but rather by respect for her and for his own 
honour, warranted by his past services and present 
dignity. 

] I know not that the historical facts are alluded to in 
English, unless by Dr. Moore in his View of Italy. 
His account is false and flippant, full of stale jests 
about old men and young wives, and wondering at so 
great an effect from so slight a cause. How so acute 
and severe an observer of mankind as the author of 
Zeluco could wonder at this is inconceivable. He 
knew that a basin of water spilt on Mrs. Masham's 
gown deprived the Duke of Marlborough of his com- 
mand, and led to the inglorious peace of Utrecht — 
that Louis XIV. was plunged into the most desolating 
wars, because his minister was nettled at his finding 
I fault with a window, and wished to give him another 
occupation — that Helen lost Troy — that Lucretia ex- 
pelled the Tarquins from Rome — and that Cava 
brought the Moors to Spain — that an insulted husband 
led the Gauls to Ciusium, and thence to Rome— that a 
single verse of Frederick II. of Prussia on the Abbe de 
Bernis, and a jest on Madame de Pompadour, led to 
the battle of Rosbach — that the elopement of Dear- 
bhorgil with Mac Murchad conducted the English to 
I the slavery of Ireland — that a personal pique between 
1 Maria Antoinette and the Duke of Orleans precipitated 



262 



MARINO FALIERO, 



the first expulsion of the Bourbons — and, not to mul- delafo, who fell in battle at Zara in 1117 (where his 

tiply instances, that Commodus, Domitian, and Cali- descendant afterwards conquered the Huns), and Vital 

gula fell victims not to their public tyranny, but to Faliero, who reigned in 1082. The family, originally 

private vengeance — and that an order to make Crom- from Fano, was of the most illustrious in blood and 

well disembark from the ship in which he would have wealth in the city of once the most wealthy and still 

Bailed to America destroyed both King and Common- the most ancient families in Europe. The length I 

wealth. After these instances, on the least retiection, have gone into on this subject will show the interest I 

it is indeed extraordinary in Dr. Moore to seem sur- have taken in it. Whether I have succeeded or not in 

prised that a man used to command, who had served the tragedy, I have at least transferred into our Ian- 

and swayed in the most important offices, should guage an historical fact worthy of commemoration, 

fiercely resent, in a fierce age, an unpunished affront. It is now four years that I Lave meditated this 

the grossest that can be otfered to a man, be he prince work; and before I had sufficiently examined the re- 

or peasant. The age of Faliero is little to the purpose, cords, I was rather disposed to have made it turn on a 



unless to favour it • 



"Ttie young man's wrath is like straw on fire, 
But like red-hot steel is the old man's ire," 

« Young men soon give and soon forget affronts. 
Old age is slow at both." 

Laugier'i 



I jealousy in Faliero. But, perceiving no foundation for 
this in historical truth, and aware that jealousy is an 
exhausted passion in the drama, I have given it a more 
historical form. I was, besides, well advised by the 
late Matthew Lewis on that point, in talking with him 
of my intention at Venice, in 1817. " If you make 
reflections are more philosophical: —him jealous," said he, " recollect that you have to 
*' Tale fu il fine ignominioso di un' uomo, che la sua 'contend with established writers, to say nothing of 
nascita, la sua eta, il suo carattere dovevano tener Ion- Shakspeare, and an exhausted subject : — stick to the 
tano dalle passioni produttrici di grandi delitti. I suoi '; old fiery Doge's natural character, which will bear 
talenti per lungo tempo esercitati ne' maggiori impie- i you out, if properly drawn ; and make your plot as 
ghi, la sua capacita sperimentata ne' governi e nelle ' regular as you can." Sir William Drummond gave 
ambasciate, gli avevano acquistato la stima e la fiducia me nearly the same counsel. How far I have follow- 
de' cittadini, ed avevano uuiti i suflfragj per collocarlo ed these instructions, or whether they have availed 
alia testa della republica. Innalzato ad un grado che j me, is not for me to decide. I have iiad no view to 
terminava gloriosamente la sua vita, il risentimento di ! the stage ; in its present state it is, perhaps, not a very 
un' ingiuria leggiera insinuo nel suo cuore tal valeno j exalted object of ambition ; besides, I have been too 
che basto a corrompere le antiche sue qualita, e a con- 1 much_ behind the scenes to have thought it so at any 



durlo al termine dei scellerati ; serio esempio, che 
prova non esservi eta, in cui la pntdenza umaiia sia 
sicura, e che nelV uomo restano sempre passioni ca- 
paci a disonorarlo, quando non invigili sopra se 
stesso.^'^ 

Where did Dr. Moore find that Marino Faliero beg- 
ged his life ? I have searched the chroniclers, and 
find nothing of the kind : it is true that he avowed all. 



time. 2 And I cannot conceive any man of irritable 
feeling putting himself at the mercies of an audience. 
The sneering reader, and the loud critic, and the tart 
review, are scattered and distant calamities; but the 
trampling of an intelligent or of an ignorant audience 
on a production which, be it good or bad, has been a 
mental labour to the writer, is a palpable and imme- 
diate grievance, heightened by a man's doubt of their 



He was conducted to the place of torture, but there is competency to judge, and his certainty of his own im 
no mention made of any applicition for mercy on his j prudence in electing them his judges. Were I capable 
part J and the very circumstance of their having taken | of writing a play which could be deemed stage-wor- 
him to the rack seems to argue any thing but his hav- thy, success would give me no pleasure, and failure 
ing shown a want of firmness, which would doubtless ' great pain. It is for this reason that, even during the 
have been also mentioned by those minute historians, - time of being one of the committee of one of the thea- 
who by no means favour him : such, indeed, would be | tres, I never made the attempt, and never will. 3 But 
contrary to his character as a soldier, to the age in 
which he lived, and at which he died, as it is to the 
truth of history. I know no justification, at any dis- 
tance of time, for calumniating an historical character : 
surely truth belongs to the dead, and to the unfortu- 
nate : and they who have died upon a scaffold have 
generally had faults enough of their own, without attri- 
buting to them that which the very incurring of the 



2 " It is like being at the whole procees of a woman's 
toilet — it disenchants." — MS. — E. 

3 While I was in the sub-committee of Drury Lane 
Theatre, E can vouch for my colleagues, and I hope for my- 
self, that we did our best to bring ba'k the legitimate 
drama. I tried what I could to get " De Montfort " re- 
vived, but in vain, and equally in vain in favour of 

^™-i " ™u;„v, „„ J „. J tu ™ . *i, • • 1 "i J .1-1 Sotheby's "Ivan," which was thought an acting plav ; 
penis which conducted them to their violent death , ^nd I endeavoured also to wake Mr. Coleridge to write a 
renders, ot all others, the most improbable. The blick | tragedv. Those who are not in the secret will hardly be- 
veil which is painted over the place of Marino Faliero I lieve that the "School for Scandal " is the play which has 
amongst the Doges, and the Giants' Staircase where he brought least money, averaging the number of times it 
was crowned, and discrowned, and decapitated, struck ^^^ been acted since its production ; so Manager Dibdin 
forcibly upon my imagination ; as did his fiery charac "" '' '^' ""'""* ^ '' "'"" "' ^-'--" 



assured me. Of what has occurred since Maturin's* 
" Bertram " I am not aware ; so that I may be traducing, 
through ignorance, seme excellent new writers: if so, I 
beg their pardon. I have been absent from England 
nearly five years, and, till last year, 1 never read an Eng- 
■ lish newspaper since my departure, and am now only 
aware of theatrical matters through the medium of the 
Parisian Gazette of Galignani, and only for the last twelve 
j months. Let me then deprecate all offence to tragic or 
comic writers, to whom I wish well, and of whom I know 
nothing. The long complaints of the actual state of the 
drama arise, however, from no fault of the performers. I 
can conceive nothing better than Kemble, Cooke, and 
i Kean in their very different manners, or than Elliston in 
, gentleman's comedy, and in some parts of tragedy. Miss 
I O'Neil I never saw, having made and kept a determi- 
some bones remaining, but no positive vestige of the nation to see nothing which should divide or disturb my 
decapitation. The equestrian statue of which 1 have .^^^°','*fi'".1.2f„®!''^°"^" S'^'^°"s and Kemble were the 



ter and strange story. I went, in 1819, in search of his 
tomb more than once to the church San Giovanni e 
San Paolo; and, as I was standing before the monu- 
ment of another family, a priest came up to me and 
said, " I cm show you finer monuments than that." I 
told him that I wa's in seirch of that of the Faliero 
family, and particularly of the Doge Marino's. " Oh," 
said he, " I will show it you;" and conductins: me to 
the outside, pointed out a sarcophagus in the wall with 
an illegible inscription. He said that it had been in a 
convent adjoining, but was removed after the French 
came, and placed in its present situation ; that he had 
seen the tomb opened at its removal ; there were st 



made mention in the third act as before that church is 
not, however, of a Faliero, but of some other now ob- 
solete warrior, althonjh of a later date. There were 
two other Doges of this family prior to Marino ; Or- 



1 Jjaugier, Hist, de la Repub. de Venise. 



ideal of tragic action; I never saw any thing at all re- 
sembling them even in person: for this reason, we shall 
never see again Coriolanus or Macbeth. When Kean is 
* The Rev. Charles Maturin (a curate in Dublin) died 
in 1824. His first production, the " House of Montorio," 
a romance, is the only one of bis works that has survived 
him. — E. 



rtM^fii 



mm 



Scene L] 



DOGE OF VENICE. 



263 



surely there is dramatic power somewhere, where 
Joanna Baillie, and Milman,i and John Wilson 2 
exist. The "City of the Plague" and the "Fall of 
Jerusalem " are full of the best " materiel " for tragedy 
that has been seen since Horace Walpole, except pas- 
sages of Ethwald and De Montfort. It is the fashion 
to underrate Horace Walpole ; firstly, because he was 
a nobleman, and secondly, because he was a gentle- 
man ; but, to say nothing of the composition of his 
incomparable letters, and of the Castle of Otranto, he 
is the " Ultimus Romanorum," the author of the Mys- 
terious Mother, a tragedy of the highest order, and not 
a puling love-play. He is the father of the first 
romance and of the last tragedy in our language, and 
surely worthy of a higher place than any living wri- 
ter, be "he who he may. 

In speaking of the drama of Marino Faliero, I for- 
got to mention, that the desire of preserving, though 
still too remote, a nearer approach to unity than the 
irregularity, which is the reproach of the English 
theatrical compositions permits, has induced me to 
represent the conspiracy as already formed, and the 
Doge acceding to it; whereas, in fact, it was of his 
own preparation and that of Israel Bertuccio, The 
other characters (except that of the Duchess), inci- 
dents, and almost the time, which was wonderfully 
short for such a design in real life, are strictly histori- 
cal, except that all the consultations took place in the 
palace. Had I followed this, the unity would have 
been better preserved ; but I wished to produce the 
Doge in the full assembly of the conspirators, instead 
of monotonously placing him always in dialogue with 
(he same individuals. For the real facts, I refer to the 
Appendix. 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 



MEN. 

Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice. 
Bertuccio Faliero, Nephew of the Doge. 
Lioni, a Patrician and Senator. 
Benintende, Chief of the Council of Ten. 
Michel Steno, One of the three Capi of the Forty. 
Israel Bertuccio, Chief o/^ 
the Arsenal, } 



Philip Calendaro, 

Dagolino, 

Bertram, 

Signor of the Night, 



Conspirators. 



Signore dr Notte,^^ one of 
the Officers belonging to 
the Republic. 



First Citizen. 
Second Citizen- 
Third Citizen. 
Vincenzo, j 

Pietro, '. Officers belonging to the Ducal Palace. 
Battista, ) 



blamed for want of dignity, we should remember that it 
is a grace, and not an art, and not to be attained by study. 
In all, not super-nalura\ pirts, he is perfect; even his 
very defects belong, or seem to belong, to the parts them- 
selves, and appear truer to nature. But of Kemble we 
may say, with reference to his acting, what the Cardinal 
de Retz said of the Marquis of Montrose, "that he wns 
the only man he ever saw who reminded him of the 
heroes of Plutarch." 

1 The Rev. Henry Hart Milman, of Brazen Nose Col- 
lege, Oxford, for some time Profe-ssor of Poetry in that 
University, and now rector of St. Margaret's, Westmin- 
ster. " Fazio " is the only one of his plays that has done 
well on the stage. ~ E. 

2 John Wilson, of Magdalen College, Oxford, now Pro- 
fessor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edin- 
burgh,-- the well-known author of the "Isle of Palms," 
"Margaret Lyiidsay," "Lights and Shadows of Scottish 
Life," Sec. &c., f.iid the principal critic as well as hu- 
mourist of Blackwood's Magazine.— E. 



Secretary of the Council of Ten. 
Guards, Conspirators, Citizens, The Council of Ten^ 
The Giunta, ^c. ^c. 

WOMEN. 
Angiolina, Wife to the Doge. 
Marianna, her Friend. 

Female Attendants, 8fC. 
Scene Venice — in the year 1355. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. 
An Antechamber in the Ducal Palace. 

Pietro speaks, in entering, to Battista. 

Pie. Is not the messenger return'd ? 

£at. Not yet ; 

I have sent frequently, as you commanded, 
But still the Signory is deep in council, 
And long debate on" Steno's accusation. 

Pie. Too long — at least so thinks the Doge. 

Bat. How bears he 

These moments of suspense ? 

Pie. With struggling patience. 

Placed at the ducal table, cover'd o'er 
With all the apparel of the state; petitions. 
Despatches, judgments, acts, reprieves, reports, 
He sits as rapt in duty ; but whene'er 
He hears the jarring of a distant door, 
Or aught that intimates a coming step, 
Or murmur of a voice, his quick eye wanders, 
And he will start up from his chair, then pause, 
And seat himself again, and fix his gaze 
Upon some edict ; but I have observed 
For the last hour he has not turn'd a leaf. 

Bat. 'T is said he is much moved,— and doubtless 
't was 
Foul scorn in Steno to oflFend so grossly. 

Pie. Ay, if a poor man : Steno 's a patrician. 
Young, galliard, gay, and haughty. 

Bat. Then you think 

He will not be judged hardly? 

Pie. 'T were enough 

He be judged justly ; but 't is not for us 
To anticipate the sentence of the Forty. 

Bat. And here it comes.— What news, Vincenzo ? 

Enter Vincenzo. 
Viv. 'T is 

Decided ; but as yet his doom 's unknown : 
I saw the president in act to seal 
The parchment which will bear the Forty's judgment 
Unto the Doge, and hasten to inform him. [Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 
The Ducal Chamber. 

Marino Faliero, Doge; and his Nephew, Bertuccio 
Faliero. 
Ber. F. It cannot be but they will do you justice. 
Doge. Ay, such as the Avogadori 3 did. 
Who sent up my appeal unto the Forty 
To try him by his peers, his own tribunal. 
Ber. F. His peers will scarce protect him ; such an 
act 
Would bring contempt on all authority. 

3 The Avogadori, three in number, were the ronductora 
of criminal prosecutions on the part of the state; and no 
act of the councils was valid, unless sanctioned by the 
presence of one of them. — E. 



i 



^^^ 



^ 



264 



MARINO FALIERO, 



[Act I. 



Doge. Know you not Venice ? Know you not the 
Forty ? 
But we shall see anon. 

Btr. F. {addressing Vincenzo, then entering.) 
How now — what tidings? 

F^in. I am charged to tell his highness that the court 
Has pass'd its resolution, and that, soon 
As the due forms of judgment are gone through, 
The sentence will be sent up to the Doge ; 
In the mean time the Forty doth salute 
The Prince of the Republic, and entreat 
His acceptation of their duty. 

Doge. Yes — 

They are wond'rous dutiful, and ever humble. 
Sentence is pass'd, you say ? 

Vni. ' It is, your highness: 

The president was sealing if, when I 
Was call'd in, that no moment might be lost 
In forwarding the intimation due 
Not only to the Chief of the Republic, 
But the complainant, both in one united. 

£er. F. Are you aware, from aught you have per- 
ceived, 
Of their decision ? 

Vin. No, my lord ; you know 

The secret custom of the courts in Venice. 

Ber. F. True j but there still is something given to 
guess, 
Which a shi ewd gleaner and quick eye would catch at ; 
A whisper, or a murmur, or an air 
More or less solemn spread o'er the tribunal. 
The Forty are but men — most worthy men. 
And wise, and just, and cautious — this I grant — 
And secret as the grave to which they doom 
The guilty : but with all this, in their aspects — 
At least in some, the juniors of the number — 
A searching eye, an eye like yours, Vincenzo, 
Would read the sentence ere it was pronounced. 

Vin. My lord, I came away upon the moment, 
And had no leisure to take note of that 
Which pass'd among the judges, even in seeming; 
My station near the accused too, Michel Steno, 
Made me 

Do^e {abruptly). And how look'd he ? deliver that. 

Vin. Calm, but not overcast, he stood resign'd 
To the decree, whatever it were ; — but lo ! 
It comes, for the perusal of his highness. 

Enter the Secretary of the Forty. 

Sec. The high tribunal of the Forty sends 
Health and respect to the Doge Faliero, 
Chief magistrate of Venice, and requests 
His highness to peruse and to approve 
The sentence pass'd on Michel Steno, bom 
Patrician, and'arraign'd ujjon the charge 
Contain'd, togjether with its penalty, 
Wiihin the rescript which 1 now present. 

Doge. Retire, and wait without. 

[Exeunt Secretary and Vincenzo. 
Take thou this paper : 
The misty letters vanish from my eyes; 
I cannot tix them. 

Ber. F. Patience, my dear uncle : 

Why do you tremble thus ? — nay, doubt not, all 
Will be as could be wish'd. 

Doge. Say on. 

Ber. F. {reading). *' Decreed 

In council, without one dissenting voice. 
That Michel Stenn, bv his own confession, 
Guilty on the last night of Carnival 
Of having graven on the ducal throne 
The following words " 

Doge. Would'st thou repeat them ? 

Would'st thoii repeat them — thou, a Faliero, 
Harp on the deep dishonour of our house, 
Dishonour'd in its chief — that chief the prince 
Of Venice, first of cities ? — To the sentence. 

Ber. F. Forgive me, my good lord ; I will obey — 
{Reads.) " That Michel Steno be detain'd a month 
In close arrest." 
Doge. Proceed. 

Ber. F. My lord, 't is finish'd. 



Doge. How, say you ? — finish'd ! Do I dream ? — 
't is false — 
Give me the paper — {Snatches the paper and reads) 

— " 'T is decreed in council 
That Michel Steno" Nephew, thine aim ! 

Ber. F. Nay, 

Cheer up, be calm ; this transport is uncall'd for — 
Lei me seek some assistance. 

Doge. Stop, sir — Stir not — 

'T is past. 

Ber. F. I cannot but agree with you 
The sentence is too slight for the olfecce — 
It is not honourable in tlie Forty 
To affix so slight a penalty to that 
Which was a foul alfiont to you, and even 
To them, as being your subjects ; but 't is not 
Yet without remedy : you can ajjpeal 
To them once more, or to the Avogadori, 
Who, seeing that true justice is wi hheld, 
Will now take up the cause they once declined, 
And do you right upon the bold delinquent. 
Think you not thus, good uncle ? why do you stand 
So fix'd ? You heed me not : — I pray you, hear me ! 

Doge {dashing down the diical bonnet, and offer- 
ing to trample upon it, exclaims, as he is 
withheld by his nephew) 
Oh ! that the Saracen were in St. Mark's ! 
Thus would I do him homage. 

Ber. F. For the sake 
Of Heaven and all its saints, my lord 

Doge. Away ! 

Oh, that the Genoese were in the port ! 
Oh, that the Huns whom I o'erthrew at Zara 
Were ranged around the palace I 

Ber. F. 'T is not well 

In Venice' Duke to say so. 

Doge. Venice' Duke ! 

Who now is Duke in Venice ? let me see him, 
That he may do me right. 

Ber. F. If you forget 

Your office, and its dignity and duty, " 
Remember that of man, and curb this passion. 
The Duke of Venice 

Doge {interrupting him). There is no such thing — 
It is a word — nay, worse — a worthless by-word : 
The most despised, wrong'd, outraged, helpless wretch. 
Who begs hi^ bread, if 't is refused by one, 
May win it from another kinder heart ; 
But he, who is denied his right by those 
Whose place it is to do no wrotig, is poorer 
Than the rejected beggar — he 's a slave — 
And that am I, and thou, and all our house, 
Even from this hour; the meanest artisan 
Will point the finger, and the haughty noble 
May spit upon us : — where is our redress ? 

Ber. F. The law, my prince 

Doge {interrupting him). You see what it has done — 
I ask'd no remedy but from the law — 
I sought no vengeance but redress by law — 
I caird no judges but those named by law — 
As sovereign, I appeal'd unto my subjects, 
The very subjects who had made me sovereign, 
And gave me thus a double right to be so. 
The rights of place and choice, of birlh and service, 
Honours and years, the^e scars, these hoary hairs, 
The travel, toil, the perils, the fatigues. 
The blood and sweat of almost eighty years, 
Were weigh'd i' the balance, 'gainst the foulest stain. 
The grossest insult, most contemptuous crime 
Of a rank, rash patrician — and fpund wanting! 
And this is to be borne ! 

Ber. F. I say not that : — 

In c.ise your fresh appeal should be rejected, 
We will find other n)eans to make all even. 

Doge. Appeal again", art thou my brother's son? 
A scion of the house of Faliero ? 
i The nephew of a Doge ? and of that blood 
Which hath already given three dukes to Venice ? 
But thou say'st well — we must be humble now. 

Ber, F. My princely uncle 1 you are too much 
moved : — 



d»aLkk 



Scene II.] 



DOGE OF VENICE, 



265 



I grant it was a gross offence, and grossly 

Left without titling punishment : but still 

This fury doth exceed the provocation, 

Or any provocation : if we are vvrong'd, 

We will ask justice; if it be denied, 

We'll take it; but may do all this in calmness — 

Deep Vengeance is the daughter of deep Silence. 

I have yet scarce a third part of your years, 

I love our house. I honour you, its chief. 

The guardian of my youth, and its instructor — 

But though I understai.d your grief, and enter 

In part of your disdain, it doih appal me 

To see your anger, like our Adrian waves, 

O'ersvveep all bounds, and fo:im itself to air. 

Doge. 1 tell thee — mw4« I tell thee— what thy fa- 
ther 
Would have required no words to comprehend ? 
Hast thou no feeling save the external sense 
Of torture from the touch? hast thou no soul — 
No pride — no passion — no deep sense of honour ? 

Ber. F. 'T is the first time that honour has been 
doubted, 
And were the 1 :\st, from any other sceptic. 

Doge. You know the full offence of ihis born villain, 
This creeping, coward, rank, acquitted felon, 
Who threw his sting into a poisonous libel. 
And on the honour of — Oh God ! my wife, 
The nearest, dearest part of all mens honour, 
Left a base slur to pass from mouth to mouth 
Of loose mechanics, with all coarse foul comments, 
And villanous jests, and blasphemies obscene; 
While sneering nobles, in more polish'd guise, 
Whisper "d the tale, and smiled upon the lie 
Which made me look like them — a courteous wiltol, 
Patient — ay, proud, it may be, of dishonour. 

Ber. F. But still it was a lie — you knew it false, 
And so did all men. 

Doge. Nephew, the high Roman 

Said, '• Cesar's wife must not even be suspected," 
And put her from him. 

Ber. F. True — but in those days 

Doge. What is it that a Roman would not suffer, 
That a Venetian prince must bear ? old Dandolo 
Refused the diadem of all the Caesars, 
And wore the ducal cip I trample on, 
Because 't is now degraded. 

Ber. F. 'Tis even so. 

Di'ge. It is — it is ; — I did not visit on 
The innocent creature thus most vilely slander'd 
Because she took an old man for her lord. 
For that he had been long her father's friend 
And patron of her house, as if there were 
No love in woman's heart but lust of youth 
And beardless faces ; — I did not for this 
Visit the villain's inf imy on her. 
But craved my country's justice on his head. 
The justice due unto the humblest being 
Who hath a wife whose faith is sweet to him, 
Who hath a home whose hearth is dear to him. 
Who hath a name whose honour's all to him. 
When these are tainted by the accursing breath 
Of calumny and scorn. 

Ber. F. And what redress 

Did you expect as his fit punishment? 

Doge. Death ! Was I not the sovereign of the state — 
Insulted on his very throne, and made 
A mockery to the men who should obey me ? 
Was I not injured ns a husband ? scorn'd 
As man ? reviled, degraded, as a prince ! 
Was not offence like his a com()lication 
Of insult and of treason ? — and he lives ! 
Had he instead of on the Doge's throne 
Stamp'd the same brand upon a pe.'sanf's stool, 
His bl'iod had gilt the threshold ; for the carle 
Had stabb'd him on the instant. 

Ber. F. Do not doubt it, 

He shall not live fill sunset — leave to me 
The means, and calm yourself. 

Doge. Hold, nephew : this 

Would have sufficed but yesterday ; at present 
I have no further wrath against this man. 



Ber. F. What mean you ? is not the offence re- 
doubled 
By this most rank — I will not say — acquittal ; 
For it is worse being full acknowledgment 
Of the offence, and leaving it unpuniifi'd ? 

Doge. It is redoubhd, but not now by him : 
The Forty hath decreed a month's arrest — 
We must obey the Forty. 

Ber. F. Obey them ! 

Who have forgot their duty to the sovereign ? 

Doge. Why yes ; — boy, you [jerceive it then at last : 
Whether as fellow citizen who sues 
For justice, or as sovereign who commands it. 
They have defrauded me of both my rights 
'< (For here the sovereign i^ a citizen) ; 
But, notwi'ihstandii.g, harm not thou a hair 
Of S'eno's head — he shall not wear it long. 

Ber. F. Not twelve hours longer, had you left to me 
The mode and means : if you had calmly heard me, 
I never meant this miscreant should escape. 
But wish'd you to suppress such gusts of passion, 
That we more surely might devise together ^ 

His taking off. 

Doge. No, nephew, he must livej 

At least, just now — a life so vile as his 
Were nothing at this hour ; in th' olden time 
Some sacrifices ask'd a single victim, 
Great expiations had a hecatomb. 

Ber. F. Your wishes are my law: and yet I fain 
Would prove to you how near unto my heart 
The honour of our house must ever be. 

Doge. Fear not ; you shall have time and place of 
proof: 
But be not thou too rash, as I have been. 
I am ashamed of my own anger now ; 
I pray you, pardon me. 

Ber. F. Why, that 's my uncle ! 

The leader, and the statesman, and the chief 
Of commonwealths, and sovereign of himself! 
I wonder'd to perceive you so forget 
All prudence in your fury at these years, 
Although the cause 

Doge. Ay, think upon the cause — 

Forget it not : — When you lie down to rest, 
Let it be black among your dreams; and when 
The morn returns, so let it stand between 
The sun and you, as an ill-omen'd cloud 
Upon a summer day of festival : 
So will it stand to rne ; — but speak not, stir not, — 
Leave all to me; — we shall have much to do, 
And you shall have a part. — But now retire, 
'T is fit I were alone. 

Btr. F. (taking up and placing the ducal honneton 
the table). Ere I depart, 

I pray you to resume what you have spurn'd, 
Till you can change it haply for a crown. 
And now I take my leave, imploring you 
In all things to rely upon my duty 
As doth become your near and faithful kinsman. 
And not less loyal citizen and subject. 

[Exit Bertuccio Faliero. 

Doge (solu^). Adieu, my worthy nephew. — Hollow 
bauble ! [Taking up the ducal cap. 

Beset with all the thorns that line a crown, 
Without investing the insulted brow 
With the all-swaying majesty of kings j 
Thou idle, gilded', and degraded toy. 
Let me resume thee as I would a vizor. [P-jfs it on 
How my brain aches beneath thee ! and my temples 
Throb feverish under thy dishonest weight. 
Could I not turn thee to a diadem ? 
Could I not shatter the Briarean sceptre 
Which in this hundred-handed senate rules, 
Making the people nothing, and the prince 
A pageant? in my life 1 have achieved 
Tasks not less difficult — achieved for them, 
Who thus repay me ! — can I not requite them? 
Oh for one year ! Oh !'but for even a diiy 
Of my full youth, while yet my body served 
My soul as serves the generous steed his 1 rd, 
I would have dash'd amongst them, asking fevp 



23 



266 



MARINO FALIERO. 



[Act I. 



In aid to overthrow these swoln patricians ; 
But now I must look round for other hands 
To serve this hoary head ; — but it shall plan 
In such a sort as will not leave the task 
Herculean, though as yet 't is but a chaos 
Of darkly brooding thoughts : my fancy is 
In her first work, more ne;irly to the light 
Ht)lding the sleeping imiges of things 
For the selection of the pausing judgment. — 
The troops are few in 

Enter Vincenzo. 

Vin. There is one without 

Craves audience of your highness. 

Doge. I 'm unwell — 

I can see no one, not even a patrician — 
Let him refer his business to the council. 

Vin. My lord, I will deliver your reply ; 
It cannot much import — he 's a plebeian, 
The master of a galley, I believe. 

Dose. How ! did you say the patron of a galley ? 
That is — I mean — a servant of the state : 
Admit him, he may be on public service. 

[fixit Vincenzo. 

Doge (solus). This patron may be sounded ! I will 
try him. 
I know the people to be discontented : 
They have cause, since Sapienza's adverse day, 
When Genoa conquer'd : they have further cause, 
Since they are nothing in the state, and in 
The city worse than nothing — mere machines, 
To serve the nobles' most patrician pleasure. 
The troops have long arrears of pay, oft promised, 
And murmur deeply — any hope of change 
Will draw them forward : they shall pay themselves 
With plunder: — but the priests — I doubt the priest- 
hood 
Will not be with us ; they have hated me 
Since that rash hour, when, madden'd with the drone, 
I smote the tardy bishop at Treviso,i 
Quickening his holy march ; yet, ne'ertheless, 
They may be won, at least their chief at Rome, 
By some well-timed concessions ; but, above 
All things, I must be speedy : at my hour 
Of twilight little light of life remains. 
Could I free Venice, and avenge my wrongs, 
I had lived too long, and willingly would sleep 
Next moment with my sires ; and, wanting this, 
Better that sixty of my fourscore years 
Had been already where — how soon, I care not — 
The whole must be extinguish'd ; — better that 
They ne'er had been, than drag me on to be 
The thing these arch-oppressors fain would make me. 
Let me consider — of efficient troops 
There are three thousand posted at 

Enter Vincenzo and Israel Bertuccio. 
Vin. May it please 

Your highness, the same patron whom I spake of 
Is here to crave your patience. 

Doge. Leave the chamber, 

Vincenzo. — [Exit Vincenzo. 

Sir, you may advance — what would you ? 
I. Ber. Redress. 
Doge. Of whom ? 

/. Ber. Of God and of the Doge. 

Doge. Alas I my friend, you seek it of the twain 
Of least respect and interest in Venice. 
You must address the council. 

I. Ber. 'T were in vain ; 

For he who injured me is one of them. 
Doge. There 's blood upon thy face — how came it 

there ? 
/. Ber. 'T is mine, and not the first I 've shed for 
Venice, 

1 An historical fact. See Marin Sanuto's Lives of the 
Doges.— [" Sanuto says that Heaven took away his senses 
for this buffet, and induced him to conspire: — 'Pero fu 
permesso che il Faliero perdette I'intelletto,' " &c. — 
Byron Letters. — E.] 



But the first shed by a Venetian hand : 
A noble smote me. 

Doge. Doth he live ? 

I. Ber. Not long — 

But for the hope I had and have, that you, 
My prince, yourself a soldier, will redress 
Him, whom the laws of discipline and Venice 
Permit not to protect himself: — if not — 
I say no more. 

Doge. But something you would do — 

Is it not so ? 

/. Ber. I am a man, my lord. 

Doge. Why so is he who smote you. 

/. Ber. He is call'd so j 

Nay, more, a noble one — at least, in Venice : 
But since he hath forgotten that I am one, 
And treats me like a brute, the brute may turn — 
'T is said the worm will. 

Doge. Say — his name and lineage ? 

/. Ber. Barbaro. 

Doge. What was the cause ? or the pretext ? 

/. Ber. I am the chief of the arsenal, 2 employ'd 
At present in repairing certain galleys 
But roughly used by the Genoese last year. 
This morning comes the noble Barbaro 
Full of reproof, because our artisans 
Had left some frivolous order of his house. 
To execute the state's decree : I dared 
To justify the men — he raised his hand ; — 
Behold my blood ! the first time it e'er flow'd 
Dishonourably. 

Doge. Have you long time served ? 

/. Be)\ So long as to remember Zara's siege, 
And fight beneath the chief who beat the Huns there. 
Sometime my general, now the Doge Faliero. — 

Doge. How! are we comrades? — the state's ducal 
robes 
Sit newly on me, and you were appointed 
Chief of the arsenal ere'I came from Rome ; 
So that I recognised you not. Who placed you ? 

/. Ber. The late Doge j keeping still my old com- 
mand 
As patron of a galley : my new office 
Was given as the reward of certain scars 
(So was your predecessor pleased to say): 
I little thought his bonnty would conduct me 
To his successor as a helpless plaintitf j 
At least, in such a cause. 

Doge. Are you much hurt ? 

/. Ber. Irreparably in my self-esteem. 

Doge. Speak out ; fear nothing : being stung at 
heart, 
What would you do to be revenged on this man ? 

/. Ber. That which I dare not name, and yet will 
do. 

Doge. Then wherefore came you here ? 

I. Ber. I come for justice. 

Because my general is Doge, and will not 
See his old soldier trampled on. Had any, 
Save Faliero, fiil'd the ducal throne. 
This blood had been wash'd out in other blood. 

Doge. You come to me for justice — unto me ! 
The Doge of Venice, and I cmnot give it ; 
I cannot even obtain it — 't was denied 
To me most solemnly an hour ago ! 

/. Ber, How says your highness ? 

Doge. Steno is condemn'd 

To a month's confinement. 

/. Ber. What ! the same who dared 

To stain the ducal throne with those foul words. 
That have cried shame to every ear in Venice ? 



2 This officer was chief of the artisans of the arsenal, 
and commanded the Bucentaur, for the safety of which, 
even if an accidental storm should arise, he was respon- 
sible with his life. He mounted guard at the ducal palace 
during an interregnum, and bore the red standard before 
the new Doge on his inauguration; for which service his 
perquisites were the ducal mantle, and the two silver 
basins from which the Doge scattered the regulated pit- 
tance which he was permitted to throw among the peo- 
ple. — Amelot de la Houssaye, 79. — E. 



tUtasiiiSJttttu 



uss^atMummmma^aum 



mtm 



itmk 



Scene II.] 



DOGE OF VENICE 



267 



Doge. Ay, doubtless they have echo'd o'er the 
arsenal, 
Keeping due time wi(h every hammer's clink 
As a good jest to jolly artisans ; 
Or making chorus to the creaking oar, 
In the vile tune of every galley-slave. 
Who, as he sung the merry stave, exulted 
He was not a shamed dotard like the Doge. 

/. Ber. Is 't possible? a month's imprisonment ! 
No more for Steno ? 

Doge. You have heard the offence, 

And now you know his punishment ; and then 
You ask redress of me ! Go to the Forty, 
Who pass'd the sentence upon Michel Steno; 
They '11 do as much by Barbaro, no doubt. 

/. Ber. Ah! dared I speak my feelings ! 

Doge. Give them breath. 

Mine have no further outrage to endure. 

/. Ber, Then, in a word, it rests but on your word 
To punish and avenge — I will not say 
My petty wrong, for what is a mere blow. 
However vile, to such a thing as I am ? — 
But the base insult done your state and person. 

Doge. You overrate my power, which is a pageant. 
This cap is not the monarch's crown ; these robes 
Might move compassion, like a beggar's rags; 
Nay, more, a beggar's are his own, and these 
But lent to the poor puppet, who must play 
Its part with all its empire in this ermine. 

/. Ber. Wouldst thou be king? 

Doge. Yes — of a happy people. 

/. Ber. Wouldst thou be sovereign lord of Venice ? 

Doge. Ay, 

If that the people shared that sovereignty, 
So that nor they nor I were further .slaves 
To this o'ergrown aristocratic Hydra, 
The poisonous heads of whose envenom'd body 
Have breathed a pestilence upon us all. 

/. Ber. Yet, thou wast born, and still hast lived, 
patrician. 

Doge. In evil hour was I so born ; my birth 
Hath made me Doge to be insulied : but 
I lived and toil'd a soldier and a servant 
Of Venice and her people, not the senate ; 
Their good and my own honour were my guerdon. 
I have fought aiid bled ; commanded, ay, and con- 
quered ; 
Have made and marr'd peace oft in embassies, 
As it might chance to be our country's 'vantage ; 
Have traversed land and sea in constant duty, 
Through almost sixty years, and still for Venice, 
My fathers' and my birthplace, whose dear spires, 
Rising at distance o'er the blue Ligoon, 
It was reward enough for me to view 
Once more; but not for any knot of men, 
Nor sect, nor faction, did I bleed or sweat ! 
But would you know why I have done all this? 
Ask of the bleeding pelican why she 
Hath ripp'd her bosom ? Had the bird a voice. 
She'd tell thee 't was for all her little ones. 

/. Ber. And yet they made thee duke. 

Doge. They made me so ; 

I sought it not, the flattering fetters met me 
Returning from my Roman embas-y, 
And never having hitherto refused 
Toil, charge, or duty for the slate, I did not, 
At these late years, decline what was the highest 
Of all in seeming, but of all most base 
In what we have to do and to endure : 
Bear witness for me thou, my injured subject. 
When I can neither right myself nor thee. 

/. Ber. You shall do" both, if you possess the will; 
And many thousands more not less oppress'd, 
Who wait but for a signal — will you give it ? 

Doge. You speak in riddles. 

/. Ber. Which shall soon be read 

At peril of my life ; if you disdain not 
To lend a patient ear. 

Doge. Say on. 

/. Ber. Not thou, 

Nor I alone, are injured and abused, 



Contemn'd and trampled on ; but the whole people 

Groan with the strong conception of their wrongs ; 

The foreign soldiers in the senate's pay 

Are discontented for their long arrears ; 

The native miriners, and civic troops, 

Feel with their friends ; for who is he amongst them 

Whose brethren, parents, children, wives, or sisters, 

Have not partook oppression, or pollution, 

From the patricians ? And the hopeless war 

Against the Genoese, which is still maintain'd 

With the plebeian blood, and treasure wrung 

From their hard earnings, has inflamed them further: 

Even now — but, I forget that speaking thus. 

Perhaps I pass the sentence of my death ! 

Doge. And suffering what thou hast done — fear'st 
thou death? 
Be silent then, and live on, to be beaten 
By those for whom thou hast bled. 

/. Ber. No, I will speak 

At every hazard ; and if Venice' Doge 
Should turn delator, be the shame on him, 
And sorrow too; for he will lose far more 
Than I. 

Doge. From me fear nothing ; out with it ! 

/. Ber. Know then, that there are met and sworn Id 
secret 
A band of brethren, valiant hearts and true; 
Men who have proved all fortunes, and have long 
Grieved over that of Venice, and have right 
To do so ; having served her in all climes. 
And having rescued her from foreign foes, 
Would do the same from those within her walls. 
They are not numerous, nor yet too few 
For their great purpose ; they have arms, and means, 
And hearts, and hopes, and faith, and patient courage. 

Doge. For what then do they pause ? 

/. Ber. An hour to strike. 

Doge (aside). Saint Mark's shall strike that hour ! i 

7. Ber. I now have placed 

My life, my honour, all my earthly hopes 
Within thy power, but in the firm belief 
That injuries like ours, sprung from one cause, 
Will generate one vengeance : should it be so. 
Be our chief now — our sovereign hereafter. 

Doge. How many are ye ? 

I. Ber. • I '11 not answer that 

Till 1 am answer'd. 

Doge. How, sir ! do you menace ? 

/. Ber. No ; I affirm. I have betray 'd myself; 
But there 's no torture in the mystic wells 
Which undermine your palace, nor in those 
Not less appalling cells, the " leaden roofs," 
To force a single name from me of others. 
The Pozzi '^ and the Piombi were in vain ; 
They might wring blood from me, but treachery 

never. 
And I would pass the fearful '* Bridge of Sighs," 
Joyous that mine must be the last that e'er 
Would echo o'er the Stygian wave which flows 
Between the murderers and the murder'd, washing 
The prison and the palace walls : there are 
Those who would live to think on 't, and avenge me. 

Doge. If such your power and purpose, why come 
here 
To sue for justice, being in the course 
To do yourself due right? 



1 The bells of San Marco were never rung but by order 
of the Doge. One of the pretexts for ringing this alarm 
wa« to have been an announcement of the appearance of a 
Genoese fleet off the Lagune. 

2 The state dungeons, called Pozzi, or wells, were sunk 
in the thick walls of the palace; and the prisoner, when 
taken out to die, was conducted across the gallery to the 
other side, and being then led back into the lAher (om- 
partment, or cell, upon the bridge, was there strangled. 
The low portal through which the criminal was taken 
into this cell ia now walled up; but the passage is open, 
and is still known by the name of the Bridge of Sighs. — 
HOBHOUSE. — E. 



268 



MARINO FALIERO, 



[Act II. 



I. Ber. Because the man, 

Who claims protection from authority, 
Showing his confidence and his submission 
To that authority, can hardly be 
Suspected of combining to destroy it. 
Had 1 sate down too humbly with this blow, 
A moody brow and mutter'd threats had made me 
A mark'd man to the Forty's inquisiiion; 
But loud complaint, however angrily 
It shapes its phrase, is little to be fear'd, 
And less distrusted. But, besides all this, 
I had another reason. 

Doge. What was that ? 

1. Ber. Some rumours that the Doge was greatly 
moved 
By the reference of the Avogadori 
Of Michel Steno's sentence to the Forty 
Had reach'd me. I had served you, honourd you, 
And fell that you were dangerously insulted. 
Being of an order of such spirits, as 
Requite tenfold both good and evil : 't was 
My wish to prove and urge you to redress. 
Now you know all ; and that 1 speak, the truth. 
My peril be the proof. 

D >ge. You have deeply ventured ', 

But all must do so who would greatly win : 
Thus far 1 '11 answer you — your secret 's safe. 

/. Btr. And is this all ? 

Doge. Unless with all intrusted. 

What would you have me answer ? 

/. Ber. I would have you 

Trust him who leaves his life in trust with you. 

Doge. But I must know your plan, your names, and 
numbers ; 
The last may then be doubled, and the former 
Matured and strengthen'd. 

/, Ber. We're enough already ; 

You are the sole ally we covet now. 

Doge. But bring me to the knowledge of your chiefs. 

I. Ber. That shall be done upon your formal pledge 
To keep the faith that we will pledge to you. 

Doge. When ? where ? 

/. Ber. This night I '11 bring to your apartment 

Two of the principals : a greater number 
Were hazardous. 

Doge. Stay, I must think of this. 

What if I were to trust myself amongst you. 
And leave the palace ? 

/. Ber. You must come alone. 

Doge. With but my nephew. 

7. Ber. Not were he your son. 

Doge. Wretch ! darest thou name my son ? He died 
in arms 
At Sapienza for this faithless state. 
Oh ! that he were alive, and I in ashes! 
Or that he were alive ere I be ashes ! 
I should not need the dubious aid of strangers. 

/. Ber. Not one of all those strangers" whom thou 
doubtest, 
But will regard thee with a filial feeling. 
So that thou keep'st a father's faith with them. 

Doge. The die is cast. Where is the place of meet- 
ing? 

7. Ber. At midnight I will be alone and mask'd 
Where'er your hi2:hne-s pleases to direct me. 
To wait your coming, and conduct you where 
You shall receive our homage, and pronounce 
Upon our project. 

Doge. At what hour arises 

The moon ? 

7. Ber. Late, but the atmosphere is thick and dusky, 
'T is a sirocco. 

Doge. At the midnight hour, then, 

Near to the church where sleep my sires ; i the sime. 



l"The Doges were all buried in St. Mark's before Fa- 
liero. It is singular that when his predecessor, Andrea 
Dandolo, died, the Ten made a law that all the future 
Dopes should be buried with their familit's in their own 
churches— one would think, by a kind of presentiment. 
So that all that is said of his ancestral Doges, as buried 



Twin-named from the apostles John and Paul ; 
A gondola, 2 with one oar only, will 
Lurk in the narrow channel which glides by. 
Be there. 

I. Ber. I will not fail. 

Doge. And now retire • 

7. Ber. In the full hope your highness will not falter 
In your great purpose. Prince, I take my leave. 

[Exit Israel Bertuccio. 

Doge (solus). At midnight, by the church Saints 
John and Paul, 
Where sleep my noble fathers, I repair — 
To what ? to hold a council in the dark 
With common ruffians leagued to ruin states ! 
And will not my great sires leap from the vault, 
Where lie two doges who preceded me. 
And pluck me down amongst them? Would they 

could ! 
For I should rest in honour with the honour'd, 
Alas ! I must not think of them, but those 
Who have made me thus unworthy of a name 
Noble and brave as aught of consular 
On Roman marbles ; but I will redeem it 
Back to its antique lustre in our annals. 
By sweet revenge on all that 's base in Venice, 
And freedom to the rest, or leave it black 
To all the growing calumnies of time. 
Which never spare the fame of him who fails, 
But try the Caesar, or the Catiline, 
By the true touchstone of desert — success. 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. 
An Apartment ih the Ducal Palace. 
Angiolina {wife of the Doge) and Marianna. 
Aug. What was the Doge's answer ? 

^ ^o.r. That he was 

That moment summon'd to a conference ; 
I But 't is by this time ended. I perceived 
! Not long ago the senators embarking ; 

And the l^st gondola may now be seen 

Gliding into the throng of barks which stud 

The glittering waters. 
Aug. Would he were return'd ! 

He has been much disquieted of late j 

And Time, which has not tamed his fiery spirit, 

Nor yet enfeebled even his mortal frame, 
j Which seems to be more nourish'd by a soul 

So quick and restless that it would consume 
I Less hardy clay — Time has but little power 
{ On his resentments or his griefs. Unlike 
! To other spirits of his order, who, 

In the first burst of passion, pour away 
, Their wrath or s irrow, all things wear in him 
I An aspect of elernify : his thoughts, 
I His feelings, passions, good or evil, all 

Have nothing of old age ; and his bold brow 
' Bears but the scars of mind, the thoughts of years, 

Not their decrepitude : and he of la;e 

Has been more agitated than his wont. 

Would he were come ! for I alone have power 

Upon his troubled spirit. 

Mar. It is true, 

His highness has of late been greatly moved 



at St. John's and Paul's, is altered from the fact, they 
being in St. Mark's. Make a note of this, and put Editor 
as the subscription to it. As 1 make such pretensions to 
nccuracy, I should not like to be twitted even with such 
trifles on that score. Of the play they may say what they 
please, but not so of my costume and liram. pers.— they 
having been real existences."— Bj/ron Letters, Oct. 
1820.- E. 

2 A. gondola is not like a common boat, but is as easily 
rowed with one oar as with two (though, of course, liot so 
swiftly), and often is so from motives of privacy; and, 
since the decay of Venice, of economy. 



Scene I.] 



DOGE OF VENICE. 



269 



By the affron* of Steno, and with cause : 
But the oti'ender doubtless even now 
Is doom'd to expiate his rash insult with 
Such chastisement as will enforce respect 
To female virtue, and to noble bli)od. 

Aug. 'T WIS a gross insult ; but I heed it not 
For the rash scorner's falsehood in itself, 
But for the effect, the deadly deep impression 
Which it has made upon Faliero's soul, 
The proud, the fiery, the austere — austere 
To all save me : I tremble when 1 think 
To what it may couduci. 

Mar. Assuredly 

The Doge can not suspect you ? 

Aug. Suspect me .' 

Why Steno dared not: when he scrawl'd his lie, 
Grovelling by stealth in the moon's glimmering light, 
His own still conscience smote him for (he act, 
And every shadow on the walls frown'd shame 
Upon his coward calumny. 

Mar, 'T were fit 

He should be punish'd grievously. 

dng. He is so. 

Mar. What ! is the sentence pass'd ? is he con- 
demn'd ? 

Ang. 1 know not that, but he has been detected. 

Mar. And deem you this enough for such foul scorn ? 

Ang. I would not be a judge in my own cause, 
Nor do I know what sense of punishment 
May re<ch the soul of ribilds such as Steno j 
But if his insults sink no deeper in 
The minds of the inquisitor^ than they 
Have ruttied mine, he will, for all acquittance, 
Be left to his own shamelessness or shame. 

Mar. Some sacrifice is due to slander'd virtue. 

Ang. Why, what is virtue if it needs a victim? 
Or if it must depend upon men's words ? 
The dying Roman said, " 't was but a name:" 
It were indeed no more, if human breath 
Could make or mar it. 

Mar. Yet full many a dame, 

S'ainless and faithful, would feel all the wrong 
Of such a slander ; and less rigid ladies. 
Such as abound in Venice, would be loud 
And all-inexorable in their cry 
For justice. 

Ang. This but proves it is the name 

And not the quality they prize : the first 
Have found it a hard task to hold their honour, 
If they require it to be blazon'd forth ; 
And those who have not kept it, seek its seeming 
As they would look out for an ornament 
Of which they feel the want, but not because 
They think it so ; they live in others' thoughts, 
And would seem honest as they must seem fair. 

Mar. You have strange thoughts for a patrician 
dame, 

Ang. And yet they were my father's ; with his name. 
The sole inheritance he left. 

Mar. You want none ; 

Wife to a prince, the chief of the Republic. 

Ang. I should have sought none though a peasant's 
bride. 
But feel not less the love and gratitude 
Due to my father, who bestow'd my hand 
Upon his early, tried, and trusted friend. 
The Count Val di Marino, now our Doge. 

Mar. And with that hand did he bestow your heart ? 

Ang. He did so, or it had not been bestow'd. 

Mar. Yet this strange disproportion in your years, 
And, let me add, disparity of tempers. 
Might make the world doubt whether such an union 
Could make you wisely, permanently happy. 

Ang. The world will think with worldlings j but 
my heart 
Has still been in my duties, which are many. 
But never difficult. 

Mar, And do you love him? 

Ang. I love all noble qualities which merit 
Love, and I loved my father, who first taught me 
To single out what we should love in othei-s, 
___ 



And to subdue all tendency to lend 

The best and purest feelings of our nature 

To baser passions. He bestow'd my hand 

Upon Faliero : he had known him noble, 

Biave, generous ; rich in all the qualities 

Of soldier, citizen, and friend; in all 

Such hive 1 found him as my father said. 

His faults are those that dwell in the high bosoms 

Of men who have commanded j too much pride, 

And the deep passions fiercely foster d by 

The uses of patricians, and a life 

Spent in the storms of state and war; and also 

From the quick sense of honour, which becomes 

A duty to a certain sign, a vice 

When overstraiu'd, and this 1 fear in him. 

And then he has been rash from his youth upwards. 

Yet temper'd by redeeming nobleness 

In such sort, that the vv irie>t of republics 

Has lavish'd ail it-, chief employs upon him, 

From his hrst fight to his last embassy, 

From which on his return the dukedom met him. 

Mar. But previous to this marriage, had your heart 
Ne'er beat for any of the noble youth, 
Such as in years had been more meet to match 
Beauty like yours ? or since have you ne'er seen 
One, who, if your fair hand were still to give, i, 
Might now pretend to Loredano's daughter ? 

Ang. 1 answer'd your first question when I said 
I married. 

Mar. And the second ? 

Ang. Needs no answer. 

Mar. I pray you pardon, if I have offended. 

Ang. I feel no wrath, but some surprise ; I knew not 
That wedded bosoms could permit themselves 
To ponder upon what they now might choose. 
Or aught save their past choice. 

Mar. 'T is their past choice 

That far too often makes them deem they would 
Now choose more wisely, could thjy cancel it. 

Ang. It may be so. I knew not of such thoughts. 

Mar. Here comes the Doge — shall I retire ? 

Ang. It may 

Be better you should quit me ; he seems rapt 
In thought. — How pensively he takes his way ! 

[Exit Marianna. 

Enter the Doge and Pietro. 

Doge (musing). There is a certain Philip Calendaro 
Now in the Arsenal, who holds command 
Of eighty men, and has great influence 
Resides on all the spirits of his comrades : 
This man, I he^r, is bold and popular, 
Sudden and daring, and yet secret ; 't would 
Be well that he were won : I needs must hope 
That Israel Rertuccio has secured him, 
But fain would be 

Pie. My lord, pray pardon me 

For breaking in upon your meditation ; 
The Senator Bertuccio, your kinsman. 
Charged me to follow and enquire your pleasure 
To fix an hour when he may speak with you. 

Doge. At sunset. — Stay a moment — let me see — 
Say in the second hour of night. [Exit Pietro. 

Ang. My lord ! 

Doge. My dearest child, forgive me — why delay 
So long approaching me ? — I saw you not. 

Ang. You were absorbM in thought, and he who now 
H;is parted from you might have words of weight 
To bear you from the senate. 

Doge. From the senate ? 

Ang. I would not interrupt him in his duty 
And theirs. 

Doge. The senate's duty ! you mistake ; 

'T is we who owe all service to the senate. 

Ang. I thought the Duke had held command in 
Venice. 

Doge. He shall.— But let that pass.— We will bo 
jocund. 
How f:ires it with you ? have you been abroad ? 
The day is overcast, but the calm wave 
Favours the gondolier's light skimming oar; 



270 



MARINO FALIERO, 



[Act II. 



Or have you held a levee of your friends ? 
Or has your music made you solitary ? 
Say — is there aught that you would will within 
The little sway now left the Duke ? or aught 
Of fitting splendour, or of honest pleasure, 
Social or lonely, that would glad your he.irt, 
To compensate for many a dull hour, wasted 
On an old man oft moved with many cares ? 
Speak, and 't is done. 

Ang. You 're ever kind to me. 

I have nothing to desire, or to request, 
Except to see you ofiener and calmer. 

Doge. Calmer? 

Aug. Ay, calmer, my good lord.— Ah, why 

Do you still keep "apart, and walk alone, 
And let such strong emotions stamp your brow, 
As not betraying their full import, yet 
Disclose too much ? 

Doge. Disclose too much ! — of what ? 

What is there to disclose ? 

Ang. A heart so ill 

At ease. 

Doge. 'T is nothing, child.— But in the state 
You know what daily cares oppress all those 
Who govern this precarious commonwealth; 
Now suti'ering from the Genoese without. 
And malcontents within — 't is this which makes me 
More pensive and less tranquil than my wont. 

Ang. Yet this existed long before, and never 
Till in these late days did I see you thus. 
Forgive me ; there is something at your heart 
More than the mere disciiarge of public duties, 
Which long use and a talent like to youre 
Have rendered light, nay, a necessity. 
To keep your mind from stagnating. 'T is not 
In hostile states, nor perils, thus to shake you ; 
You, who have stood all storms and never sunk, 
And clinib'd up to the pinnacle of power 
And never fainted by the way, and stand 
Upon it, and can look down steadily 
Along the depth beneath, and ne'er feel dizzy. 
Were Genoa's galleys riding in the port, 
Were civil fury raging in Saint Mark's, 
You are not to be wrought on, but would fall. 
As you have risen, with an nnaller'd brow — 
Your feelings now are of a different kind ; 
Something has stung your pride, not patriotism. 

Doge. Pride ! Angiolina ? Alas ! none is left me. 

Ang. Yes — the same sin that overthrew the angels. 
And of all sins most easily besets 
Mortals the nearest to the angelic nature : 
The vile are only vain ; the "great are proud. 

Doge. I had the pride of honour, of your honour. 
Deep at my heart But let us change the theme. 

Ang. Ah no ! — As I have ever shared your kind- 
ness 
In all things else, let me not be shut out 
From your distress: were it of public import, 
You know I never sought, would never seek 
To win a word from you ; but feeling now 
Your grief is private, it belongs to me 
To lighten or divide it. Since the day 
When foolish Steno's ribaldry detected 
Unfix'd your quiet, you are greatly changed. 
And I would soothe you back to what you were. 

Doge. To what I was! — have you heard Steno's 
sentence ? 

Ang. No. 

Doge. A month's arrest. 

Aiig. Is it not enough ? 

Doge. Enough ! — yes, for a drunken galley slave. 
Who, stung by stripes, may murmur at his master ; 
But not for a deliberate, false, cool villain, 
Who stains a lady's and a prince's honour 
Even on the throne of his authority. 

Ang. There seems to me enough in the conviction 
Of a patrician guilty of a falsehood : 
All other punishment were light unto 
His loss of honour. 

Doge. Such men have no honour ; 

They have but their vile lives — and these are spared. 



Ang. You would not have him die for this offence ? 

Doge. Not note;- being still alive, I'd have him 
live 
Long as he can ; he has ceased to merit death ; 
The guilty saved hath damn'd his hundred judges, 
And he is' pure, for now his crime is theirs. 

Ang. Oh ! had this false and flippant libeller 
Shed his young blood for his absurd lampoon. 
Ne'er from that moment could this breast have known 
A joyous hour, or dreamless slumber more. 

Doge. Dues not the law of Heaven say blood for 
blood ? 
And he who taints kills more than he who sheds it. 
Is it the pain of blows, or shame of blows, 
That makes such deadly to the sense of man ? 
Do not the laws of man say blood for honour? 
And, less than honour, for a little gold ? 
Say not the laws of nations blood for treison ? 
Is 't nothing to have filTd these veins with poison 
For their once healthful current ? is it nothing 
To have stain'd your name and mine — the noblest 

names ? 
Is *t nothing to have brought into contempt 
A prince before his people ? to have fail'd 
In the respect accorded by mankind 
To youth in woman, and'old age in man? 
To "virtue in your sex, and dignity 
In ours? — But let them look to it who have saved 
him. 

Ang. Heaven bids us to forgive our enemies. 

Doge. Doth Heaven forgive her own? Is Satan 
saved 
From wrath eternal ? 

Ang. Do not speak thus wildly — 

Heaven will alike forgive you and your foes. 

Doge. Amen I May Heaven forgive them ! 

Ang. And will you ? 

Doge. Yes, when they are in heaven ! 

Ang. And not till then ? 

Doge. What matters my forgiveness? an old man's. 
Worn out, scorn'd, spurn'd, abused; what matters then 
My pardon more than my resentment, both 
Being weak and worthless ? I have lived too long. — 
But let us change the argument.— My child ! 
My injured wife, the child of Loreda'no, 
The brave, the chivalrous, how little deem'd 
Thy father, wedding thee unto his friend, 
That he was linking thee to shame ! — Alas ! 
Shame without sin, for thou art faultless. Hadst thou 
But had a ditferent husband, any husband 
In Venice save the Doge, this blight, this brand, 
This blasphemy had never fallen upon thee. 
So young, so beautiful, so good, so pure, 
To'sutfer this, and yet be unavenged ! 

Ang. I am. too well avenged, for you still love me, 
And trust, and honour me; and all men know 
That you are just, and I am true : what more 
Could I require, or you command ? 

Doge. 'T is well, 

And may be better ; but whate'er betide, 
Be thou at least kind to my memory. 

Ang. Why speak you thus ? 

Doge. It is no matter why ; 

But I would still, whatever others think, 
Have your respect both now and in my grave. 

Ang. Why should you doubt it ? has it ever fail'd ? 

Doge. Come hither, child ; I would a word with 
you. 
Your father was my friend ; unequal fortune 
Made him my debtor for some courtesies 
Which bind the good more firmly: when, oppress'd 
With his last malady, he will'd our union. 
It was not to repay me, long repaid 
Before by his great loyalty in friendship ; 
His object was to place your orphan beauty 
In honourable safety from the perils, 
Which, in this scorpion nest of vice, assail 
A lonely and undower'd maid. I did not 
Think with him, but would not oppose the thought 
Which soothed his death-bed. 



2ZK 



a^MA^ai 



Scene I.] 



DOGE OF VENICE 



271 



Jlng. I have not forgottea 

The nobleness with wliich you bade me speak 
If my young heart held any preference 
Which would have made me happier ; nor your offer 
To make my dowry equal to ihe rank 
Of aught in Venice, and foiego all claim 
My father's last injunction save you. 

Doge. " Thus, 

'T was not a foolish dotard's vile caprice, 
Nor the false edge of aged appetite, 
Which made me covetous of girlish beauty, 
And a young bride : for in my fieriest youth 
I sway'd such passions ; nor was this my age 
Infected with that leprosy of lust 
Which taints the hoariest years of vicious men, 
Making them ransack to the very list 
The dregs of pleasure for their vanish'd joys; 
Or buy in selfish marriage some young victim, 
Too helpless to refuse a state that 's honest, 
Too feeling not to know herself a wretch. 
Our wedlock was not of this sort ; you had 
Freedom from me to choose, and urged in answer 
Your father's choice. 

Aug. I did so ; I would do so 

In face of earth and heaven ; for I have never 
Repented for my sake ; sometimes for yours. 
In pondering o'er your late disquietudes. 

Doge. I knew my heart would never treat you 
harshly ; 
I knew my days could not disturb you long ; 
And then the daughter of my earliest friend, 
His worthy daughter, free to choose again, 
Wealthier and wiser, in the ripest bloom 
Of womanhood, more skilful to select 
By p\ssing these probationary years, 
Inheriting a prince's name and riches, 
Secured, by the short penance of enduring 
An old man for some summers, against all 
That law's chicane or envious kinsmen might 
Have urged against her right ; my best friend's child 
Would choose more fitly in respect of years. 
And not less truly in a faithful heart. 

Aug. My lord, I look'd but to my father's wishes, 
Hallovv'd by his last words, and to my heart 
For doing all its duties, and replying 
With faith to him with whom I was affianced. 
Ambitious hopes ne'er cross'd my dreams ; and should 
Tiie hour you speak of come it will be seen so. 

Doge. I do believe you; and I know you true: 
For love, romantic love, which in my youth 
I knew to be illusion, and ne'er saw 
Lasting, but often fatal, it had been 
No lure for me, in my most passionate days, 
And could not be so now, did such exist. 
But such respect, and mildly paid regard 
As a true feeling for your welfare, and 
A free compliance with all honest wishes ; 
A kindness to your virtues, watchfulness 
Not shown, but shadowing o'er such little failings 
As youth is apt in, so as not to check 
Rashly, but win you from them ere you knew 
You had been won, but thought the change your 

choice ; 
A pride not in your beauty, but your conduct,— 
A trust in you — a patriarchal love, 
And not a doting homage — friendship, faith — 
Such estimation in your eyes as these 
Might claim, I hoped for. 

Ang, And have ever had. 

Doge. I think so. For the difference in our years 
You knew it, chooi^ing me, and chose : I trusted 
Not to my qualities, nor would have faith 
In such, nor outward ornaments of nature. 
Were I still in my five-and-twentieth spring; 
I trusted to the blood of Loredano 
Pure in your veins ; I trusted to the soul 
God gave you — to the truths your father tanght you — 
To your belief in Heaven — to your mild virtues — 
To your own f^ith and honour, for my own. 

Ang. You have done well.— I thank you for that 
trust. 



Which I have never for one moment ceased 
To honour you the more for. 

Doge. Where is honour, 

Innate and precept-strengthen'd, 't is the rock 
Of faith connubial : where it is not — where 
Light thoughts are lurking, or the vanities 
Of worldly pleasure rankle in the heart, 
Or sensual throbs convulse it, well I know 
'T were hopeless for humanity to dream 
Of honesty in such infected blood, 
Although 't were wed to him it covets most : 
An incarnation of the poet's god 
In all his marblechiselTd beauty, or 
The demi-deity, Alcides, in 
His majesty of superhuman manhood, 
Would not suffice to bind where virtue is not; 
It is consistency which forms and proves it: 
Vice cannot fix, and virtue cannot chinge. 
The once fall'n woman must for ever fall ; 
For vice must have variety, while virtue 
Stands like the sun, and all which rolls around 
Drinks life, and light, and glory from her aspect. 

Ang. And seeing, feeling thus this truth in others, 
(I pray you pardon me ;) but wherefore yield you 
To the most fierce of fatal passions, and 
Disquiet your great thoughts with restless hate 
Of such a thing as Steno ? 

Doge, You mistake me. 
It is not Steno who could move me thus ; 
Had it been so, he should but let that pass. 

Aug. What is 'tyou feel so deeply, then, even now ? 

Doge. The violated majesty of Venice, 
At once insulted in her lord and laws. 

A7ig. Alas ! why will you thus consider it ? 

Do§e. I have thought on 't till but let me lead 

" you back 
To what I urged ; all these things being noted, 
I wedded you ; the world then did me justice 
Upon the motive, and my conduct proved 
They did me right, while yours was all to praise : 
You had all freedom — all respect — all trust 
From me and mine ; and, born of those who made 
Princes at home, and swept kings from their thrones 
On foreign shores, in all things you appear'd 
Worthy to be our first of native dames. 

Ang, To what does this conduct ? 

Doge. To thus much — that 

A miscreant's angry breath may blast it all — 
A villain, whom for his unbridled bearing. 
Even in the midst of our great festival, 
I caused to be conducted forth, and taught 
How to demean himself in ducal chambers ; 
A wretch like this may leave upon the wall 
The blighting venom of his sweltering heart. 
And this shall spread itself in general poison; 
And woman's innocence, min's honour, pass 
Into a by-word ; and the doubly felon 
(Who first insulted virgin modesty 
By a gross affront to your attendant damsels 
Amidst the noblest of our dames in public) 
I Requite himself for his most just expulsion 
By blackening publicly his sovereign's consort. 
And be absolved by his upright compeers. 

Aug. But he has been condemn'd into captivity. 

Doge. For such as him a dungeon were acquittal ; 
And his brief term of mock-arrest will pass 
Within a palace. But I 've done with him ; 
The rest must be with you. 

A7ig. With me, my lord ? 

Doge. Yes, Angiolina. Do not marvel ; I 
Have let this prey upon me till I feel 
My life cannot be long; and fain would have you 
Regard the injunctions you will find within 
This scroll (Gwiiig her a paper) — — Fear not ; they 

are for your advantage : 
Read them hereafter at the fitting hour. 

Aug. My lord, in jife, and after life, you shall 
Be honoured still by me : but niay your days 
Be many yet — and happier than the present ! 
This passion will give way, and you will be 
Serene, and what you should be — what you were. 



'] 



272 



MARINO FALIERO, 



[Act If. 



Dnge. I will be what I should be, or be nothing j 
But never more — oh ! never, never more. 
O'er the few days or hours which yet await 
The blishted old age of Faliero, shall 
Sweet Quiet shed her sunset I Never more 
Those summer shadows rising from the past 
Of a no: ill-spent nor inglorious life. 
Mellowing the last hours as the night approaches, 
Shall sooihe me to my moment of long rest. 
I had but litlle more to task, or hope. 
Save the regards due to the blood and sweat, 
And the soul's labour through which I had toil'd 
To make my country honour'd. As her servant — 
Her tervantj though her chief— I would have gone 
Down to my fathers with a mme serene 
And pure as theirs ; but this has been denied me. — 
Would I had died at Zara ! 

Aug. There you saved 

The state ; then live to save her stiU. A day, 
Another day like that would be the best 
Reproof to them, and sole revenge for you. 

Doge. But one such day occurs within an age; 
My life is little less than one, and 'tis 
Enough for Fortune to have granted once, 
That which scarce one more favour'd citizen 
May win in many states and years. But why 
Thus speak I ? Venice has forgot that day — 
Then why should I remember it ? — Farewell, 
Sweet Angiolina I I must to my cabinet ; 
There 's much for me to do — and the hour hastens. 

Ang. Remember what you were. 

Doge. It were in vain ! 

Joy's recollection is no longer joy, 
While sorrow's memory is a sorrow still. 

Jing. Ai least, whate'er may urge, let me implore 
That you will take some little pause of rest : 
Your sleep for manv nigh's has been so turbid. 
That it had been relief to have awaked you. 
Had I not hoped that Nature would o'erpower 
At length the thoughts which shook your slumbers thus. 
An hour of rest will give you to your toils 
With fitter thoughts and freshen'd strength. 

Doge. I cannot — 

I must not, if I could ; for never was 
Such reason to be watchful : yet a few — 
Yet a few days and dream-perturbed nights, 
And I shall shmber well — but where ? — no matter. 
Adieu, my Angiolina. 

Ang. Let me be 

An instant — yet an instant your companion ! 
I cannot bear to leave you thus. 

Doge. Come then, 

My gentle child — forgive me ; thou wert made 
For better fortunes than to share in mine, 
Now darkling in their close toward the deep vale 
Where Death sits robed in his all-sweeping shadow. 
When I am gone — it may be sooner than 
Even these years warrant, for there is that stirring 
Within — above — around, that in this city 
Will make the cemeteries populous 
As e'er they were by pestilence or war, — 
When I am nothing, let that which I was 
Be still sometimes a name on thy sweet lips, 
A shadow in thy fancy, of a thing 
Which would not have thee mourn it : but remem- 
ber;— 
Let us begone, my child — the time is pressing. 

(Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 

A retired Spot near the Arsenal. 

Israel Bertuccio and Philip Calendar o. 

Cal. How sped you, Israel, in your late complaint ? 

I.Ber. Why, well. 

Cal. Is 't possible ! will he be punish'd ? 

I. Ber. Yes. 

Cal. With what? a mulct or an arrest ? 
/. Ber. With death ! — 

Cal. Now you rave, or must intend revenge. 
Such as I counsell'd you, with your own hand. 



/. Ber. Yes ; and for one sole draught of hale, forego 
The great redress we medila e for Venice, 
And change a life of hope for one of exile; 
Leaving one scorpion crush'd, and thousands stinging 
My friends, my family, rny countrymen ! 
No, Calendaro ; these same drops of blood. 
Shed shamefully, shall hive the whole of his 

For their requital Bu not only his ; 

We will not strike for private wrongs alone : 
Such are for selhsh passions and rash men, 
But are unworthy a tyrannicide. 

Cal. You have more patience than I care to boasL ' 
Had I been pre-ent when you bore this insult, 
I must have slain him, or expired myself 
In the vain eti'ort to repress my wrath. 

/. Ber. '1 hank Heaven, you were not — all had else 
been marr d : 
As 't is, our cause looks prosperous still. 

Cal. You saw 

The Doge — what answer gave he ? 

/. Ber. That there was 

No punishment for such as Barbaro. 

Cal. I told you so before, and that 't was idle 
To thmk of justice from such hands. 

/. Ber. At least, 

It lull'd suspicion, showing confidence. 
Had I been silent, not a sbirro but 
Had kept me in his eye, as meditating 
A silent, solitary, deep revenge. 

Cal. But wherefore not address you to the Council ? 
The Doge is a mere puppet, who can scarce 
Obtain right for himself. Why speak to him? 

/. Ber. You shall know that hereafter. 

Cal. Why not now ? 

/. Ber. Be patient but till midnight. Get your 
musters, 
And bid our friends prepare their companies : — 
Set all in readiness to strike the blow, 
Perhaps in a fevv hours ; we have long waited 
For a fit time — that hour is on the dial, 
It may be, of to-morrow's sun : delay 
Beyond may breed us double danger. See 
That all be punctual at our place of meeting, 
And arm'd, excepting those of the Sixteen, 
Who will remain among the troops to wait 
The signal. 

Cal. These brave words have breathed new life 
Into my veins ; 1 am sick of these protracted 
And hesitating councils: day on day 
Crawl'd on, and added but another link 
To our long fetters, and some fresher wrong 
Inflicted on our brethren or ourselves, 
Helping to swell our tyrants' bloated strength. 
Let us but deal upon them, and I care not 
For the result, which must be death or freedom ! 
I'm v/eary to the heart of finding neither. 

/. Ber. 'We will be free in life or death ! the grave 
Is chainless. Have you all the musters ready ? 
And are the sixteen companies completed 
To sixty ? 

Cal, All save two, in which there are 
Twenty-five wanting to make up the number. 

/. Ber. No matter; we can do without. Whose 
are they ? 

Cal. Bertram's and old Soranzo's, both of whom 
Appear less forward in the cause than we are. 

/. Ber. Your fiery nature makes you deem all those 
Who are not restless cold : but there exists 
Oft in concentred spirits not less daring 
Than in more loud avengers. Do not doubt them. 

Cal. I do not doubt the elder ; but in Bertram 
There is a hesitating softness, fatal 
To enterprise like ours : I 've seen that man 
Weep like an infant o'er the misery 
Of others, heedless of his own, though greater; 
And in a recent quarrel I beheld him 
Turn sick at sight of blood, although a villain's. 

/. ^er. The truly brave are soft of heart and eyes, 
And feel for what their duty bids them do. 
I have known Bertram long ; there doth not breathe 
A soul more full of honour. 



■ ^'-^ — '— ^^-^^ 



^=^-- 



Scene II.] 



DOGE OF VENICE. 



273 



Cat. It may be so : 

I apprehend less treachery than weakness ; 
Yet as he h is no mistress, and no wife 
To work upon his milkiness of spirit, 
He may go through the ordeal ; it is well 
He is an orphan, friendless save in us: 
A woman or a child had made him less 
Than either in resolve. 

/. Ber. Such ties are not 

For those who are cali'd to the high destinies 
Which purify corrupted commonwe;\lths ; 
We must forget all feelings save the one — 
We must resign all passions save our purpose — 
We must behold no object save our country — 
And only look on death as beautiful, 
So that the sacrifice ascend to heaven, 
And draw down freedom on her evermore. 

Cal. But if we fail 

/. J5er. They never fail who die 

In a great cause : the block may soak their gore ; 
Their heads may sodden in the sun ; their limbs 
Be strung to city gates and castle walls — 
But still their s[)irit walks abroad. Though years 
Elapse, and others share as dark a doom, 
They but augment the deep and sweeping thoughts 
Which overpower all others, and conduct 
The world at last to freedom : What were we, 
If Brutus had not lived ? He died in giving 
Rome liberty, but left a deathless lesson — 
A name which is a virtue, and a soul 
Which multiplies itself throughout all time. 
When wicked men wax mighty, and a state 
Turns servile : he and his high friend were styled 
" The last of Romans ! " Let us be the first 
Of true Venetians, sprung from Roman sires. 

Cal. Our fathers did not fly from Attila 
Into these isles, where palaces have sprung 
On banks redeem'd from the rude ocean's ooze, 
To own a thousand despos in his place. 
Better bow down before the Hun, and call 
A Tartar lord, than these swoln silkworms masters ! 
The first at least was man, and used his sword 
As sceptre : these unmanly creeping things 
Command our swords, and rule us with a word 
As with a spell. 

I. Ser. It shall be broken soon. 

You say that all things are in readiness : 
To-day I have not been the usual round. 
And why thou knowest ; but thy vigilance 
Will better have supplied my care : these orders 
In recent council to redouble now 
Our efforts to repair the galleys, have 
Lent a fnir colour to the introduction 
Of many of our cause into the arsenal, 
As new artificers for their equipment, 
Or fresh recruits obtain'd in haste to man 
The hoped-for fleet.— Are all supplied with arms? 

Cal. All who were deem'd trust-worthy : there are 
some 
Whom it were well to keep in ignorance 
Till it be time to strike, and then ■•■ipply them ; 
When in the heat and hurry of the hour 
They have no opportunity to pause. 
But needs must on with those who will surround them. 

/. £er. You have said well. Have you remark 'd all 
such ? 

Cal, I 've noted most ; and caused the other chiefs 
To use like caution in their companies. 
As far as I have seen, we are enough 
To make the enterprise secure, if 't is 
Commenced to-morrow ; but, fill 't is begun, 
Each hour is pregnant with a thousand perils. 

/. Ber. Let the Sixteen meet at the wonted hour. 
Except Sorarizo, Nicoletto Rlondo, 
And Marco Giuda, who will keep their watch 
Within the arsenal, and hold all ready, 
Expectant of the signal we will fix on, 

Cal. We will not fail. 

/. Ber. Let all the rest be there ; 

I have a stranger to present to them. 

Cal. A stranger ! doth he know the secret ? 

~ 18 



7. Ber. Yes. 

Cal. And have you dared to peril your friends' lives 
On a rash confidence in one we know not ? 

I. Ber. 1 have risk'd no man's life except my own — 
Of that be certain : he is one who may 
Make our assurance doubly sure, according 
His aid j and if reluctant, he no less , 

Is in our power: he comes alone with me, 
And cannot 'scape us ; but he will not swerve. 

Cal. I cannot judge of this until I know him : 
Is he one of our order ? 

I. Ber. Ay, in spirit ,- 

Although a child of greatness j he is one 
Wlio would become a throne, or overthrow one — 
One who has done great deeds, and seen great changes j 
No tyrant, though bred up to tyranny ; 
Valiint in war, and sage in council ; noble 
In nature, although haughty ; quick, yet wary : 
Yet for all this, so full of certain passions, 
That if once sirr'd and baffled, as he has been 
Upon the teriderest points, there is no Fury 
In Grecian story like to that which wrings 
His vitals with her burning hands, till he 
Grows capable of all things for revenge j 
And add too, that his mind is liberal. 
He sees and feels the people are oppress'd, 
And shares their sufl'erings. Take him all in all, 
We have need of such, and such have need of us. 

Cal. And what part would you have him take 
with us ? 

7. Ber. It may be, that of chief. 

Cal. What ! and resign 

Your own command as leader ? 

I. Ber. Even so. 

My object is to make your cause end well, 
And not to push myself to power. Experience, 
Some skill, and your own choice, had mark'd me out 
To act in trust as your commander, till 
Some worthier should appear: if 1 have found such 
As you yourselves shall own more worthy, think you 
That I would hesitate from selfishness, 
And, covetous of brief authoritv. 
Slake our deep mterest on my single thoughts, 
Rather than yield lo one above me in 
All leading q"ualities ? No, Calendaro, 
Know your friend better ; but you all shall judge.— 
Away ! and let us meet at the fix'd hour. 
Be vigilant, and all will yet go well. 

Cat. Worthy Bertuccio, I have known you ever 
Trusty and brave, with head and heart to plan 
What I have still been prompt to execute. 
For my own part, I seek no other chief; 
What the rest will decide 1 know not, but 
I am with you, as I have ever been, 
In all our undertakinjs. Now farewell, 
Until the hour of midnight sees us meet. [Exeunt. 



ACT ILL 

SCENE I. 

Scene, the Space hetween the Canal and the Church 
of San Giovanni e San Paolo. An equestrian 
Statue before it.— A Gondola lies in the Canal at 
some distance. 

Enter the Doge alone, disguised. 

Doge (solus). I am before the hour, the hour whose 

voice, 
Pealing into the arch of night, might strike 
These palaces with ominous tottering. 
And rock their marbles to the corner-stone, 
Waking the sleepers from some hideous dream 
Of indistinct but awful augury 
Of that which will befall them. Yes, proud city ! 
Thou must be cleansed of the black blood which makes 

thee 
A lazar-house of tyranny : the task 
Is forced upon me," I have sought it not ; 



MliaMl 



MliM 



f-m 



274 



MARINO FALIERO, 



[Act m. 



And therefore was I punish'd, seeing this 
Patrician pesliience spread on and on, 
Until at length it snio e me in my slumbers, 
And I am tainted, and must wash away 
The plague spots in the healing wave. Tall fane ! 
I Where sleep my faihers, whose dim statues shadow 
I The floor which doth divide us from the dead, 

Where all I he pregnant hearts of our bold blood, 
I Moulder'd into a mite of ashes, hold 
In one shrunk heap what once made many heroes, 
When what is now a handful shorik the earth — 
Fane of the tutelar saints who guard our house ! 
Vault where two Doges rest — my sires ! who died 
The one of toil, the other in the held, 
With a long race of other lineal chiefs 
And sages, whose great labours, wounds, and state 
I have inherited,— let the graves gape. 
Till all thine aisles be peopled with the dead. 
And pour them from 'hy p.-rtals to gaze on me ! 
I call them up, and them and thee to witness 
What it ha h been which put me to this task — 
Their pure high blood, their blazon-roll of glories, 
Their mighty name dishonour'd all in me, 
Not by me, but by the ungrateful nobles 
We fought to nnke our equals, not our lords : — 
And chiefly thou, Ordelafo the brave, 
Who perish'd in 'he field, where 1 since conquer'd, 
Battling at Zara, did the hecatombs 
Of thine and Venice' foes, there oft'er'd up 
By thy descend mt, merit such acquittance ? 
Spirits ! smile down upon me; for my cause 
Is yours, in all life now c\n be of \ours, — 
Your fame, your name, all mingled up in mine, 
And in the future fortunes of our race ! 
Let me but prosper, and I make this city 
Free and immortal, and our house's name 
Worthier of what you were, now and hereafter ! 

Enter Israel Bertuccio. 

J. Btr. Who goes there ? 

Doge. A friend to Venice. 

I. Ber. 'T is he. 

Welcome, my lord, — you are before the time. 

Doge. I am ready to proceed to your assembly. 

/. Ber. Have with you. — I am proud and pleased 
to see 
Such confident alacrity. Your doubts 
Since our last meeting, then, are all dispell'd ? 

Dpge. Not so — but I have set my little left 
Of life upon this cast : the die was thrown 
When I first listen'd to your treason — Start not! 
That is the word ; I cannot shape my tongue 
To syllable black deeds into smooth names. 
Though 1 be wrought on to commit them. When 
I heard you tempt your sove'eign, and forbore 
To have you dragg'd to prison, 1 became 
Your guiltiest accomplice : now you may, 
If it so please you, do as much by me. 

/. Ber. Strange words, my lord, and most unmerited ; 
I am no spy, and neither are we traitors. 

Doge. We —Wtl— no matter — you have earn'd 
the right 
To talk of us.— But to the point.— If this 
Attempt succeeds, and V'eiiice, render'd free 
And flourishing, when we are in our graves, 
Conducts her generations to our tombs, 
And makes her children wi h their little hands 
Strew flowers o'er her deliverers' ashes, then 
The consequence will sanctify the deed. 
And we shall be like the two Bruti in 
The annals of hereafter ; but if not, 
If we should fail, employing bloody means 
And secret plot, although to a good end. 
Still we are traitors, honest Israel ;— thou 
No less than he who was thy sovereign 
Six hours ago, and now thy brother rebel. 

I. Ber. 'T is not the moment to consider thus, 
Else I could answer.— Let us to the meeting, 
Or we may be observed in lingering here. 

Z)oge. ^Ve are observed, and have been. 



/. Ber. We observed ! 

Let me discover — and this steel 

Doge. Put up J 

Here are no human witnesses : look there — 
What see you ? 

/. Ber. Only a tall warrior's statue 

Bestriding a proud steed, in the dim light 
Of the dull moon. 

Doge. That warrior was the sire 

Of my sire's fathers, and that statue was 
Decreed to him by the twice rescued city : — 
Think you that he looks down on us or no ? 

/. Ber. My lord, these are mere fantasies; there are 
No eyes in marble. 

Doge. But there are in Death. 

I tell thee, man, there is a spirit in 
Such things that acts and sees, unseen, though felt; 
And, if there be a spell to stir ihe dead, 
'T is in such deeds as we are now upon. 
Deem'st thou the souls of such a race as mine 
Can rest, when he, their last descendant chief. 
Stands plotting on the brink of their pure graves 
With stung plebeians ? 

/. Ber. It had been as well 

To have ponder'd this before, — ere you embark'd 
In our great enterprise. — Do you lepent ? 

Doge. No — but I feel, and shall do to the last. 
I cannot quench a glorious life at once, 
Nor dwindle to the thing I now must be, 
And take men's lives by stealth, without some pause: 
Yet doubt me not ; it is this very feeling, 
And knowing what has wrung me to be thus, 
Which is your best security. There 's not 
A rou-ed mechanic in your busy plot 
So wrong'd as I, so fall'n, so loudly call'd 
To his redres : the very means I am forced 
By these fell tyrants to adopt is such. 
That I abhor them doubly for the deeds 
Which 1 must do to pay them bi-ck for theirs. 

/. Ber. Let us away — hark — the hour strikes. 

Doge. On — on — 

It is our knell, or that of Venice — On. 

I. Ber. Say rather, 't is her freedom's rising peal 

Of triumph This way — we are near the place. 

^Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 

The House where the Conspirators meet, 

Dagolino, Doro, Bertram, Fedele TrevisanOf Calen- 
daro, Antonio delle Bende^ fyc. ^-c. 

Cal. (entering). Are all here? 

Dag. All with you; except the three 

On duty, and our leader Israel, 
Who is expected momently. 

Cal. Where 's Bertram ? 

Ber. Here! 

Cal. Have you not been able to complete 

The number wanting in your company ? 

Ber. I had mark'd out some : but I have not dared 
To trust Ihem with the secret, till assured 
That they were worthy faith. 

Cal. ' There is no need 

Of trusting to their faith ; who, save ourselves 
And our more chosen comrades, is aware 
Fully of our intent? they think themselves 
Engaged in secret to the Signory,i 
To punish some more dissolute young nobles 
Who have defied the law in their excesses ; 
But once drawn up, and their new swords well flesh'd 
In the rank hearts of the more odious senators, 
They will not hesitate to follow up 
Their blow upon the others, when they see 
The example of their chiefs, and I for one 
Will set them such, that they for very shame 
And safety will not pause till all have perish'd. 

Ber. How say you ? all ! 

Cal. Whom wouldst thou spare ? 

1 An historical fact. See Appendix, Note A. 



Scene II.] 



DOGE OF VENICE. 



275 



Be.r. I apare ? 

I have no power to spare. I only question'd, 
Thinking; that even amongst these wicked men 
There might be some, whose age and qualities 
Might mark them out for pity. 

Cal. Yes, such pity 

As when the viper hath been cut to pieces, 
The separate fragments quivering in the sun, 
In the last energy of venomous life, 
Deserve and have. Why, I should think as soon 
Of pitying some particular fang which made 
One in the jaw of the swoln serpent, as 
Of saving one of these : they form but links 
Of one long chain ; one mass, one breath, one body; 
They eat, and drink, and live, and breed together, 
Revel, and lie, oppress, and kill in concert, — 
So let them die as one ! 

Dag. Should one survive, 

He would be dangerous as the whole ; it is not 
Their number, be it tens or thousands, but 
The spirit of this aristocracy 
Which must be rooted out; and if there were 
A single shoot of the old tree in life, 
'T would fasten in the soil, and spring again 
To gloomy verdure and to bitter fruit. 
Bertram, we must be firm ! 

Cal. Look to it well, 

Bertram : I have an eye upon thee. 

Scr. Who 

Distrusts me ? 

Cal. Not I; for if I did so, 

Thou wouldst not now be there to talk of trust : 
It is thy softness, not thy want of faith, 
Which makes thee to be doubted. 

£er. You should know 

Who hear me, who and what I am ; a man 
Roused like yourselves to overthrow oppression; 
A kind man, I am apt to think, as some 
Of you Inve found me ; and if brave or no. 
You, Calendaro, can pronounce, who have seen me 
Put to the proof; or, if you should have doubts, 
I '11 clear them on your person ! 

Cal. You are welcome. 

When once our enterprise is o'er, which must not 
Be interrupted by a private brawl. 

Jier. I am no brawler ; but can bear myself 
As far among the foe as any he 
Who hears me ; else why have I been selected 
To be of your chief comrades ? but no less 
I own my natural weakness ; I have not 
Yet learn'd to think of indiscriminate murder 
Without some sense of shuddering ; and the sight 
Of blood which spouts through hoary scalps is not 
To me a thiisg of triumph, nor the death 
Of man surprised a glory. Well— too well 
I know that we must do such things on those 
Whose act> have raised up such avengers ; but 
If there were some of these who could be saved 
From out this sweeping fate, for our own sakes 
And for our honour, to take off some stain 
Of massacre, which else pollutes it wholly, 
I had been glad ; and see no cause in this 
For sneer, nor for suspicion ! 

Dag. Calm thee, Bertram : 

For we suspect thee not, and 'ake good heart. 
It is the cause, and not our will, which asks 
Such actions from our hands : we 'U wash away 
All stains in Freedom's fountain ! 

Enter Israel Eertuccio, and the Doge, disguised. 

Dag. Welcome, Israel. 

Consp. Most welcome, — Brave Bertuccio, thou art 
late — 
Who is this stranger? 

Cal. It is time to name liim. 

Our comrades are even now prepared to greet him 
In brotherhood, as 1 have made it known 
That thou wouldst add a brother to our cause. 
Approved by thee, and thus approved by all. 
Such is our trust in all thine actions. Now 
Let him unfold himself. 



7. Ber. Stranger, step forth ! 

[The Doge dincovers himself. 

Consp. To arms ! — we are betray'd — it is the 
Doge ! 
Down with them both ! our traitorous captain, and 
The tyrant he hath sold us to. 

Cal. {drawing his sword). Hold ! hold ! 
Who moves a step against them dies. Hold ! hear 
Bertuccio — What ! are you appall'd to see 
A lone, unguarded, weaponless old man 
Amongst you ? — Israel, speak ! what means this mys- 
tery ? 

I. Ber. Let them advance and strike at their own 
bosoms. 
Ungrateful suicides ! for on our lives 
Depend their own, their fortunes, and their hopes. 

Doge. Strike ! — If I dreaded death, a death more 
fearful 
Than any your rash weapons can inflict, 
I should not now be here : — Oh, noble Courage ! 
The eldest born of Fear, which makes you brave 
Against this solitary hoary head ! 
See the bold chiefs, who would reform a state 
And shake down senates, mad with wrath and dread 
At sight of one patrician ! — Butcher me, 
You can ; I care not. — Israel, are these men 
The mighty hearts you spoke of? look upon them ! 

Cal. Fai'h ! he hath shamed us, and deservedly. 
Was this your trust in your true chief Bertuccio, 
To turn your swords against him and his guest ? 
Sheathe them, and hear him. 

I. Ber. I disdain to speak. 

They might and must have known a heart like mine 
Incapable of treachery ; and the power 
They gave me to adopt all fitting means 
To further their design was ne'er abused. 
They might be certain that whoe'er was brought 
By me into this council had been led 
To take his choice — as brother, or as victim. 

Doge. And which am I to be ? your actions leave 
Some cause to doubt the freedom of the choice. 

/. Ber. My lord, we would have perish'd here toge- 
ther. 
Had these rash men proceeded ; but, behold, 
They are ashamed of that mad moment's impulse, 
And droop their heads ; believe me, they are such 
As I described them — Speak to them. 

Cal. Ay, speak ; 

We are all listening in wonder. 

I. Ber. (addressing the conspirators). You are safe, 
Nay, more, almost triumphant — listen then. 
And know my words for truth. 

Doge. You see me here 

As one of you hath said, an old, unarm'd. 
Defenceless man ; and yesterday you saw me 
Presiding in the hall of ducal state. 
Apparent sovereign of our hundred isles, 
Robed in official purple, dealing out 
The edicts of a power which i? not mine. 
Nor yours, but of our masters — the patricians. 
Why I was there you know, or think you know ; 
Why I am here, he who hath been most wrong'd. 
He who among you hath been most insulted. 
Outraged and trodden on, until he doubt 
If he be worm or no, may answer for me. 
Asking of his own heart what brought him here? 
You know my recent story, all men know it. 
And judge of it far differently from those 
Who sate in judgment to heap scorn on scorn. 
But spare me the recital — it is here, 
Here at my heart the outrage — but my words. 
Already spent in unavailing plaints, 
Would only show my feebleness the more, 
And I come here to strengthen even the strong. 
And urge them on to deeds, and not to war 
With woman's weapons; but I need not urge you. 
Our private wrongs have sprung from public vices, 
In this — I cannot call it commonwealth 
Nor kingdom, which hath neither prince nor people. 
But all the sins of the old Spartan state 
Without its virtues — temperance and valour. 



276 



MARINO FALIERO, 



[Act lit 



The Lords of Lacedaemon were true soldiers, 

But ours are Sybarites, while we are Helots, 

Of whom I am the lowest, most enslaved ; 

Although dress'd out to head a pageant, as 

The Greeks of yore made drunk their slaves to form 

A pastime for their children. You are met 

To overthrow this monster of a state, 

This mockery of a government, this spectre, 

Which must be exorcised with blood,— and then 

We will renew the times of truth and justice, 

Condensing in a fair free commonwealth 

Not rash e()uality but equal rights, 

Proportion'd like the columns to the temple. 

Giving and taking strength reciprocal, 

And making tirm the whole with grace and beauty, 

So that no part could be removed without 

Infringement of the gdieral symmetry. 

In operating this great change, I claim 

To be one of you — if you trust in me ; 

If not, stiike home, — my life is compromised, 

And I would rather fall by freemen's hands 

Than live another diy to act the tyrant 

As delegate of tyrants : such I am not, 

And never have been — read it in our annals j 

I can appeal to my past government 

In many lands and cities ; they can tell you 

If I were an oppressor, or a man 

Feeling and thinking for my fellow men. 

Haply had I been what the senate sought, 

A thing of robes and trinkets, dizen"d out 

To sit in state as for a sovereign's picture ; 

A popular scourge, a ready sentence-signer, 

A stickler for the Senate and " the Forty,'' 

A sceptic of all measuies which had not 

The sanction of " the Ten," a council-fawner, 

A tool, a fool, a puppet, — they had ne'er 

Foster'd the wretch who stung me. What I suffer 

Has reach'd me through my pity for the people: 

That many know, and they who know not yet 

Will one day leirn: meantime I do devote, 

Whate'er the issue, my last days of life — 

My present power such as it is, not that 

Of Doge, but of a man who has been great 

Before he was degraded to a Doge, 

And still has individual means and mind ; 

I stake my fime (and I had fame) — my breath — 

(The least of all, for its last hours are nigh) 

My heart — my hope — my soul — upon this cast ! 

Such as I am, I ofler me to you 

And to your chiefs, accept me or reject me, 

A Prince who fain would be a citi en 

Or nothing, and who has left his throne to be so. 

Cal. Long live Faliero ! —Venice shall be free ! 

Consp. Long live Faliero ! 

/. Ber. Comrades 1 did I well ? 

Is not this man a host in such a cause ? 

Doge. This is no time for eulogies, nor place 
For exultation. Am 1 one of you ? 

Cal. Ay, and the first amongst us, as thou hast been 
Of Venice' — be our general and chief. 

Doi-e. Chief '. — general ! — I was general at Zara, 
And chief in Rhodes and Cyprus, prince in Venice: 

I cannot stoop that ia, 1 am not fit 

To lead a band of patriots : when I lay 

Aside the dignities which I have borne, 
'T is not to put on others, but to be 
Mate to my fellows — but now to the point : 
Israel has stated to ms your whole plan — 
'T is bold, but feasible if I assist it, 
And must be set in motion instantly. 

Cal. E'en when thou wilt. Is it not so, my friends ? 
I have disposed all for a sudden blow ; 
When shall it be then ? 

Doge. At sunrise. 

£er. So soon ? 

Doge. So soon ? — so late — each hour accumulates 
Peril on peril, and the more so now 
Since I have mingled with you ; — know you not 
The Council, and " the Ten ? " the spies, the eyes 



Of the patricians dubious of their slaves, 

And now more dubious of the prince they have made 

one? 
I tell you, you must strike, and suddenly. 
Full to the Hydra's heart — is heads wHl follow. 

Cal. With all my soul and sword, I yield assent; 
Our compinies aie ready, sixty each, 
And all now ui.der arms by Israel's order j 
Each at their diri'erent place of rendezvous, 
And vigilant, expectant of some blowj 
Let each repair for action to his post! 
And now, my lord, the signal ? 

Doge. When you bear 

The great bell of Saint Mark's, which may not be 
Struck without special order of the Doge 
(The last poor privilege they leave their prince), 
March on Saint Mark s ! 

/. Ber. And there ? — 

Doge. By different routes 

Let your march be directed, every sixty 
Entering a separate avenue, and still 
Upon the way let your cry be of war 
And of the Genoese fleet, by the first dawn 
Discern'd before the port ; form round ihe palnce, 
Within whose court will be drawn out in arms 
My nephew and the clients of our house. 
Many and martial ; while the bell tolls on. 
Shout ye, " Saint Mark ! — the foe is on our waters ! " 

Cal. I see i' now — but on, my noble lord. 

Doge. All the patricians flocking to the Council, 
(Which they dare not refuse, at the dread signal 
Pealing from out their patron saint's proud tower,) 
Will then be gather'd in unto the hjrvest. 
And we will reap them with the sword for sickle. 
If some few should be tardy or absent them, 
'T will be but to be taken faint and single, 
When the majority are put to rest. 

Cal. Would that (he hour were come! we will not 
scotch. 
But kill. 

Ber. Once more, sir, with your pardon, I 
Would now repeat the question which I ask'd 
Before Bertuccio added to our cause 
This great ally who renders it more sure, 
And therefore safer, and as such admits 
Some dawn of mercy to a portion of 
Our victims — must all perish in this slaughter? 

Cal. All who encounter me and mine, be sure. 
The mercy they have shown, I show. 

Consp. All ! all ! 

Is this a time to talk of pity? when 
Have they e'er shown, or felt, or feign'd it ? 

/. Bir. Bertram, 

This false compassion is a folly, and 
Injustice to thy comrades and thy cause ! 
Dost thou not see, that if we single out 
Some for escape, they live but to avenge 
The fallen ? and how distinguish now the innocent 
From out the guilty? all their acts are o/ie — 
A single emanation from one body. 
Together knit for our oppression ! 'T is 
Much that we let their children live; I doubt 
If all of these even should be set apart : 
The hunter may reserve some single cub 
From out the tiger's litter, but who e'er 
Would seek to save the spotted sire or dam. 
Unless to perish by their fan?s ? however, 
I ^vill abide by Doge Faliero's counsel : 
Let him decide if any should be saved. 

Doge. Ask me not — tempt me not with such a | 
question — 
Decide yourselves. 

7. Btr. You know their private virtues 

Far better than we can, to whom alone 
Their public vices, and most foul oppression. 
Have made (hem deadly ; if there be amongst them 
One who deserves to be repeal'd, pronounce. 

Doge. Dolfino's father was my f iend, and Lando 
Fought by my side, and Mirc Cormro shared 
My Genoese embassy : I saved the life 
Of Veniero — shall 1 save it twice? 



Scene If.] 



DOGE OF VENICE. 



277 



Would that I could save them and Venice also ! 
All these men, or their lathers, were my friends 
Till they became my subject-; then fell from me 
As faithless leaves drop from the o'erblown flower, 
And left me a lone biigh ed thorny stalk, 
Which, ill its soliiudo, can shelter nothing ; 
So, as they let me wither, let ihern perish. 

Cal. They cannot co-exist with Venice' freedom! 

Boge. Ye, though you know and feel our mutual 
mass 
Of many wrongs, even ye are ignorant 
What fatal poison to the springs of life, 
To human ties, ai.d all that 's good and dear, 
Lurks in the present institutes of Venice : 
All these men were my friends; I loved them, they 
Requited honourably my regards; 
We served and fought ; we smiled and wept in con- 
cert ; 
We reveli'd or we sorrow'd side by side ; 
We made alliances of blood and marriage ; 
We grew in years and honours fairly,— till 
Their own desire, not my ambition, made 
Them choose me for their prince, and then farewell ! 
Farewell all social memory ! all thoughts 
In common ! and sweet bonds which link old friend- 
ships. 
When the survivors of long years and actions. 
Which now belong to history, soothe the days 
Which yet remain by treasuring each other. 
And never meet, but each beholds the mirror 
Of half a century on his brother's brow, 
And sees a hundred beings, now in earth, 
Flit round them whispering of the days gone by, 
And seeming not all de.id, as long as two 
Of the brave, joyous, reckless, glorious band, 
Which once were one and many, still retain 
A breath to sigh for them, a tongue to speak 
Of deeds that else were silent, save on marble—— 
Oime ! Oime ! — and must I do this deed ? 

/. Ber. My lord, you are much moved : it is not now 
That such things must be dwelt upon. 

Boge. Your patience 

A moment — I recede not : mark with me 
The gloomy vices of this government. 
From the hour they made me Doge, the Doge they 

made me — 
Farewell the past ! I died to all that had been. 
Or rather I hey to me : no friends, no kindness, 
No privacy of life — all were cut off: 
They came not near me, such ajiproach gave umbrage ; 
They could not love me, such was not the law ; 
They thwarted me, 't was the state's policy ; 
They baffled me, 't was a patrician's duty ; 
They wroiig'd rue, for such was to right the state ; 
They could not right me, that would give suspicion ; 
So that I was a slave to my own subjects ; 
So that I was a foe to my own friends ; 
Begirt with spies for guards — with robes for power — 
With pomp for freedom — gaolers for a council — 
Inquisitors for friends — and hell for life ! 
I had one only fount of quiet left, 
And that they poison'd ! My pure household gods 
Were shiver'd on my hearth, and o'er their shrine 
Sate grinning Ribaldry and sneering Scorn. 

/. jBer. You have been deeply wrong'd, and now 
shall be 
Nobly avenged before another night. 

Doge. I had borne all — it hurt me, but I bore it — 
Till this last running over of the cup 
Of bitterness — until this last loud insult. 
Not only unrediess'd, but sanction'd ; then, 
And thus, I cast all further feelings from me — 
The feelings which they crush'd ifor me, long, long 
Before, even in their oath of false allegiance ! 
Even in that very hour and vow, they abjured 
Their friend and made a sovereign, as boys make 
Playthings, to do their pleasure— 'nd be broken ! 
I from that hour have sten bu' senators 
In dark suspicious conflict with the Doge, 
Brooding with him in mutual hate and fear; 
They dreading he should snatch the tyranny 



24 



From out their grasp, and he abhorring tyrants. 
To me, then, these men have no private life. 
Nor claim to ties they have cut off from others; 
As senators for arbitrary acts 
Amenable, I look on them — as such 
Let them be dealt upon. 

Cal. And now to action ! 

Hence, brethren, to our posts, and may this be 
The last night of mere words: I 'd fain be doing ! 
S lint Mark's great bell at dawn shall find me wakeful ! 

/. J?er. Disperse then to your posts : be firm and 
vigilant ; 
Think on the wrongs we bear, the rights we claim. 
This day and night shall be the last of peril ! 
Watch for the signal, and then march. 1 go 
To join my band ; let each be prompt to marshal 
His separate charge : the Doge will now return 
To tho palace to prepare all for the blow. 
We part to meet in freedom and in glory ! 

Cal. Doge, when I greet you next, my homage to 
you 
Shall be the head of Steno on this sword ! 

Doge. No ; let him be reserved unto the last, 
Nor turn aside to strike at such a prey. 
Till nobler g:ime is quarried : his offence 
V/as a mere ebullition of the vice, 
The general corruption generated 
By the foul aristocracy : he could not — 
He dated not in more honourable days 
Have risk'd it. I have merged all private wrath 
Agiinst him in the thought of our great purpose. 
A slave insults me — I require his punishment 
From his proud master's hands ; if he refuse it, 
'J he offence grows his, and let him answer it. 

Cal. Yet, as the immediate cause of the alliance 
Which consecrates our undertaking more, 
I owe him such deep gratitude, thai fain 
I would repay him as he merits ; may I ? 

Doge. You would but lop the hand, and I the head ; 
You would but smite the scholar, I the master ; 
You would but punisli Steno, I the senate. 
I cannot pause on individual hate, 
In the absorbing, sweeping, whole revenge. 
Which, like the sheeed fire from heaven, must blast 
Without distinction, as it fell of yore, 
Where the Dead Sea hath quench'd two cities' ashes. 

/. JSer. Away, then, to your posts ! I but remain 
A moment to accompany the Doge 
To our late place of tryst, to see no spies 
Have been upon the scout, and thence I hasten 
To where my allotted band is under arms. 

Cal. Farewell, then, — until dawn ! 

/. J5er. Success go with you ! 

Consp. We will not fail — Away ! My lord, fare- 
well ! 
[The Conspirators salute the Doge and Israel 
Bertuccio, and retire, headed by Philip Calen- 
daro. The Doge and Israel Ber tuccio remain. 

I. Ber. We have them in the toil — it cannot fail. 
Now thou 'rt indeed a sovereign, and wilt make 
A name immortal greater than the greatest : 
Free citizens have struck at kings ere now ; 
Caesars have fallen, and even patrician hands 
Have crush'd dictators, as the popular steel 
Has reach'd patricians : but, until this hour, 
What prince has plotted for his people's freedom? 
Or risk'd a life to liberate his subjects ? 
For ever, and for ever, they conspire 
Against the people, to abuse their hands 
To chains, but laid aside to carry weapons 
Against the fellow nations, so that yoke 
On yoke, and slavery and death may whet. 
Not glut, the never-gorged Leviathan ! 
Now, my lord, to our enterprise ; — 't is great, 
And greater the reward ; why stand you wrapt ? 
A moment back, and you were all impatience ! 

Dos^e. And is it then decided ! must they die ? 

I. Ber. Who? 

Doge. My own friends by blood and courtesy, 
And many deeds and days — the senators ? 



^£^Miiik 



■••" --^^ ^ 



mL 



liMlftMiiilliilMl 



278 



MARINO FALIERO, 



[Act IV. 



I. Ber. You pass'd their sentence, and it is a just one. 
Dogt. Ay, so it seems, and so it is to you ; 
You are a patriot, plebeian Gracchus — 
The rebel's oracle, the people's iribune — 
I blame you not — you act iu your vocation; 
They smote you, and oppress'd you, and de-pised you; 
So they have' me : but you ne'er spake wi h them ; 
You never broke their bread, nor shared their salt ; 
You never had their winecup at your lips; 
You grew not up with them, nor laugh'd, nor wept, 
Nor held a revel in their company ; 
Ne'er smiled to see them smile, nor claim'd their smile 
In social interchange for yours, nor trusted 
Nor wore them in your heart of hearts, as I have : 
These hairs of mine are grey, and so are theirs, 
The elders of the council : I remember 
When all our locks were like the raven's wing, 
As we went fo: th to take our prey around 
The isles wrung from the false M'.homctan; 
And can I see them dabbled o'er with blood ? 
Each stab to them will seem my suicide. 

/. £a: Doge ! Doge ! this vacillation is unworthy 
A child ; if you are not in second childhood. 
Call back your nerves to your own purpose, nor 
Thus shame yourself and me. By heavens ! I 'd rather 
Forego even now, or fail in our intent, 
Than see the man 1 venerate subside 
From high resolves into such shallow weakness ! 
You have seen blood in bat'le, shed it, both 
Your own and that of others; can you shrink then 
From a few drops from veins of hoary vampires, 
Who but give back what they have drain'd from mil- 
lions ? 
Doge. Bear with me ! Step by step, and blow on 
blow, 
I will divide with you ; think not I waver : 
Ah ! no ; it is the certainty of all 
Which I must do doth make me tremble thus. 
But let these last and lingering thoughts have way, 
To which you only and the night are conscious, 
And both regardless ; when the hour arrives, 
'T is mine to sound the kiell, and strike the blow. 
Which shall unpeople many pilaces, 
And hew the highest genealogic trees 
Down to the earth, strew'd wi h their bleeding fruit. 
And crush iheir blossoms into barrenness : 
This will I — must I — have I sworn to do. 
Nor aught can turn me from my destiny ; 
But still I quiver to behnld what I 
Must be, and think what I have been I Bear with me. 
/. Ber. Re-man your breast ; I feel no such remorse, 
I understand it not : why should you change ? 
You acted, and you act, on your free will. 

Doge. Ay, there it is — you feel not, nor do I, 
Else I should stab thee on the spot, to save 
A thousand lives, and, killing, do no murder; 
You feel not — you go to this butcher-work 
As if these high-born men were steers for shambles. 
When all is over, you '11 be free and merry, 
And calmly wash those h^nds incarnadine; 
But I, outgoing thee and all thy fellows 
In this surpassing massacre, shall be. 
Shall see and feel — oh God ! oh God ! 't is true, 
And thou dost well to answer that it was 
" My own free will and act," and yet you err, 
For I will do this ! Doubt not — fear riot ; I 
Will be your most unmerciful accomplice ! 
And yet I act no more on my free will, 
Nor mv own feelings — both compel me back ; 
But there is hell within me and around, 
And like the demon who believes and trembles 
Must I abhor and do. Away ! away ! 
Get thee unto thy fellows, I « ill hie me 
To gather the retainers of our house. 
Doubt not, Saint Mark's great bell shall wake all 

Venice, 
Except her slaughter'd semte : ere the sun 
Be broad upon the Adriatic, there 
Shall be a voice of weeping, which shall drown 
The roar of waters in the cry of blood ! 
I am resolved — come on. 



/. Ber. With all my soul ! 

Keep a firm rein upon these bursts of passion; 
Remember what these men have dealt to thee, 
And that this sacrifice will be succeeded 
By ages of prosperity and freedom 
To this unshackled city: a true tyrant 
VVould have depopulated empires, nor 
Have felt the strange compunction which hath wrung 

you 
To punish a few traitors to the people. 
Trust me, such were a pity more misplaced 
Than the late mercy of the state to Steno. 

Doge. Man, thou hast struck upon tlie chord which 
jars 
All nature from my heart. Hence to our task ! 

lExeunt. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. 

Palazzo of the Patrician Lioni. Lioni laying aside 
the mash and cionk which the Venetian Nobles 
wore in public, attended by a Domestic. 

Lioni. I will to rest, right weary of this revel, 
The gayest we have held for many moons. 
And yet, I know not why, it cheer'd me not; 
There came a heaviness across my heirt. 
Which, in the lightest movement of the dance, 
Though eye to eye, and hand in hand united 
Even with the lady of my love, oppress'd me. 
And through my spirit chill'd my blood, until 
A damp like death rose o'er my brow ; I strove 
To laugh the thought away, but 't would not be; 
Through all the music ringing in my ears 
A knell was sounding as distinct and clear. 
Though low and far, as e'er the Adrian wave 
Rose o'er the city's murmur in the night, 
Dashing against the outward Lido's bulwark : 
So that I left the festival before 
It reach'd its zenith, and will woo my pillow 
For thoughts more tranquil, or forgetfulness. 
Antonio, take my mask and cloak, and light 
The lamp within my chamber. 

Aiit. Yes, my lord : 

Command you no refreshment ? 

Lioni. Nought, save sleep. 

Which will not be commanded. Let me hope it, 

[Exit Antonio, 
Though my breast feels too anxious; I will try 
Whether the air will calm my spirits : 't is 
A goodly night ; the cloudy wind which blew 
From the Levant hath crept into its cave, 
And the broad moon has brighten'd. What a stillness I 
{Goes to an open lattice. 
And what a contrast with the scene I left, 
Where the tall torches' glare, and silver lamps' 
More pallid gleam. along the tapestried walls, 
Spread over the reluctant gloom which haunts 
Those vast and dimly-latticed galleries 
A dazzling mass of artificial light. 
Which show'd all things, but nothing as they were. 
There Age essaying to recall the past, 
After long striving for the hues of youth 
At the sad labour of the toilet, and 
Full nnny a glance at the too faithful mirror, 
Prank'd forth in all the pride of ornament. 
Forgot itself, and trusting to the falsehood 
Of the indulgent beims, which show, yet hide, 
Believed itself forgotten, and was fool'd. 
There Youth, w hich needed not, nor thought of such 
Vain adjuncts, lavish'd its true bloom, and health, 
And bridal beauty, in the unwholesome pre.ss 
Of flush'd and crowded wassailers, and wasted 
Its hours of rest in dreiming this was pleasure, 
And so shall waste them till the sunrise streams 
On sallow cheeks and sunken eyes, which should not 
Have worn this aspect yet for many a year. 
The music, and the banquet, and the wine — 



Scene I.] 



DOGE OF VENICE. 



279 



The garlands, the rose odours, and the flowers — 

The sparkling eyes, and flashing ornaments — 

The white arms and the raven hair — the bmids 

And bracelets; swanlike hosoms, and the necklace, 

An India in itself, yet dazzling not 

The eye like whit it circled ; the thin robes, 

Floating like light clouds 'luixt our gaze and heaven; 

The many-twinkling feet so small and sylphlike, 

Suggesting the more secret symmetry 

Of the fiir forms which terminate so well — 

All the delusion of the dizzy scene, 

Its fal^e and true enchantments — art and nature, 

Which swam before my giddy eyes, that drank 

The sight of beauty as the parch'd pilgrim's 

On Arab sands the false mirage, which olfers 

A lucid lake to his eluded thirst. 

Are gone. — Around me are the stars and waters — 

Worlds mirror'd in the ocean, goodlier sight 

Than torches glared back by a gaudy glass ; 

And the great element, which is to ^pace 

What ocean is to eirth, spreads its blue depths, 

Soften'd with the fiist breathings of the spring; 

The high moon sails upon her beauteous way. 

Serenely smoothing o'er the lofty walls 

Of those tall piles and sea-girt palaces, 

Whose porphyry pillars, and who-e costly fronts, 

Fraught with the orient spoil of many marbles, 

Like altars ranged along the broad canal, 

Seem each a trophy of some mighty deed 

Rear'd up from out the waiers, scarce less strangely 

Than those more massy and mysiei ious giants 

Of architecture, those Titanian fabrics, 

Which point in Egypt's pi lins to times that have 

No other recird. All is gentle: nought 

Stirs rudely ; but, congenial with the night, 

Whatever walks is gliding like a s|)iiit. 

The tinklings of some vigilant guitars 

Of sleepless lovers to a wakeful mistress. 

And cautious opening of the casement, showing 

That he is not unheard ; while her young hand, 

Fair as the moonlight of which it seems part. 

So delicately white, it trembles in 

The act of opening the forbidden lattice. 

To let in love through music, makes his heart 

Thrill like his lyre-strings at the sight ; the dash 

Phosphoric of the oar, or rapid twinkle 

Of the far lights of skimming gondolas. 

And the responsive voices of the choir 

Of boatmen answering bick with verse for verse; 

Some dusky sh idow checkering the Rialto ; 

Some glinmiering pdace roof, or t.ipering spire. 

Are all tht sights and sounds which here pervade 

The ocein-born and earth-commandmg city — 

How sweet and soo hing is this hour of cilm ! 

I thank thee, Night ! for thou hast chased away 

Those horrid bodements vvhich, amidst the throng, 

I could not dissipate : and with the blessing 

Of thy benign and quiet influence, — 

Now "will Tto my couch, although to rest 

Is almost wronging such a night as this 

[A knocking is heard from without. 
Hark ! what is that ? or who at such a moment ? 



Enter Antonio. 

Ant. My lord, a man without, on urgent business, 
Implores to be admitted. 

Lioni. Is he a stranger ? 

An'. His face is muffled in his cloak, but both 
His voice and gestures seem familiar to me; 
I craved his name, but this he seem'd reluctant 
To trust, save to yourself; most earnestly 
He sues to be permitted to approach you. 

Lioni. 'T is a strange hour, and a suspicious bearing I 
And yet there is slisht peril : 't is not in 
Their houses noble men are struck at ; still, 
Although I know not that I have a foe 
In Venice, 't will be wise to use some caution. 
Admit him, and retire; but call up quickly 



Some of thy fellows, who may wait without. — 
Who can this man be ? — 
[Exit Ajilanio, and returns with Bertram muffled. 

Btr. My good lord Lioni, 

I have no time to lose, nor thou — dismiss 
This menial hence; 1 would be private with you. 

Lioni. It seems the voice of Bertram — Go, An- 
tonio. {Exit Antonio. 
Now, stranger, what would you at such an hour ? 

Btr. {discoverine; himself). A boon, my noble 
patron ; you have granted 
Many to your poor client, Bertram; add 
This one, and make him happy. 

Lioni. Thou hast known me 

From boyhood, ever ready to assist thee 
In all fair objects of advancement, which 
Beseem one of thy station ; 1 would promise 
Ere thy request was heard, but that the hour. 
Thy bearing, and this strange and hurried mode 
Of suing, gives me to suspect this visit 
Hath some mysierious import — but say on — 
What has occurred, :some rash and sudden broil ? — 
A cup too much, a scufHe, and a stab ? — 
Mere things of every day ; so that thou hast not 
Spilt noble blood, I guarantee thy safely ; 
But then thou must withdraw, for angry friends 
And relatives, in the first burst of vengeance. 
Are things in Venice deadlier than the laws. 

Ber. My lord, I thank you ; but 

Lioni. But what ? You have not 
Raised a rash hand against one of our order ? 
If so, withdraw and fly, and own it not ; 
I would not slay — but then I must not save thee ! 
He who has shed patrician blood 

Ber. I come 

To save patrician blood, and not to shed it ! 
And thereunto I must be speedy, for 
Each minute lost may lose a life ; since Time 
Has changed his slow scythe for the two-edged sword, 
And is about to take, instead of sand, 
The dust from sepulchres to fill his hour-glass! — 
Go not thou forth to-morrow ! 

Lioni. Wherefore not ? — 

What means this menace ? 

Ber. Do not seek its meaning, 

But do as I implore thee ; — stir not forth, 
Whate'er be stirring ; though the roar of crowds — 
The cry of wnnien, and the shrieks of babes — 
The groans of men — the clash of arms — the sound 
Of rolling drum, shrill trump, and hollow bell. 
Peal in one wide alarum ! — Go not forth. 
Until the tocsin 's silent, nor even then 
Till I return! 

Lioni. Again, what does this mean ? 

Ber. Agnin, I tell thee, ask not ; but by all 
Thou boldest dear on earth or heaven — by all 
The souls of thy great fathers, and thy hope 
To emulate them, and to leave behind 
Descendants worthy both of them and thee — 
By all thou hast of bless"d in hope or memory — 
By all thou hast to fear heie or hereafter — 
By all the good deeds thou hast cone to me, 
Good I would now repay with greater good. 
Remain within — tn.st to thy household gods. 
And to my word for safety, if thou dost 
As I now counsel — but if not, thou art lost ! 

Lioni. I an) indeed already lost in wonder; 
Surely thou ravest I what have / to dread ? 
Who are my foes ? or if there be such, why 
Art thou leagued with them ? — thou! or if so leagued, 
Why comest thou to tell me at this hour, 
And not before? 

Ber. I cannot answer this. 

Wilt thou go forth despite of this true warning? 

L'oni. I was not born to shrink from idle threats, 
The cause of which I know not : at the hour 
Of council, be it soon or late, I shall not 
Be found among the absent. 

Ber. Siy not so ! 

Once more, art thou determined to go forth? 



j^^^attmimmM 



jm 



280 



MARINO FALIERO, 



[Act IV. 



Lioni. I am. Nor is there aught which shall im- 
pede me ! 
£er. Then, Heaven have mercy on thy soul ! — 
Farewell ! [Going. 

Lioni. Stay — there is more in this than my own 
safety 
Which makes me call thee back ; we must not part 

thus: 
Bertram, I have known thee long. 

Ber. From childhood, signor, 

You have been my protector : in the days 
Of reckless infancy, when rank forgets, 
Or, rather, is nor yet taught to remember 
Its cold prerogative, we play'd together; 
Our sports, our smiles, our tears, were mingled oft j 
My father was your father's client, I 
His son's scarce less than foster-brother ; years 
Saw us together — happy, he.>rt-fuli hours ! 
Oh God ! the dilference 'twixt those hours and this ! 
Lioni. Beriram, 't is thou who hast forgotten them. 
Ber. Nor now, nor ever ; whatsoe'er belide, 
I would have saved you : when to manhood's growth 
We sprung, and you, devoted to the state. 
As suits your station, the more humble Bertram 
Was left un'o thj 1 ibours of the humble, 
Still you forsook me not ; and if my fortunes 
Have not been towering, 'twas no fault of him 
Who ofttimes rescued and supported me, 
When struggling with the tides of circumstance, 
Which bear away the weaker : noble blood 
Ne'er mantled iu'a nobler heart than thine 
Has proved to me, the poor plebeian Bertram. 
Would that thy fellow-senators were like thee ! 
Lioni. Why, what hast thou to say against the 

senate ? 
Ber. Nothing. 

Lioni. I know that there are angry spirits 

And turbulent mutterers of stifled treason, 
Who lurk in narrow places, and walk out 
Muffled to whisper curses to the night; 
Disbanded soldiers, discontented ruffians, 
And desperate liber'ines who brawl in taverns; 
Thou herdest not with such : 't is true, of late 
I have lost sight of thee, but thou wert wont 
To lead a temperate life, and break thy bread 
With honest mates, and bear a cheerful aspect. 
What hnlh come to thee ? in thy hollow eye 
And hueless cheek, and thine unquiet motions, 
Sorrow and shame and conscience seem at war 
To waste thee. 

Ber. Rather shame nnd sorrow light 

On the accursed tyranny which rides 
The very air in Venice, and makes men 
Madden as in the last hours of the plague 
Which sweeps the soul deliriously from life ! 
Lioni. Some villains have been tampering with thee, 
Bertram ; 
This is not 'hy old languase, nor own thoughts ; 
Some wretch has made thee drunk with disaffection: 
But thou must not be lost so ; thou wert good 
And kind, and art not fit for such base acts 
As vice and villany would put thee to: 
Confess — confide in me — thnu know'st my cature — 
What is it thou and thine are bound to do. 
Which should prevent thy friend, the only son 
Of him who was a friend unto thy father, 
So that our good-will is a heritage 
We should bequeath to our posterity 
Such as ourselves received it, or augmented; 
I say, what is it thou must do, that I 
Should deem thee dangerous, and keep the house 
Like a sick girl ? 
Ber. Nay, question me no further : 

I must be gone. 

Lioni. And I be murder'd ! — say, 

Was it not thus thou said'st, my gentle Bertram .' 

Ber. Who talks of murder? what said I of murder? 
'T is false ! I did not utter such a word. 

Lioni. Thou didst not ; but from out thy wolfish eye, 
So changed from what I knew if, there glares forth 
The gladiator. If my life 's thine object, 



! Take it — I am unarmed,— and then away ! 
I I would not hold my breath on such a tenure 
I As the capricious mercy of such things 
I As thou and those who have set thee to thy task -work, 
j Btr. Sooner th m spill thy blood, I peril mine; 
I Sooner than harm a h;ur of thine, I place 
In jeopardy a thousand Jieads, and some 
' As noble, nay, even nobler than thine own. 
I iiont. Ay, is it even so ? Excuse me, Bertram ; 

I am not worthy to be singled out 
; From such exalted heca ombs — who are they 
That are in danger, and that make the danger? 

Ber. Venice, and all that she inherits, are 
Divided like a house against itself, 
And so will perish ere to-morrow's twilight ! 

Lioin. More mysteries, and awful ones ! But now. 
Or thou, or I, or both, it may be, are 
Upon the verge of ruin ; speak once out, 
And thou art safe and glorious ; for 't is more 
Glorious to save than slay, and slay i' the dark too — 
Fie, Bertram ! that was not a craft for thee! 
How would it look to see upon a spear 
The head of him whose heart was open to thee, 
Borne by thy hand before the shuddering people ? 
And such may be my doom ; for here I swear, 
Whate'er the peril or the penalty 
Of thy denunciation, I gi forth, 
Unle-s thou dost detail the cause, and show 
The consequence of all which led thee here ! 

Ber. Is tiiere no way to save thee ? minutes flv, 
And ihou art 10=1 \ — thou I my sole benefactor,' 
The only being who was constant to me 
Through e\ ery change. Yet, make me not a traitor ! 
Let me save thee — but spare my honour ! 

Lioni. Where 

Can lie the honour in a league of murder ? 
And who are traitors save unto the state ? 

Ber. A league is still a compact, and more binding 
In honest hearts when words must stand for law ; 
And in my mind, there is no traitor like 
He whose domestic treason plants the poniard 
Wi'hin the breast which trusted to his truth. 

Lioni. And who will strike the steel to mine ? 

jBer. Not I ; 

I could have wound my soul up to all things 
Save this. Thou must not die ! and think how dear 
Thy life is, when I risk so many lives. 
Nay, more, the life of lives, the liberty 
Of future generations, not to be 
The assassin thou miscall'st me : — once, once more 
I do adjure thee, pass not o'er thy threshold ! 

Lioni. It is in vain — this moment I go focth, 

Ber. Then perish Venice rather than my friend ! 
I will disclose — ensnare — betray — destroy — 
Oh, what a villain I become for thee! 

Lioni. Say, rather thy friend's saviour and the 
state's I — 
Speik — pause not — all rewards, all pledges for 
Thy safety and thy welf ire ; wealth such as 
The state accords her worthiest servants; cay, 
Nobiliy itself I guarantee thee. 
So that thou art sincere and penitent. 

Btr. I have thought again : it must not be — I love 
thee — 
Thou knowest it — that I stand here is the proof. 
Not least though last ; but having done my duty 
By thee, I now must do it by my country I 
Farewell — we meet no more in life ! — farewell ! 

Lioni. What, ho !— Antonio— Pedro— to the door ! 
See that none pass — arrest this man ! 

Enter Antonio and other armed Domestics, who seize 
Bertram. 
Lioni (continues). Take care 

He hath no harm ; bring me my sword and cloak ; 
And man the gondola with four oars— quick — 

[Exit Antonio. 
We will unto Giovanni Gradenigo's, 
And send for Marc Cornaro : — fear not, Bertram ; 
This needful violence is for thy safety, 
No less than for the general weal. 



*A 



Scene II.] 



DOGE OF VENICE. 



281 



Ber. Wliere would'st thou 

Bear me a prisoner ? 

Lioni. Firstly to '< the Ten j» 

Next to the Doge. 

JBer. To the Doge ? 

Lioni. Assuredly: 

Is he not chief of the state? 

Ber. Perhaps at sunrise — 

Lioni. What mean you ?— but we 11 know anon. 

Ber. Art sure ? 

Lioni. Sure as all gentle means can make ; and if 
They fail, you know " the Ten'' and their tribunal, 
And that St. Mark's has dungeons, and the dungeons 
A rack. 

Ber. Apply it then before the dawn 
Now hastening into heaven. — One more such word, 
And you shall perish piecemeal, by the death 
You think to dojm to me. 

Re-enter Antonio. 

Ant. The bark is ready, 

My lord, and all prepared. 

Lioni. Look to the prisoner. 

Bertram, I '11 reason with thee as we go 
To the MagnificoV, sage Gradenigo. [Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 
The Ducal Palace.— The Doge''s Apartment. 
The Doge and his Nephew Bertuccio Faliero. 

Dose. Are all the people of our house in muster ? 

Ber. F. They nre array d, and eager for the signal, 
Within our palace precincts at San Polo.i 
I come for your last orders. 

Doge. It had been 

As well had there been time to have got together, 
From my own fief, Val di Marino, more 
Of our retainers —hut it is too late. 

Ber. F. Methinks, my lord, 't is better as it is : 
A sudden swelling of our retinue 
Had waked suspicion ; and, though fierce and trusty, 
The vassals of thTt district are too rude 
And quick in quirrel to have long maintain'd 
The secret discipline we need for such 
A service, till our foes are dealt upon. 

Z>oge. True J but when once the signal has been 
given. 
These are the men for such an enterprise ; 
These city slaves have all their private bias, 
Their piejudice against or for this noble. 
Which may induce them to o'erdo or spare 
Wheie mercy may be madness ; the fierce peasants. 
Serfs of my county of Val di Mirino, 
Would do the bidding of their lord without 
Distinguishing for love or hate his foes j 
Alike to Ihem Marcello or Cornaro, 
A Gradenigo or a Foscari ; 
They are not used to start at those vain names, 
Nor bow the knee before a civic senate ; 
A chief in armour is their Suzerain, 
And not a thing in robes. 

Ber. F. We are enough ; 

And for the dispositions of our clients 
Against the senate I will answer. 

'Doge. Well, 

The die is thrown ; but for a warlike service, 
Done in the field, commend me to my peas mts : 
They made the sun shine through the host of Huns 
When sallow burghers slunk back to their tents, 
And cower'd to hear their own victorious trumpet. 
If there be small resistance, you will find 
The-e citizens all lions, like their standard ; 
But if there's much to do, you'll wish with me, 
A band of iron rustics at our backs. 

Ber. F Thus thinking, I must marvel you resolve 
To strike the blow so suddenly. 

Dose. Such blows 

Mu t be struck suddenly or never. When 
I had o'ermaster'd the weak false remorse 



. The Doge's family palace. 



Which yearn'd about my heart, too fondly yielding 

A moment to the feelings of old days, 

I was most fain to strike; and, firstly, that 

I might not yield again to such emotions j 

And, secondly, because of all these men, 

Save Israel and Philip Calendaro, 

I know not well the courage or the faith : 

Today might find 'mongst them a traitor to us, 

As yesterday a thousand to the senate ; 

But once in, with their hilts hot in their hands, 

They must on for their own sakes ; one stroke struck. 

And the mere inslinc of the fiist-born Cain, 

Which ever lurks somewheie in human hearls. 

Though circumstance may keep it in abeyance. 

Will urge the rest on like to wolves , the sight 

Of blood to crowds begets the thirst of more. 

As ihe first wine-cup leads to the long revel j 

And you will find a harder ta>k to quell 

Than urge them when they have commenced, but till 

That moment, a mere voice, a straw, a shadow, 

Is capable of turning them aside. — 

How goes the night ? 

Ber. F. Almost upon the dawn. 

Doge. Then it is time to strike upon the bell. 
Are the men posted ? 

Ber. F. By this time they are ; 

But they have orders not to strike, until 
They have command from you through me in person. 

Doge 'T is well.— Will the morn never put to rest 
These stars which twinkle yet o'er all the heavens ? 
I am settled and bound up, and being so, 
The very effort which it cost me to 
Resolve to cleanse this commonwealth with fire. 
Now leaves my miud more steady. 1 have wept. 
And trembled at the thought of this dread dutyj 
But now I have put down all idle passion, 
And look the grow ing tempest in the face, 
As doth the pilot of an admiral galley : 
Yet (wouldst thou think it, kinsman ?) it hath been 
A greater struggle to me, than when nations 
Beheld their fate merged in the approaching fight, 
Where I was leader of a phalanx, where 
Thousands were sure to perish —Yes, to spill 
The rank polluted current from the veins 
Of a few bloated despots needed more 
To steel me to a purpose such as made 
Timoleon immortal, than to face 
The toils and dangers of a life of war. 

Ber. F. It gladdens me to see your former wisdom 
Subdue the furies which so wrung you ere 
You were decided. 

Doge. It was ever thus 

With me ; the hour of agitation came 
In the first glimmerings of a purpose, when 
Passion had too much room to sway ; but in 
The hour of action 1 have stood as calm 
As were the dead who lay around me: this 
They knew who made me what I am, and trusted 
To the subduing power which 1 preserved 
Over my mood, when its first burst was spent. 
But they weie not aware that there are things 
Which make revenge a virtue by reflection, 
And not an impulse of mere anger ; though 
The laws sleej), jusice wakes, and injured souls 
Oft do a public right with private wrong, 
And justify their deeds unto themselves. — 
Methinks the day breaks — is it not so ? look, 
Thine eyes are clear with youth ; —the air puts on 
A morning freshness, and, at least to me. 
The sea looks greyer through the lattice. 

Ber. F. True, 

The morn is dappling in the sky. 

Doge. Away then ! 

See that they strike without delay, and with 
The first toll from St. Mark's, march on the palace 
With all our house's strength ; here 1 will meet you — 
The Sixteen and their companies will move 
In separate columns at the self-same moment — 
Be sure you post yourself at the great gate : 
I would not trust "the Ten " except to us — 
The rest, the rabble of patricians, may 



24* 



'-•"'*-*"'*- 



ttii^^MttiiMuataMid 



iiGyHU 



mtsmmik 



282 



MARINO FALIERO, 



[Act IV. 



Glut the more careless swords of those leagued with us. 
Rftmeniber that the cry is still " Saint M nk ! , 

The Geiioeie are come — ho ! to the rescue ! | 

Saint Mark and Liberty ! " — Now — now to action ! j 

Ber. F. Farewell then, noble uncle 1 we will meet I 
In freedom and irue sovereignty, or never ! I 

Dugt. Come hither, my Bertuccio — one embrace — 
Speed, for the day grow> br -ader — send me soon 
A messenger to tell me how all goes 
When you rejoin our troop-, and hen sound — sound 
The storm-bell from Saint Mark's ! 

lExU Bertuccio Faliero. i 

Doge (solus). He is gone, 

And on each footstep moves a life. — 'T is done. 
Now the destroying angel hovers o'er 
Venice, and pauses ere he pours the vial, 
Even as the eagle ove; looks his prey. 
And for a moment, poised in middle air, 
Suspen'ds ihe motion of his mighty wings, 
Then swoops with his une ring betk. — 1 hou day! 
That slowly walk'st the wa'ers : march — march on — 
I would not smite i' the daik. but rather see 
That no sroke errs. A'nd you, ye blue sea waves ! 
I have seen you dyed ere now, and deeply too, 
With Genoese, Saracen, and Hunnish gore. 
While that of Venice How'd too, but victorious. 
Now thou must wear an unmix'd crimson j no 
Barbaric blood can recnncile us now 
Unto that horrible incarnadine, 
But friend or fie will roll in civic slaughter. 
And have I lived to foursc >re years for this? 
I, who was named Pieserver of the City ? 
I, at whose name the million's cnps were flung 
Into the air, and cries from fens of honsands 
Rose up, impio ing Heaven to send me blessings, 
And fame, and length of days — (o see this day ? 
But this day, black within the calendir, 
Shall be succeeded by a bright millennium. 
Doge Dandolo survived to ninety summers 
To vanquish empires, and refuse their crown ; 
I will resign a crown, and make the state 
Renew its freedom — but oh ! by wh t means? 
The noble end must justify them — What 
Are a few drops of human blood? 't is false, 
The blood of yrants is not human ; they, 
Like to incarnate Molochs, feed on oars. 
Until 't is lime to give them to the tombs 
Which they have made so populous — Oh world ! 
Oh men 1 what are ye, and our best designs, 
That we mu t work by crime to punish crime? 
And slay as if Deah had but this one gate, 
When a few years would make he sword superfluous ? 
And I, upon the verge of th' unknown realm. 
Ye' send so many heralds on bef jre me ? — 
I must not ponder this. [A pause. 

Hark ! was there not 
A murmur as of distant voices, and 
The tramp of feet in martitl unison ? 
What phantoms even of sound our wishes raise! 
It cannot be— the signal h th not rung — 
Why pauses it? My nei hew's messenger 
Should be upon his way o me, and he 
Himself perhaps even now draws gra'ing back 
Upon its ponderous hit ge the steep tower portal, 
Whe'e swings 'he sullen huge oracular bell. 
Which never knells but for a princely death. 
Or for a stite in peril, pealing forth ! 
Tremendous bodements ; let it do i's oflSce, 
And be this peal its awfullest and last 
Sound till the strong tower rock '. — What ! silent still ? 
I would go forth, but that my pos is here. 
To be the centre of re-nnion lo 
The oft discordant elements which form 
Leagues of this na'ure, and to keep compact 
The wave! ing of the weak, in case of conflict; 
For if hey should do battle, 't will he he-e. 
Within the paLce, that the strife will thicken: 
Then here must be my station, as becomes 

The master-mover. Hark ! he comes — he comes. 

My nephew, brave Bertuccio's messerjger.— 



What tidings? Is he marching? hath he -ped ? — 
They here ; — all 's lost — yet will 1 make an eflfort. 

Enter a Signor of the Night, with Guards, SfC. ^c 

Sig. Doge, I arrest thee of high treason ! 

Doge. Me ! 

Thy prince, of treason? — Who are they that dare 
Cloak their own treason under such an order? 

Sig. {ihowiiig kis vrdtr). Behold my order from 
the assembled Ten. 

Doge. And vohtre are they, and xjuhy assembled ? no 
Such council can be lawful, till the pimce 
Preside there, and tl.at duty's mine: on thine 
I charge thee, give me way, or ni >rshal me 
To the council ch .mber. 

Sig. Diike ! it may not be : 

Nor are they in the wonted Hall of Council, 
But sitting in the convent of Saint Saviour's. 

Doge. You dare to disobey me, then ? 

Sig. I serve 

The state, and needs must serve i' faithfully ; 
My warrant is the will of those who rule it. 

Doge. And till that warrant has my signature 
It is illegal, srd, as noiv applied, 
Rebellious — Hast thou weighed well thy life's worth. 
That thus you dare as ume a I iv\ less function ? 

S'g. 'T is not my ofBce to reply, but act — 
I am placed here as guard u|)on thy person, 
A.id not as judge to hear or to decide. 

Doge (iiside). I must gain time — So that the 
storm-bell sound. 
All may be w ell yet. — Kinsman, speed — speed — 

speed 1 — 
Our fate is tiembling in the balance, and 
Woe to the vanqui^^h'd ! be they prince and people. 
Or slaves and senate — 

[The great beli of Saint Mark's tolls. 
Lo I it sounds — it tolls ! 

Doge (aloud). Hark, Signor of the Night! and 
you. ye hirelings. 
Who wield your mercenary staves in fear, 
It is your knell — ^well on. thou lusty peal! 
Now knaves, what ransom for your lives ? 

Sig. Confusion ! 

Stand to your arms, and guard the door — all 's lost 
Unless that fe>rful bell be silenced soon. 
The nfiicer hath miss'd his path or purpose. 
Or met some m fo eseen and hide: us obstacle. 
Anselmo, with thy company proceed 
Straight to the tower j the rest remain with me. 

[Exii pari oj the Gunrd. 

Doge Wretch ! if thou wouldst have thy vile life, 
implore it ; 
It is not now a lease of sixty seconds. 
Ay, send thy mi-erable ruflSans forth j 
Thev never shall return. 

S'lg. So let it be ! 

They die then in their duty, as will I. 

Doge. Fool : the high eagle flies at nobler game 
Than thou and thy base myrmidons, — live on. 
So ihou provnk'st i.'t peril by resistance. 
And learn (if souls so much obscmed can bear 
To gaze upon the sunbeams) to be ftee. 

S>g. And learn thou to be captive — It hath ceased, 
[The bell ceases to toll. 
The traitorous signal, which was lo have set 
The bloodhound mob on their patrician prey — 
The knell hath rung, but it is not the senate's ! 

Doge (after a pause). All 's silent, and all 's lost ! 

Sig. Now, Doge, denounce me 

As rebel slave of a revolted council ! 
H ive I not done my duty ? 

Doge. Peace, thou thing ! 

Thou hast done a worthy deed, and eatn'd the price 
Of blood, and they who use thee will reward thee. 
But thou wert sent to watch, and not to prate, 
As thou said'st even now — then do thine office, 
But let it be in silence, as behnves thee, 
Since, though thy prisoner, I am thy prince. 

Sig. I did not mean to fail in the respect 
Due to your rank : in this I shall obey you. 



^^iBKfiHii 



Scene II.] 



DOGE OF VENICE 



283 



Doge {aside). There now is nothing left me save to 
die ; 
And yet how near success ! I would have fallen, 
And proudly, in the iiour of triumph, but 
To mics it thus ! 

Enter other Sigiwrs of the Night, with Bertuccio 
Faiiero prisoner. 

2d Sig. We took him in the act 

Of issuing from the tower, where, at his order, 
As delegated from the Doge, the signal 
Had Ihus begun to sound. 

1st Sig. Are all the passes 

Which lead up to the palace well secured ? 

2d Sig. They are — besides, it matters not; the 
chiefs 
Are all in chains, and some even now on trial — 
Their followers are dispersed, and many taken. 

Ber. F. Uncle ! 

Doge. It is in vain to war with Fortune ; 

The glory hath departed from our house. 

Ber. F. Who would have deem'd it? — Ah! one 
moment sooner ! 

Doge. That moment would have changed the face 
of ages ; 
This gives us to eternity — We '11 meet it 
As men whose triumph is not in success, 
But who can make their own minds all in all, 
Equal to every fortune. Droop not, 't is 
But a brief passage — I would go alone, 
Yet if they send us, as 't is like, togelher, 
Let us go worthy of our sires and selves. 

Ber. F. I shall not shame you, uncle. 

1st Sig. Lords, our orders 

Are to keep guard on both in separate chambers, 
Until the council call ye to your trial. 

Doge. Our trial ! will they keep their mockery up 
Even to the last ? but let them deal upon us. 
As we had dealt on them, but with less pomp. 
'T is but a game of mutual homicides, 
Who have cast lots for the first death, and they 
Have won with false dice. — Who hath been our 
Judas ? 

\st Sig. I am not warranted to answer that. 

Ber. F. I 'II answer for thee — t is a certain Bertram, 
Even now deposing to the secret giunta. 

Doge. Bertram, the Bergamask ! With what vile 
tools 
We operate to slay or save ! This creature. 
Black with a double treason, now will e\rn 
Rewards and honours, and be stamp'd in story 
With the geese in the Capitol, which gabbled 
Till Rome awoke, and had an annual triumph, 
While Manlius, who hurl'd down the Gauls, was cast 
From the Tarpeian. 

1st Sig. He aspired to treason, 

And sought to rule the state. 

Doge. He saved the state, 

And sought but to reform what he revived — 
But this is idle Come, sirs, do your work. 

\st Sig. Noble Bertuccio, we must now remove you 
Into an inner chamber. 

Ber. F. Farewell, uncle ! 

If we shall meet again in life I know not, 
But they perhaps will let our ashes mingle. 

Doge. Yes, and our spirits, which shall yet go forth, 
And do what our frail clay, thus clogg'd. hath fail'd in ! 
They cannot quench the memory of those 
Who would have hurl'd ihem from their guilty thrones. 
And such examples will find heirs, though distant. 



ACT V. 

SCENE I. 

The Hall of the Council of Ten assembled with the 
additional Senators, who, on the Trials of the Con- 
spirators for the Treason of Marino Faiiero, com- 
posed what was called the Giunta, — Guards, Of- 



ficers, SfC. 8fC. — I'irael Bertuccio and Philip Calen- 
daro as Prisoners. — Bertram, Lioni, and Wit- 
nesses, iSfC. 

The Chief of the Ten, Beniniende.i 

Ben. There i.ow rests, after such conviction of 
Their manifold and manife-t offences, 
But to pronounce on the e obdunte men 
The sentence of the law : — a grievous task 
To those who heai, and those who speak. Alas! 
That it should fall to me ! and that my days 
Of ofTice should be s igniatised through all" 
'] he years of coming time, as bearing lecord 
To this most foul and compbcaied treason 
Against a just and free state, known to all 
The earth as being the Christian bulwark 'gainst 
The Saracen and the schismatic Gieek, 
The savage Hun, and not less barbarous Frank j 
A city wliich has open'd India's wealth 
To Europe ; the last Roman lefuge from 
O'erwhelming Atlila ; the ocean's queen ; 
Proud Genoa's prouder rival ! 'T is to sap 
The throne of such a city, these lost men 
Have risk'd and forfeited their worthless lives — 
So let them die the death. 

/. Ber. We are prepared ; 

Your racks have done that for us. Let us die. 

Ben. If ye have that to say which would obtain 
Abatement of your punishment, the Giunta 
Will hear you ; if you have aught to confess, 
Now is your time, perhaps it may avail ye. 

Ber. F. We stand to hear, and not to speak. 

Ben. Your crimes 

Are fully proved by your accomplices, 
And all which circumstance can add to aid them ; 
Yet we would hear from your own lips complete 
Avowal of your treason : on the verge 
Of that dread gulf which none repass, the truth 
Alone can profii you on ear'h or heaven — 
Say, then, what was your motive ? 

/. Ber. Justice ! 

Ben. What 

Your object ? 

/. Ber. Freedom ! 

Ben. You are brief, sir. 

/. Ber. So my life grows : I 
Was bred a soldier, not a senator. 

Ben. Perhaps you think by this blunt brevity 
To brave your judges to postpone the sentence? 

/. Ber. Do you be brief as I am, and believe me, 
I shall prefer that mercy to your pardon. 

Bin. Is this your sole reply to the tribunal ? 

/. Ber. Go, ask your racks what they have wrung 
from us. 
Or place us there again ; we have still some blood left. 
And some si ight sense of pain in these wrench'd limbs ; 
But this ye dare not do ; for if we die there — 
And you have left us little life to spend 
Upon your engines, gorged wi h pangs already — 
Ye lose the public spectacle, with which 
You would appal your slaves to further slavery ! 
Groans are not words, nor agony assent, 
Nor affirmation truth, if nature's sense 
Should overcome the soul into a lie, 
For a short respite — must we bear or die ? 

Be7i. Say, who were your accomplices? 

/. Ber. The Senate. 

Ben. What do you mean ? 

/. Ber. Ask of the suffering people. 

Whom your patrician crimes have driven to crime. 

Ben. You know the Doge ? 

7. Ber. I served with him at Zara 

In the field, when you were pleading here your way 
To present office ; we exposed our lives, 
While you but hazarded the lives of others, 

1" In the notes to Marino Faiiero, It may be as well as 
to say, that Benintende was not really of the Ten but 
merely Grand Chancellor — a separate office, though an im- 
portant one. It was an arbitrary alteration of mine."— 
Byron Letters. — E. 



MkU 



MMik 



284 



MARINO FALIERO, 



[Act V. 



Alike by accusation or defence ; 

And for the rest, 11 Venice know* her Dose, 

Through his great actions, and the Senate's insults. 

Ben. You have held conference with him ? 

/. Ber. I am weary — 

Even wearier of your questions than your tortures : 
I pray you pass to judgment. 

Ben. It is coming.— 

And you, t^o, Philip Calendaro, what 
Have you to say why you sho.ld not be doomed ? 

Cat, I never was a man of many words, 
And now hue few left worih 'he utterance. 

Ben. A further application of you engine 
May change your tone. 

Cat. Most true, it will do soj 

A former application did so ; but 
It will no change my words, or, if it did — 

Ben. What then ? 

Cal. Will my avowal on yon rack 

Stand good in law? 

Ben. Assuredly. 

Cal. Whoe'er 

The culprit be whom I accuse of treason ? 

Btn. Without doubt, he will be biought up to trial. 

Cal. And on th s testimony would he perish? 

BcJi. So your confes^inn be det'il'd and full, 
He will stand here in peril of his life. 

Cal. 'Ihen look well to thy proul self, President, 
For by the eternity which yawns before me, 
I swear that thou, and oiiiy thou, shalt be 
The traitor 1 denounce upon that rack. 
If I be stretch'd there for the second time. 

One of the Gmnia. Loid President, 'twere best 
proceed to judgment ; 
There is no more (o be d awn from these men. 

Ben. Unhappy men ! prepare for instant death. 
The nature of your crime — our law — and peril 
The state now stands in, leave not an hours re-pite — 
Guards I lead hem for h, and upon the balcony 
Of the red columns, where, on festal Thursday,! 
The Do^e stands to behold the chase of bulls, 
Let them be jus itied : and leave exposed 
Their wavering re'ics, in the place of judgment, 
To tlie full view of the assembled people! — 
And Heaven have mercy on their souls ! 

Tite G'unta. Amen ! 

/. Ber. Sijnors, farewell ! we shall not all again 
Meet in one place. 

Ben. And lest Ihey should essay 

To stir up the distracted multitude — 
Guards ! let their mouths be gag'^'d 2 even in the act 
Of execution. — Lead Ihem hence ! 

Cal. What ! must we 

Not even say farewell to some fond friend, 
Nor leave a las' word with our confessor ? 

Btn. A priest is wai'.ing in the nn'echainber; 
But, f )r your friends, such interviews would be 
Painful to ihem, and useless all to you. 

Cal. I knew that we were gagg'd in life ; at least 
All those who htd not heart to risk heir lives 
Upon their open thoughts; but still I deem'd 
That in the last few moment-, the same idle 
Freedom of speech accorded to the dying. 
Would not now be denied lo us ; but since—— 

/. Ber. Even let them have their way, brave Calen- 
daro ! 
What matter a few syllables? let's die 
Without the slightest show of f ivour from them; 
So shall our blood more readily arise 
To Heaven asrainst them, ^nd more 'estify 
To their atrocities, than could a volume 
Spoken or wriMen of our dying words ! 
They tremble at our voices — nay, they dread 
Our very silence — let them live "in fear! — 
Leave them unto their thoughts, and let us now 
Address our own above ! — Lead on j we are ready. 

l"Giove(li prasgo," — "fat or greasy ThHrsday,"— which 
I cannot literally translate in the text, was the day. 
2 HiBtorical fa^t. See Sanuto, Appendix, Note (A). 



Cal. I r el, hadst thou but hearken'd unto me, 
It had not now been thus; and yon pale villain, 
The coward Bertram, would 

/■ Ber. Peace, Calendaro ! 

What brooks it now to ponder upon this ? 

Beit. Alas ! I fain you died in peace with me: 
I did not seek this task ; 't was foiced upon me : 
Say. you forgive me, though I never can 
Retrieve my own forgiveness — frown not thus! 

X. Ber. 1 die and pardon thee! 

Cal. {spiUmg at hini). I die and scorn thee ! 

[ExetiiU Israel Bertuccio and Philip Calen- 
daro, Guards, <yc. 

Beji. Now that these criminals have been disposed of, 
'T is time that we i)roceed ;o p l^s our sentence 
Upon the greatest traitor upon record 
In any annals, the Doge Faliero! 
The proofs and process are complete ; the time 
And crime require a quick procedure : shall 
He now be cilTd in to receive the award? 

The Giuuta. Ay, ay. 

Btn. Avogadori, order that the Doge 
Be brought befoie the council. 

One of the Gtunta. And the rest, 

When shall ihey be brought up ? 

Ben. When all the-cbiefs 

Have been disposed of. Some have fled to Chiozza j 
But there are thousands in pursuit of them, 
And such precaution ta'en on terra firma. 
As well as in the islands, that we hope 
None will escape to utter in strange lands 
His libellous tale of treasons 'gainst the senate. 

Enter the Doge as Prisoner, with Guards, fyc. <yc. 

Beii. Doge — for such still you are, and by the law 
Must be consider'd, till the hour shall come 
When you must doti' the ducal bonnet from 
That head, which could not weir a crown more noble 
Than empires can C'>nfer, in quiet honour, 
But it must plot to ovenhiow your peers, 
Who made you what you are, and quench in blood 
A city's glory — we have laid already 
Before you in your chamber at full length. 
By the Avngad'ori, all the proofs 
Which have appear'd agunst y u ; and more ample 
Ne'er rear'd their s inguinary shadows to 
Confront a traitor. What have you to say 
In your defence ? 

Doge. What shall I say to ye, 

Since my defence must be your condemnation ? 
You ai e at once ofl'enders and accusers, 
Judges and executioners ! — Proceed 
Upon your power. 

Ben. Your chief accomplices 

Having confessed, there is no hope for you. 

Doge. And who be they ? 

Ben. In number many j but 

The first now stands before you in the court, 
Bijrlram. of Bergamo, — would you question him ? 

Doge (looking at him coJiternptiiouyly). No. 

Ben. And two others, Israel Bertuccio, 

And Philip Calendaro, have admitted 
Their fellowship in treason with the Doge ! 

Doge. And where are they ? 

Be7i. Gone to their place, and now 

Answering to Heaven for what they did on earth. 

Doge. Ah ! the j)lebeian Brutus, is he gone ? 
And the quick Cassius of the arsenal ? — 
How did they meet their doom ? 

^671. Think of your own : 

It is approaching. You decline to plead, then? 

D'ge. I cannot plead to my inferiors, nor 
Can recognise your legal power to try me. 
Show me the law ! 

J5e7i. On great emergencies, 

The law must be remrdelj'd or amended : 
Our fathers had not fix'd the punishment 
Of such a crime, as on the old Roman ttbles 
The sentence against parricide was left 
In pure forgetfulness ; they could not render 



^ti^^ 



ttU 



Scene I.] 



DOGE OF VENICE. 



285 



That penal, which had neither name nor thought 

In their great bosfinis: who would have foreseen 

That nature could be filed to such a crime 

As sons 'gainst sires, and princes 'gainst their reahns? 

Your sin h.ith made us make a law which will 

Become a precedent 'gainst such hiught traitors, 

As would with treason mount to tyranny j 

Not even contented wiih a sceptre, till 

They can convert it to a two-edged sword ! 

Was not the place of Doge sufficient for ye ? 

What 's nobler than the signory of Venice ? 

Doge. The signory of Venice! You betray'd me — 
You — you, who sit there, traitors as ye are! 
From my equality with you in birth, 
And my superiority in action, 
You drew me from my honourable toils 
In distant lands — on tlood — in field — in cities — 
Yov. singled me out like ;» victim to 
Stand crown'd, hut bound and helpless, at the altar 
Where you alone could minister. I knew not — 
I sought not — wish'd not — dieani'd not the election, 
Which reach'd me first at Rome, and I obey'd j 
But found on my arrival, that, besides 
The jealous viirilance which always led you 
To mock and m \r your sovereign's best intents. 
You had, even in the interregnum of 
My journey to the cipital, ciirtail'd 
And mutil ited the few privileges 
Yet left the duke: all this 1 bore, and would 
Have borne, until my very hearth was stain'd 
By the pollution of your ribaldry, 
And he, the ribald, whom I see amongst you — 
Fit judge in such tribunal ! 

Ben. {inteiTupline hun). Michel Steno 
Is here in virtue of his office, as 
One of the Forty ; " the Ten " having craved 
A Giunta of patricians from the senate 
To aid our judgment in a trial nrduous 
And novel as the present : he was set 
Free from the penalty pronounced upon him, 
Because the Dnge, who should protect the law, 
Seeking to abrogate all law, cnn claim 
No punishment of others by the statutes 
Which he himself denies and violates! 

Doge. His prmishitie7}t ! I rather see him there, 
Where he now sits, to glut him with my death, 
Than in the mockery of castigation, 
Which your foul, outward, juggling show of justice 
Decreed as sentence ! Base as was his crime, 
'T was purity compared with your protection. 

Ben, And can it be, tha' the great Doge of Venice, 
With three parts of a cen'ury of years 
And honours on his hexd, could thus allow 
His fury, like an angry boy's, to master 
All feeling, wisdom, faith, and fear, on such 
A provocation as a young man's petulance ? 

Doge. A spark creites the flame — 't is the last drop 
Which makes the cup run o'er, and mine was full 
Already : you oppress'd the i rince and people ; 
I would have freed both, and have fail'd in both: 
The price of such success would have been glory. 
Vengeance, and victory, and such a name 
As would have made Venetian history 
Rival to that of Greece and Syracuse 
When they were freed, and (iourish'd ages after. 
And mine to Gelon and to Thiasybulus: — 
Failing, I know the penalty of failure 
Is present infamy and death — the future 
Will judge, when Venice is no more, or free; 
Till then,~ the truth is in abeyance. Paus6 not ; 
I would have shown no mercy, and I seek none; 
My life was staked upon a mighty hazard. 
And being lost, take what 1 would have taken ! 
I would have stood alone amidst your tombs : 
Now you may flock round mine, and trample on it, 
As you have done upon my heart while living. 

Ben. You do confess then, and admit the justice 
Of our tribunal? 

Doge. I confess to have fail'd ; 

Fortune is female : from my youth her favours 



I Were not wilhhel(\ the fault was mine to hope 

I Her former smiles again at this late hour. 

Ben. You do not then in aught arraign our equity ? 
Duge. Noble Venetians ! stir me not with questions. 

I I am lesign'd to the worst ; but in me still 
Have some'hing of the blood of brighter days, 
And am not over-patient. Pray you, spare me 
Further interrogation, which boots nothing, 
Except to turn a trial to debate. 

I shall but answer that which will offend you, 
And please your enemies — a host already ; 
'T is true, these sullen walls should yield no echo: 
But walls have eais — nay, more, they have tongues; 

and if 
There were no other way for truth to o'erleap them. 
You who condemn me, you who fear and slay mt. 
Yet could not bear in silence to your graves 
What you would hear from me of good or evil ; 
The secret were too mighty for your souls : 
Then let it sleep in mine, unless you court 
A danger v\hich would double that you escape. 
Such my defence would be, had I full scope 
To make it famous ; for true words are things, 
And dying men's are things which lon^: ou live. 
And ofientimes avenge them ; bury mine, 
If ye would fain survive me: take this counsel. 
And though too oft ye made me live in wrath, 
Let me die calmly ; you may grant me this; — 
I deny nothing — defend nothing — nothing 
I ask of you, but silence for myself. 
And sentence from the court ! ' 

Ben. This full admission 

Spares us the harsh necessity of ordering 
The torture to elicit the whole truth. 

Doge, 'ihe torture ! you have put me there already. 
Daily since I was Doge ; but if you will 
Add the corpore:\l rack, you may : these limbs 
Will yield with age to crushing iron ; but 
There 's that within my heart shall strain your engines. 

Enter an Officer. 

Officer. Noble Venetians ! Duchess Faliero 
Requests admission to the Giunta's presence. 

Be7i. Say, conscript fathers,i shall she be admitted? 

One of the Giu7ita. She may have revelations of 
importance 
Unto the st;ite, to justify compliance 
With her request. 

Ben. Is this the general will ? 

Ml. It is. 

Dnge. Oh, admirable laws of Venice ! 

Which would admit the wife, in the full hope 
That she might testify against the husband. 
What glory to the chaste Venetian dames ! 
But such blasphemers 'gainst all honour, as 
Sit here, do well to act in their vocation. 
Now, villain Steno ! if this woman fail, 
I '11 pardon thee thy lie, and thy escape. 
And my own violent death, and thy vile life. 

The Duchess e7iters. 

Ben. Lady ! this just tribunal has resolved, 
Though the request be strange, to grant it, and 
Whatever be its purport, to accord 
A patient hearing with the due respect 
Which fits your ancestry, your rank, and virtues: 
But you turn pale — ho ! there, look to the lady ! 
Place a chair instantly. 

^'Ing. A moment's faintness — 

'T is past ; I pray you pardon me,— I sit not 
In presence of niy prince and of my husband. 
While he is on his feet. 

Ben. Your pleasure, lady? 

.^ng. Strange rumours, hut most true, if all I hear 
And see be sooth, have reach d me, and I come 
To know the worst, even at Ihe worst ; forgive 
The abruptness of my entrance and my bearing. 

1 The Venetian senate took the «nme title aa the Bo* 
man, of "conscript lathers." 






_J 



286 



MARINO FALIERO, 



[Act V. 



Is it I cannot speak — I cannot shape 

The question — but you answer it ere spoken, 
With eyes averted, and with gloomy brows — 
Oh God 1 this is the silence of the grave ! 

J3en, {after a pause). Spare ua, and spare thyself ■ 
the repetition I 

Of our most awful, but inexorable 
Duty to Heaven and man ! 

.lag. Yet speak ; I cannot — 

I cannot — no — even now believe these things. 
Is he condemn'd ? 

Ben. Alas ! 

Ang. And was he guilty ? 

Btii. LTdy! the natural distraction of 
Thy thoughts at such a moment nukes the question 
Merit forgiveness ; else a doubt like this 
Against a just and paramount tribunal 
Were deep oifeuce. But quesiion even the Doge, 
And if he can deny the proofs, believe him 
Guiltless as thy own bosom. 

Aug. Is it so? I 

My lord — my sovereign — my poor father's friend — j 
The mighty in the field, the »age in council ; 
Unsay the words of this man ! — Thou art silent ! 

Ben, He hath already own'd to his own guilt. 
Nor, as thou see'st, doth he deny it now. j 

Ang. Ay, but he must not die ; Spare his few years. 
Which grief and shame will soon cut down to days ! i 
One day of balHed crime must not efface j 

Near sixteen lustres crowded with brave acts. i 

Ben. His doom must be fulfilTd without remission I 
Of time 01 penalty — ': i> a decree. j 

Aiig. He hath been guilty, but there may be mercy. : 

Ben. Not in this case with justice. i 

Ang. Alas ! signor, : 

He who is only just is cruel ; who i 

Upon the earth would live were all judged justly ? 

Ben. His punishment is safely to the state. I 

Ang. He was a subject, and hath served the state; I 
He was youi general, and hith skived the state ; ■ 

He is your sovereign, and hath ruled the state. ' 

One of the Council. He is a traitor, and betray'd 
thest.te. 

Ang. And, but for him. there now had been no state 
To save or to destroy ; and you, who sit 
There to pronounce the death of your deliverer, | 

Had now been groaning at a Moslem oar, | 

Or digging in the Hunnish mines in fet'ers ! ] 

One of "the Council. No, lady, there are others who 
would die 
Rather than breathe in slavery ! 

Ang. If there are so 

Within these walls, thou art not of the number: 
The truly brave are generous to the fallen ! — 
Is the)e no hope? 

Ben, Lady, it cannot be. 

Ang. {turning to the Doge). Then die, Faliero! 
since it must be so; 
But with the spirit of my father's friend. 
Thou hast been guilty of a gre^t offence, 
Half canceli'd by the harshness of these men. 
I would have sued to them — have pray'd to them — 
Have be2g'd as fimish'd mendicmts for bread — 
Have wept as they will cry unto their God 
For mercy, and beanswer'd as they answer, — 
Had it been fitting for thy name or mine. 
And if the cruelty in their cold eyes 
Had not announced the heartless wrath within. 
Then, as a prince, address thee to thy doom ! 

Doge. I have lived too long not 'o know how to die ! 
Thy suing to these men were but the bleating 
Of the lamb to the butcher, or the cry , 

Of seamen to the surje : I would not take i 

A life eternal, granted at the hands 
Of wretches, from whose monstrous villanies | 

I sought to free the groaning nations ! 

Michel Steno. Doge, 

A word with thee, and with this noble lady, 
Whom I have grievously offended. Would 
Sorrow, or shame, or penance on my part. 
Could cancel the inexorable past ! 



But since that cannot be, as Christians let us 
Say farewell, and in peace : wi.h full contrition 
I crave, not pardon, but compassion from you, 
And give, however weak, my prayers for both. 

A>tg. Sage Benintende, now chief judge of Venice, 
I speak to thee in answer to yon signor. 
Infoini the ribald Steno, that his words 
Ne'er weigh d in mind with Loiedano's daughter, 
Fur; her than to create a moment's pity 
For such as he is : would that others had 
Despised him as 1 pity ! I prefer 
My honour to a thousand lives, could such 
Be multiplied in njjne, but would not have 
A single life of others lost for that 
Wliich nothing human can impugn — the sense 
Of virtue, looking not to what is call'd 
A good name for reward, but to itself. 
To me the scorner"s words were as the wind 
Unto the rock : but as there .ire — alas ! 
Spirits more sensitive, on which such things 
Light as the whirlwind on the waters ; souls 
To whom dishonour's shadow is a substance 
More terrible ;han death, here and hereafter; 
Men whose vice is to s art at vice's scoffing. 
And who, though proof against all blandishments 
Of pleasure, and all pangs of p;un, are feeble 
When the proud nanie on which they pinnacled 
Their hopes is breathed on, jealous as the eagle 
Of her high aiery ; lei what we now 
Behold, and feel, and suffer, be a lesson 
To wretches how they tamper in their spleen 
With beings of a higher order. Insects 
Have made the lion mad ere now ; a shaft 
I' the heel o'erthrew the bravest of the brave; 
A wife's dishonour was he bane of Troy ; 
A wife's dishonour unking'd Rnme for ever; 
An injured husband brought the Gauls to Clusium, 
And thence to Rome, which perish'd for a time; 
An I bscei.e gesture cost Caligula 
His life, while Earth yet bore his cruelties ; 
A virgin's wrong made Sixain a Moorish province; 
And Steno's lie, cnuch'd in two worthless lines, 
Hath decimated Venice, put in peril 
A senate which haih stood eisht hundred years, 
Disciown'd a prince, cut off' his crowniess head, 
And forged new fetters for a gioaniig people ! 
Let the poor wre'ch, like to the courtesan 
Who fired Persepolis, be proud of this, 
If it so please him — 't were a pride fit for him ! 
But let him not insult the last hours of 
Him, who, whate'er he now is, was a hero, 
By the intrusion of his very prayers ; 
Nothing of good can come from such a source, 
Nor would we aught with him, nor now, nor ever: 
We leave him to himself, that lowest depth 
Of human baseness. Pardon is for men, 
And mt for reptiles — we have none for Steno, 
And no resentment : things like him must sting, 
And higher beings suft'er ; 'tis the charter 
Of life. The man who dies by the adder's fang 
May have the crawler crush'd, but feels no anger: 
'T was the worm's nature ; and some men are worms 
In soul, more than the living things of tombs. 

Doge {to Ben). Signor! complete that which you 
deem your duty. 

Ben. Before we can proceed upon that duty. 
We would request the princess to withdraw ; 
'T will mo\ e her too much to be witness to it. 

Aug. I know it will, and yet I must endure it. 
For 't is a part of mine — I will not qui', 
Except by force, my husband's side.— Proceed ! 
Nay, fear not either shriek, or sigh, or tear ; 
Though my heart burst, it shall be silent.— Speak ! 
I have that within which shall o'ermaster all. 

Ben. Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice, 
Count of Val di Marino, Senator, 
And some time General of the Fleet and Army, 
Noble Venetian, many limes rnd oft 
Intrusted by 'he state with high employments, 
Even to the highest, listen to the sentence. 
Convict by many witnesses and proofs. 



g|^ 



Scene I.] 



DOGE OF VENICE. 



287 



And by thine own confession, of the guilt 

Of treachery and (reason, yet unheard of 

Until this (rial — the decree is dealh. 

Thy goods are coiifisca'e unto the state, 

Thy name is razed from out her records, save 

Upon a public day of thank^givin2; 

For this our most miraculous deliverance, 

When thou art noted in our calendars 

With earthquakes, pestilence, and foreign foes, 

And the great enemy of man, a. subject 

Of grateful masses for Heaven's grace in snatching 

Our lives and country from thy wickedness. 

The place vvheiein as Doge thou shouldst be painted, 

With thine illustrious predecessors, is 

To be left vacant, with a death-black veil 

Flung over these dim words engraved beneath, — 

" This place is of Marino Faliero, 

Decapitated for his crimes." 

Doge,. "His crimes!" 

But let it be so : — it will be in vain. 
The veil which blackens o'er this blighted name, 
And hides, or seems to hide, these lineaments, 
Shall draw more gazers than the thousand portraits 
Which gli ter lound it in their pictured trappings — 

Your delegated slaves — the peojde's tyrants ! 

" Decapitated for his crimes ! " — What crimes? 

Were it not better to record the facts, 

So that the contemplator might approve. 

Or at the least learn whence the crimes arose ? 

When the beholder knows a Doge conspired, 

Let him be told the cause — it is your history. 

Ben. Time must reply to that ; our sons will judge 
Their fathers' judgment, which I now pronounce. 
As Doge, clad in the ducal robes and cap, 
Thou shalt be led hence to the Giants' Staircase, 
Where thou and all our princes are invested ; 
And there the ducal crown being first resumed 
Upon the spot where it was first assumed. 

Thy head shall be struck off j and Heaven have mercy 
Upon thy soul ! 
Doge. Is this the Giunta's sentence ? 

Ben. It is. 

Doge. I can endure it.— And the time ? 

Ben. Must be immediate.— Make thy peace with 
God: 

Within an hour thou must be in His presence. 
Doge. 1 am already ; and n)y blood will rise 

To Heaven before the souls of those who shed it. — 

Are all my lands confiscated ? 

Ben, They are ; 

And goods, and Jewels, and all kind of treasure, 

Except two thousand ducats — these dispose of. 
Doge. That 's harsh. — I would have fain reserved 
the lands 

Near to Treviso, which I hold by investment 

From Laurence the Count-bishop of Ceneda, 

In fief perpetual to myself and heirs, 

To portion them (leaving my city spoil, 

My palace and my treasures, to your forfeit) 

Between my consort and my kinsmen. 
Ben. These 

Lie under the state's ban ; their chief, thy nephew, 

In peril of his own life; but the council 

Postpones his trial for the present. If 

Thou will'st a state unto thy widow'd princess, 

Fear not, for we will do her justice. 
Ang. Signers, 

I share not in your spoil ! From henceforth, know 

I am devoted unto God alone. 

And take my refuge in the cloister. 
Doge. Come ! 

The hour may be a hard one, but 't will end. 

Have I aught else to undergo save death ? 
Ben. You have nought to do, except confess and die. 

The priest is robed, the scimitar is bare, 

And both await without, — But, above all, 

Think not to speak unto the people ; they 

Are now by thousands swarming at the gates, 

But these are closed : the Ten, the Avogadori, 

The Giunta, and the chief men of the Forty, 



Alone will be beholders of thy doom, 
And they are ready to attend the Doge. 

Doge. The Doge ! 

Ben. Yes, Doge, thou hast lived and thou shalt die 
A sovereign ; till tiie moment which precedes 
The separaion of that head and trunk. 
That ducal crown and 1 ead shall be united. 
Thou hast forgot thy dignity in deigning 
To plot with petty traitors ; not so v\e. 
Who in the very punishment acknowledge 
The prince. Thv vile accomplices have died 
The dog's death, and the wolf's ; but thou shalt fall 
As falls the lion by the hunters, girt 
By those who feel a {)roud compassion for thee, 
And mourn even the inevitable death 
Provoked by thy wild wrath and regal fierceness. 
Now we remit thee to thy preparation : 
Let it be brief, and we ourselves will be 
Thy guides unto the place where first we were 
United to thee as thy subjects, and 
Thy senate; and must now be parted from thee 
As such for ever, on the self same spot. — 
Guards ! form the Doge's escort to his chamber. 

[Exeunt. 

S C E N E I L 

The Doge^s Apartment. 

The Doge as Prisoner^ and the Dutchess attending 
him. 

Doge. Now, that the priest is gone, 't were useless all 
To linger out the miserable minutes ; 
But one p;ing more, the pang of parting from thee, 
And I will leave the few last grains of sand, 
Which yet remain of the accorded hour, 
Still falling — I have done with Time. 

Ang. Alas ! 

And 1 have been the cause, the unconscious cause; 
And for this funeral marriage, this black union. 
Which thou, compliant with my father's wish, 
Didst promise at his death, thou hast seal'd thine own. 

Dose. Not so : there was that in my spirit ever 
Which shaped out for itself some great reverse j 
The marvel is, it came not until now — 
And yet it was foretold me. 

Ang. How foretold you ? 

Doge. Long years ago — so long, they are a doubt 
In memory, and yet they live in annals : 
When I was in my youth, and served the senate 
And signory as podesta and ca|)tain 
Of the tow n of Treviso, on a day 
Of festival, the sluggish bishop who 
Convey'd the Host aroused my rash young anger. 
By strange delay, and arrogant reply 
To my reproof: I raised my hand and smote him. 
Until he reel'd beneath his holy burthen; 
And as he rose from earth again, he raised 
His tremulous hands in pious wrath towards Heaven. 
Thence pointing to the Host, which had fallen from 

him. 
He turn'd to me, and said, "The hour will come 
When He thou hast o'erlhrown shall overthrow thee: 
The glory shall depart from out thy house. 
The wisdom shall be shaken from thy soul, 
And in thy best maturity of mind 
A m idness of the heart shall seize upon thee ; 
Passion shall tear thee when all passions cease 
In other men, or mellow into virtues; 
And majesty, which decks all other heads, 
Shall crown to leave thee headless ; honours shall 
But prove to thee the heralds of destruction, 
And hoary hairs of shame, and both of death. 
But not such death as fits an aged man." 
Thus saying, he pass'd on. — That hour is come. 

Ang. And with this warning couldst thou not have 
striven 
To avert the fatal moment, and atone, 
By penitence, for that which thou hadst done? 

'Dnge. I own the words went to my heart, so much 
That I remember'd them amid the maze 



288 



MARINO FALIERO, 



[Act V. 



Of life, as if they form'd a spectral voice, 

Which shook me in a supernatural dream ; 

And I repented ; but 't was not for me 

To pull in resolutioa : what must be 

I could not change, and would not fear. — Nay more, 

Thou canst n;it have forgot, what all remember, 

That on my day of landing; here as Doge, 

On my return from Rome,"a mist of such 

Unwonted density went on before 

The Buceniaur, like the columnar cloud 

Which usher'd Israel out of Egypt, till 

The pilot was misled, and disembark'd us 

Between the pill irs of Saint Mark's, where 'tis 

The custom of the state to put to death 

Its criminals, instead of touching at 

The Riva della Paglia, as the wont is,— 

So that all Venice shudder'd at the omen. 

Ang. Ah ! little boots it now to recollect 
Such things. 

Doge. And yet I find a comfort in 
The thought, that'the-e things are the work of Fate; 
For I would rather yield to gods than men, 
Or cling to any creed of destiny, 
Rather than deem these mortals, most of whom 
I know to be as worthless as the dust, 
And weak as worthless, more than instruments 
Of an o'er-ruling power; they in themselves 
Were all incipable — they could not be 
Victors of him who oft had conquer'd for them. 

Aug. Employ the minutes left in aspirations 
Of a more healing nature, and in peace 
Even with these wretches take thy hight to heaven. 

Doge. I am at peace : the peace of certainty. 
That a sure hour will come, when their sons' sons, 
And this proud city, and these azure waters. 
And all which makes them eminent and bright, 
Sh:ill be a desolation and a curse, 
A hissing and a scoff unto the nation?, 
A Carthage, and a Tyre, an Ocean Babel. 

A>ig. Speak not thus now : the surge of passion still 
Sweeps o'er ihee to the last ; thou dost deceive 
Thyself, and canst not injure them -»- be calmer. 

i)oge. I s^and within eternity, and see 
Into eternity, and I behold — 
Ay, pilpable as I see thy sweet face 
For the las' time — the days which I denounce 
Un:o all time against these wave-girt walls, 
And they who are indwellers. 

Guard (coming forward). Doge of Venice, 
The Ten are in a tendance on youi highness. 

Doge. Then farewell, Angiolina I — one embrace — 
Forgive the old man who hath been to thee 
A fond but fatal husband — love my memory — 
I would not ask so much for me still living. 
But thou canst judge of me more kindly now, 
Seeing my evil feelings are at rest. 
Besides, of all the fruit of these long years, 
Glorv, and wealth, and power, and fame, and name. 
Which generally leave some flowers to bloom 
Even o'er the grave, I hive nothing left, not even 
A little love, or friendship, or esieem, 
No, not enough to extr aci an epitaph 
From ostentaunus kinsmen ; in one hour 
I have u|;rooted all my former life. 
And outlived every thin?, except thy heart, 
The pure, the good, the ijentle, which will oft 
With unimpair'd but not a clamorous grief 

Still keep Thou turu'st so pale ! — Alas ! she 

faints. 
She has no breath, no pulse ! — Guards ! lend your 

air — 
I cannot leave her thus, and yet 't is better, 
Since every lifeless moment spares a pang. 
When she shakes off this temporary death, 
I shall be with the Eternal.— Call her women — 
One look ! — how cold her hand ! — as cold as mine 
Shall be ere she recovers.— Gently tend her, 

And take my last thanks 1 am ready now. 

iThe .attendants of JlngioUna enter, and sur- 
round their Mistress, who has fainted. — 
Exeunt the Duge, Guards, ^-c. ^-c. 



SCENE III. 
The Court of the Ducal Palace : the outer gates are 
shut against the people.— The Doge enters in his 
ducal robes, in p7r,tession wilh thcCuuitCil of Ten 
and other Falriciai.s, ai tended by the Guards, till 
thty arrive at tfie top of the " Giants' Staircase" 
(where the Doges look the oaths) ; the Executioner 
is stationed litre with hts sword.— On arriving, a 
Chief oj the Ten takes off the ducal cap Jrom the 
Doge's head. 

Doge. So, now the Doge is nothing, and at last 
I am again Maiino Fnliero : 
'T is well to be so, though but for a moment. 
Here was I crown'd, and here, bear witness, Heaven ! 
With how much more contentment I resign 
That shining mockery, the ducal bauble, 
Than I received the fatal ornament. 

One of the Tm. Thou tremblest, Faliero ! 

Doge. 'T is with age, then.i 

Be:ii. Faliero ! hast thou aught further to commend, 
Com] alible with justice, to the senate ? 

Doge. I would commend my nephew to their mercy, 
My consort to their jus ice ; for niethinks 
My death, and such a death, might settle all 
Between the state and me. 

Ben. They shall be cared for j 

Even notwithstanding thine unheard-of crime. 

Doge. Unheard of 1 ay, there 's not a history 
But shows a thousand crown'd conspirators 
Against the people; but t) set them free. 
One sovereign only died, and one is dying. 

Ben. And who were they who fell in such a cause? 

Doge. The King of Sparta, and the Doge of Ve- 
nice — 
Agis and Faliero ! 

Ben, Hast thou more 

To utter or to do ? 

Doge. May I speak ? 

Ben. Thoumay'st; 

I But recollect the people are without, 
Beyond the compass of the human voice. 

Doge. I speak to Time and to Eternity, 
I Of which I grow a portion, not to man. 
' Ye elements ! in which to be resolved 
I hasten, let my voice be as a spirit 
Upon you ! Ye blue waves ! which bore my banner. 
Ye winds ! which flutter'd o'er as if you loved it, 
And fill'd my swelling sails as they were wafted 
I To many a triumph ! Thou, my native earth. 
Which I have bled for! and thou foreign earth, 
Which drank this willing blood from many a wound I 
Ye stones, in which my gore will not sink, but 
Reek up to heaven ! Ye skies, which will receive it ! 
Thou sun ! which shinest on these things, and Thou ! 
Who kindlest and who quenche^t suns ! — Attest ! 
I am not innocent — but are these guiltless ? 
I perish, but not unavenged ; far ages 
Float up fiom the abyss of time to be, 
And show these eyes, before ihey dose, the doom 
Of this proud city, and I leave my curse 

On her and hers f ^r ever ! ■ Yes, the hours 

Are silenly engendering of the day. 
When she, who built 'gainst Attila a bulwark, 
Shall yield, and bloodlessly and baselj^ yield, 
Unto a bastard Attila, without 
Shedding so much blood in her last defence, 
As these old veins, oft drain'd in shielding her, 
Shall pour in sacrifice. — She shall be bought 
And sold, and be an appanage to those 

IThis was the actual reply of Bailli, roaire of Paris, to 
a Frenchman who made him the same reproach on his 
way to execution, in the earliest part of their revolution, 
I find in reading over (sime the completion of this tra- 
gedy), for the first time these six years, " Venice Pre- 
served," a similar reply on a different occasion by Renault, 
and o'.her coincidences arising from the subject. I need 
hardly remind the gentlest reader, that such coincidences 
must be accidental, from the very facility of their detec- 
tion by reference to so popular a play on the stage and io 
the closet as Otway's chef-d'oeuvre. 



Scene III.] 



DOGE OF VENICE. 



289 



Who shall despise her ! i — She shall stoop to be 

A province for an empire, petty town 

In lieu of capital, with slaves for senates, 

Beggars lor nobles, panders for a people ! 

Then when the Hebrew '"s in thy paUces,^ 

The Hun in thy high pi ices, and the Greek 

Walks o'er thy mart, and smiles on it for his; 

When thy pa ricians beg their bitter bread 

In narr \v streets, and in their shameful need 

Make their nobility a plea for pity ; 

Then, when the few who still retain a wreck 

Of their great fathers' heritage shall fawn 

Round a burbirian "Vice of Kings' Vice-gerent, 

Even in the palace where they sway'd as sovereigns, 

Even in the pilace where they slew their sovereign, 

Proud of some name ihey have disgraced, or sprung 

From an adulteress boastful of her guilt 

With some large gondolier or foreign soldier, 

Shall bear about tlieir bastardy in triumph 

To the third spurious generation ; — when 

Thy sons are in the lowest scale of being, 

Slaves turn'd o'er to the vanquish 'd by the victors, 

Despised by cowards for greater cowardice, 

And scorn'd even by the vicious for such vices 

As in the monstrous grasp of their conception 

Defy all codes to image or to name them ; 

Then, when of Cyprus, now thy subject kingdom, 

All thine inheritance shall be her shame 

Entail d on thy less virtuous daughters, grown 

A wider prove' b for worse piostilution ; — 

When all the ills of conquer'd states shall cling thee, 

Vice without ^plendour. sin without relief 

Even from the gloss of love to smooth it o'er, 

But in its stead, coarse lusts of hibitude,3 

Prurient yet passionless, cold studied lewdness, 

Depraving nature's frailty to an art; — 

When these and more are heavy on thee, when 

Smiles without mirth, and pastimes without pleasure. 

Youth without honour, age without respect, 



1 Should the dramatic picture seem harsh, let the reader 
look to the historical, of the period prophesied, or rather 
of the few years preceding that period. Voltaire calcu- 
lated their "nostre bene merite iVIeretrici" at 12,000 of 
regulars, without including volunteers and local militia, on 
what authority I know not; but it is, perhaps, the only 
part of the population not decreased. Venice once con- 
tained two hundred thousand inhabitants : there are now 
about ninety thousand ; and these!.' few individuals can 
conceive, and none could describe, the actual ttate into 
which the more than infernal tyranny of Austria has 
plunged this unhappy city. From the present decay and 
degeneracy of VeniL-e under the Barbarians, there are 
some honourable individual exceptions. There is Pa.s- 
qualigo, the last, and, alas ! posthumous son of the mar- 
riage of the Doges with the Adriatic, who fought his fri- 
gate with far greater gallantry than any of his French co- 
adjutors in the memorable action off Lissa. I came home 
in the squadron with the prizes in 1811, and recollect to 
have heard Sir William Hoste, and the other officers en- 
gaged in that glorious conflict, speak in the highest terms 
of Pasqualigo's behaviour. There is the Abbale Morelli. 
There is Alvise duerini, who, after a long and honourable 
diplomatic career, finds some consolation for the wrongs 
of his country, in the pursuits of literature with his ne- 
phew, Vitior Benznn, the son of the celebrated beauty, the 
heroine of "LaBiondina in Gondoletta." There are the 
patrician poet Morosini, and the poet Lamberti,the author 
of the "Biondina," &c. and many other e.-itimable pro- 
ductions; and, nut least in an Englishman's estimation, 
Madame Michelli, the translator of Sh ikspeare. There 
are the young Dandolo and the improvisatore Carrer, and 
Giuseppe Albrizzi, the accomplished son of an accom- 
plished mother. There is Aglielti, and, were there no- 
thing else, there is the immortality of Canova. Cicog- 
nara, Muetoxithi, Buciiti, <fec. <fec. I do not reckon, be- 
cause the one is a Greek, and the others were Ivorn at 
least a hundred milew off, which, throughout Italy, consti- 
tutes, if not a foreigner, a\. least a stranger (fnrestiere). 

2The chief palaces on the Brenta now belong to the 
Jews; who in the earlier times of the republic were only 
allowed to inhabit Mesiri, and not to enter the city of Ve- 
nice. The whole commerce is in the hands of the Jews 
and Greeks, and the Huns form the garrison. 

3 [See Appendix, Note C] 



Meanness and weakness, and a sense of woe 
'Gainst which thou wilt not strive, and dar'st not mur- 
mur,* 
Have made thee last and worst of peopled deserts. 
Then, in the last gasp of thine agony. 
Amidst thy many murders, think of mine! 
Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes ! 5 
Gehenn i of the waters ! thou sea Sodom 1 
Thus I devote thee to the infernal gods ! 
Thee and thy serpent seed ! 
[Here ihe Doge turns and addresses the Executioner. 
Slave, do thine office 1 
Strike as I struck the foe ! Strike as I would 
Ha>'e struck those tyrants ! Strike deep as my curse! 
Strike — and but once ! 

[The Doge throws himself upon his knees, and 
as the Executioner raises his sword the scene 
closes. 

SCENE IV. 

The Piazza and Piazzetta of St. MarVs.— The Peo- 
ple in crowds gathered round the grated gates of 
the Ducal Palace, which art shut. 

First Citizen. I have gain'd the gate, and can dis- 
cern the Ten, 
Robed in their gowns of state, ranged round the Doge. 

Second Cit. 1 cannot reach thee with mine utmost 
effort. 
How is it ? let us hear at least, since sight 
Is thus prohibited unto the people, 
Except the occupiers of those bars. 

First Cit. One has approach'd the Doge, and now 
they strip 
The ducal bonnet from his head — and novf 
He raises his keen eyes to heaven ; I see 
Them glitter, and his lips move — Hush ! hush!— no, 
'T was but a murmur — Curse upon the distance ! 
His words are inarticulate, but the voice 
Swells up like mutter'd thunderj would we could 
But gather a sole sentence ! 

StcondCit. Hush! we perhaps may catch the sound. 



4 If the Doge's prophecy seem remarkable, look to the 
following, made by Alamanni two hundred and seventy 
years ago; — "There is one very singular prnphecy con- 
cerning Venice : ' If thou do.-^t not change,' it says to that 
proud republic, 'thy liberty, which is already on the wing, 
will not reckon a century more than the thousandth 
year.' If we carry back the epocha of Venetian freedom 
to the establishment of the government under which the 
republic flourished, we shall find that the date of the 
election of the first Doge is 697; and if we add one cen- 
tury to a thousand, that is, eleven hundred years, we shall 
find the sense of the prediction to be literally this: ' Thy 
liberty will not last till 1797.' Recollect that Venice 
ceased to be free in the year 1796, the fifth year of the 
French republic; and yon will perceive that there never 
was prediction more pointed, or more exactly followed by 
the event. You will, therefore, note as very remarkable 
the three lines of Alamanni addressed to Venice; which, 
however, no one has pointed out : — 

' Se non cangi pensier, un secol solo 

Non contera sopra '1 millesimo anno 
Tua liberta, che va fuggendo a volo.' 
Many prophecies have passed for such, and many men 
have been called prophets for much less. — GINGUENE, 
Hist. Lit. de Vltalie, t. ix. p. 144. 

5 Of the first fifty Doges, /ue abdicated — five were 
banished with their eyes put out — five were massacred 
— and nine deposed ; so that nineteen out of fifty lost Ihe 
throne by violence, besides two who fell in battle : this 
occurred long previous to the reign of Marino Faliero. 
One of his more immediate predecessors, Andrea Dan- 
dolo, died of vexation. Marino Faliero himself perished 
as related. Amongst his successors, Foscari, after seeing 
hie son repeatedly tortured and banished, was depised, and 
died of breaking a blood-vessel, on hearing the bell of 
Saint Mark's toll for the election of his successor. Mo- 
rosini was impeached for the loss of Cnndia; but this was 
previous to his dukedom, during which he conquered the 
Morea, and was styled the Peloponnesian. Faliero might 
truly say, 

" Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princei ! " 



25 



19 



I 290 



APPENDIX TO THE 



First at. 'T is vain, 

I cannot hear him.— How his hoary hair ^ 

Streams on the wind like i'oam upon the wave ! 
^ovv — now — he kneels — and now tliey form a circle 
Round him, and all is hidden — but I see 

The lifted sword in air Ah ! haik ! it falls ! 

[The People murmur. 
Third Cit. Then they have murder d him who 

would have fieed us. 
Fcurth CU. He was a kind man to the commons 

ever. 
Fifth Cit. Wisely they did to keep their portals 
barr'd. 
Would we had known the work they were preparing 
Ere we were sunimonM here — we would have brought 
Weapons, and forced them ! 

Sixth Cit. Are you sure he 's dead ? 

First Cit. I saw the sword fall — Lo ! what have 
we here ? 
Enter . on the Balcony of the Palace which fronts 
Saint MarVs -Place a Chief of the Ten,^ with a 
bloody sword. He waves it thrice btfoi-e the Peo- 
ple, and ixciaims, 
*' Justice hath dealt upon the mighty Traitor ! " 
[The gates are opened; the p' pulace rush in towards 
the " Giants^ Staircast,^' whtre the execution has 
taken place. The foremosi of them exclaims to 
those behind, 
The gory head rolls down the Giants' Steps ! 

[The curtain falls. 



APPENDIX, 



Note A. 

I I am oblisred for the following excellent translation 
of the old Chronicle to Mr. F. Cohen, 2 to whom the 
reader will find himself indebted for a version that I 
could not myself — though after many years' inter- 
course with Italian — have given by any means so 
purely and so faithfully. 

STORY OF MARINO FALIERO, DOGE XLIX. 
MCCCLIV. 
On the eleventh day of September, in the year of our 
Lord, 1354, Marino Faliero was elected and chosen to 
be the Duke of the Commonwealth of Venice. He 
was Count of Valdemarino, in the Marches of Treviso, 
and a Knight, and a wealthy man to boot. As soon as 
the election was completed, it was resolved in the 
Great Council, that a deputation of twelve should be 
despatched to Marino Faliero the Duke, who was then 
on his way from Rome ; for when he was chosen, he 
was amba'ssador at the court of the Holy Father, at 
Rome,— the Holy Father himself held his court at 
Avignon. When Messer Marino Faliero the Dtike 
was about to land in this city, on the 5th day of Oc- 
tober, 1354, a thick haze came on, and darkened the 
air : and he was enforced to land on the place of Saint 
Mark, between the two columns, on the spot where 
evil doers are put to death ; and all thought that this 
was the worst of tokens. — Nor must I forget to write 
that which I have rend in a chronicle. When Messer 
Marino Faliero was Pode-ta and Captain of Treviso, 
the Bishop delayed coming in with the holy sacra- 
ment, on a day when a procession was to take place. 
Now, the said Marino Faliero was so very proud and 
wrathful, that he buffeted the Bishop, and almost 
struck him to the ground : and, therefore, Heaven al- 

l"Un Capo de' Dieci" are the words of Sanuto's 
Chronicle. 

2 Mr. Francis Cohen, now Sir Franfle Pslgrave, K. H., 
I the learned author of the "Rise and Prosress of the Eiig- 
! lish Constitution," " History of the Anglo-Saxons," &c. 



lowed Marino Faliero to go out of his right senses, in 
order that he might bring himself to an evil death. 

When this Duke had held the dukedom during nine 
months and six days, lie, being wicked and ambitious, 
sought to make himself Lord of Venice, in the man- 
ner which I have read in an ancient chronicle. When 
the Thursday arrived upon which they were wont to 
hunt the bull, the bull hunt took place as usual; and, 
according to the usage of those times, after the bull 
hunt hr^d ended, they all proceeded unto the palace of 
the Duke, ai.d assembled together in one of his halls; 
and they disported themselves with the women. And 
until the first bell tolled they danced, and then a ban- 
quet was served up. My Lord the Duke paid the ex- 
penses thereof, provided he had a Duchess, and after 
the banquet they all returned to their homes. 

Now to this feast there came a certain Ser Michele 
Steno, a gentleman of poor estate and very young, but 
craf^' and during, and who loved one of the damsels 
of the Duchess. Ser Michele stood amongst the wo- 
men upon the solajo; and he behaved indiscreetly, so 
that my Lord the Duke ordered that he should be 
kicked" off the solajo; and the esquires of the Duke 
f.ung him down from the solajo accordingly. Ser 
Michele thought that such an affront was beyond all 
bearing; and when the feast was over, and all other 
persons had left the palace, he, continuing heated with 
anger, went to the hall of audience, and wrote certain 
unseemly words rebting to the Duke and the Duchess 
upon the chair in which the Duke was used to sit; for 
in those days the Duke did not cover his chair with 
cloth of sendal, but he sat in a chair of wood. Ser 
Michele wrote thereon — " Marin Falier, the hus- 
band of the fair wife; others kiss her, but he keeps 
her.''^ In the morning the words were seen, and the 
matter was considered to be very scandalous ; nnd the 
Senate commanded the Avogadori of the Common- 
wealth to proceed therein with the greatest diligence. 
A largess of great amount was immediately proffered 
by the Avogadori, in order to discover who had writ- 
ten these words. And at length it was known that 
Michele Steno had written them. It was resolved in 
the Council of Forty that he should be arrested ; and 
he then confessed that in the fit of vexation and spite, 
occasioned by his being thrust off the solajo in the 
presence of his mistress, he had written the words. 
Therefore the Council debated thereon. And the 
Council took his youth into consideration, and that he 
was a lover ; and therefore they adjudged that he 
should be kept in close confinement during two months, 
and that afterwards he should be banished from Venice 
and the state during one year. In consequence of this 
merciful sentence the Duke became exceedingly wroth, 
it appearing to him, that the Council had not acted in 
such a manner as was required by the respect due to 
his ducal dignity ; and he snid that they ought to have 
condemned Ser Michele to be hanged by the neck, or 
at least to be banished for life. 

Now it was fated that my Lord Duke Marino was 
to have his head cut off. And as it is necessary v^ hen 
any effect is to be brought about, that the cause of such 
effect must happen, it therefore came to pass, that on 
the very day after sentence had been pronounced on 
Ser Michele Steno, being the first day of Lent, a gen- 
tleman of the house of Barbaro, a choleric gentleman, 
went to the arsenal, and required certain things of the 
masters of the galleys. This he did in the presence of 
the Admiral of the arsenal, and he, hearing the re- 
quest, answered, — No, it cannot be done. High words 
arose between the gentleman and t)ie Admiral, and 
the gentleman struck him with his fist just above the 
eye ; and as he happened to have a ring on his finger, 
Ithe ring cut the Admiral and drew blood. The Ad- 
Imiral, all bruised and bloody, ran straight to the Duke 
i to complain, and with the intent of praying him to 
I inflict some heavy punishment upon the gentleman of 
j Ca Barbaro.— " What wouldst thou have me do for 
jihee?" answered the Duke: — "think upon the 
I shameful gibe which hath been written concerning 
me; ar,d think on the manner in which they have 
I punished that ribald Michele Steno, who wrote it ; 



DOGE OF VENICE. 



291 



and see how the Council of Forty respect our person." 
— Upon this the Admiral answered, — "My Lord 
Duke, if you would wish to make yourself a prince, 
and to cut all those cuckoldy gentlemen to pieces, I 
have the he:xrt, if you do but help me, to make you 
prince of all this state j and then you may punish them 
all." — Hearing this, the Duke said, — "How can such 
a matter be brought about ?" — and so they discoursed 
thereon. 

The Duke called for his nephew, Ser Bertuccio Fa- 
liero, who lived with him in the palace, and they 
communed about this plot. And without leaving the 
place, they sent for Philip Calendaro, a seaman of 
great repute, and for Bertuccio Israello, who was ex- 
ceedingly wily and cunning. Then taking counsel 
amongst themselves, they agreed to call in some others ; 
and so, for several nights successively, they met with 
the Duke at home in his palace. And the following 
men were called in singly; to wit: — Niccolo Fa- 
giuolo, Giovanni da Corfu, Stefano Fagiano, Niccolo 
dalle Bende, Niccolo Biondo, and Stefano Trivisano.— 
It was concerted that sixteen or seventeen leaders 
should be stationed in various parts of the city, each 
being at the head of forty men. armed and prepared ; 
but the followers were not to know their destination. 
On the appointed day they were to make affrays 
amongst themselves here and there, in order that the 
Duke might have a pretence for tolling the bells of San 
Marco ; these bells are never rung but by the order of 
the Duke. And at the sound of the bells, these sixteen 
or seventeen, with their followers, were to come to 
San Marco, through the streets which open upon the 
Piazza. And when the noble and leading citizens 
should come into the Piazza, to know the cause of the 
riot, then the conspirators were to cut them in pieces ; 
and this work being finished, my Lord Marino Faliero 
the Duke was to be proclaimed the Lord of Venice. 
Things having been thus settled, they agreed to fulfil 
their intent on Wednesday, the 15th day of April, in 
the year 1355. So coveitly did they plot, that no one 
ever dreamt of their machinations. 
_ But the Lord, who hath always helped this most glo- 
rious city, and who, loving its righteousness and holi- 
ness, hath never forsaken it, inspired one Beltramo 
Bergamasco to be the cause of bringing the plot to 
light, in the following manner. This Beltramo, who 
belonged to Ser Niccolo Lioni of Santo Stefmo, had 
heard a word or two of what was to take place; and 
so, in the before-mentioned month of April, he went 
to the house of the aforesaid Ser Niccolo Lioni, and 
told him all the particulars of the plot, Ser Niccolo, 
when he heard all these things, was struck dead, as it 
were, with atFright. He heard all the particulars ; and 
Beltramo prayed him to keep it all secret ; and if he 
told Ser Niccolo, it was in order that Ser Niccolo 
niight stop at home on the 15th of April, and thus save 
his life. Beltramo was going, but Ser Niccolo ordered 
his servants to lay hands upon him, and lock hnn up. 
Ser Niccolo then went to the house of Messer Gio- 
vanni Gradenigo Nasoni, who afterwards became Duke, 
and who also lived at Santo Stefano, and told him all. 
The matter seemed to him to be of the very greatest 
importance, as indeed it was ; and they two w ent to 
the house of Ser Marco Cornaro, who lived at San Fe- 
lice; and, having spoken with him, thf^y all three 
then determined to go bnck to the house of Ser Niccolo 
Lioni, to examine the said Beltramo; and having ques- 
tioned him, and heard all that he had to say, fhey left 
him in confinement. And then they all three went 
into the sacristy of San Salvatore, and sent their men i 
to summon the Councillors, the Avogadori, the Capi | 
de' Dieci, and those of the Great Council. 

When all were assembled, the whole story was told 
to them. They were struck dead, as it were, with ! 
afl'right. They determined to send for Beltramo. He ' 
was brought in before them. They examined him, | 
and ascertained that the matter was true ; and, although 
they were exceedingly twublcd, yet they determined 
upon their measures. And they sent for the Capi de' 
Quarante, the Signori di Notte, the Capi de' Sestieri, 
. and the Cinque della Pace ; and they were ordered to 



associate to their men other good men and true, who 
were to proceed to the houses of the ringleaders of the 
conspiracy, and secure them. And they secured the 
foreman of the arsenal, in order that the conspirators 
might not do mischief. Towards nightfall they assem- 
bled in the palace. When they were assembled in the 
palace, they caused the gates of ihe quidrangle of the 
palace to be shut. And they sent to the keeper of the 
Bell-tower, and forbade the tolling of the bells. All 
this was carried into effect. The before-mentioned 
conspirators were secured, and they were brought to 
the palace, and, as the Council of Ten saw that the 
Duke was in the plot, they resolved that twenty of the 
leading men of the state should be associated to them, 
for the purpose of consultation and deliberation, but 
that they should not be allowed to ballot. 

The counsellors were the following: — Ser Giovanni 
Mocenigo, of the Sestiero of San Marco ; Ser Almoro 
Veniero da Santa Marina, of the Sestiero of Castello ; 
Ser Tomaso Viadro, of the Sestiero of Canaregio ; Ser 
Giovanni Sanudo, of the Sestiero of Santa Croce ; Ser 
Pietro Trivisano, of the Sestiero of San Paolo; Ser 
Pantalione Barbo il Grando, of the Sestiero of Ossoduro. 
The Avogadori of the Commonwealth were Zufredo 
Moroiini, and Ser Orio Pasqualigo ; and these did not 
ballot. Those of the Council of Ten were Ser Gio- 
vanni Marcello, Ser Tomaso Sanudo, and Ser Miche- 
letto Dolfino, the heads of the aforesaid Council of Ten. 
Ser Luca da Legge, and Ser Pietro da Mosto, inquisi- 
tors of the aforesaid Council. And Ser Marco Polani, 
Ser Marino Veniero, Ser Lando Lombardo, and Ser Ni- 
coletto Trivisano, of Sanl' Angelo. 

Late in the night, just before the dawning, they 
chose a jun'a of twenty noblemen of Venice from 
amongst the wisest, and the worthiest, and the oldest. 
They were to give counsel, but not to ballot. And 
they would not admit any one of Ca Faliero. And 
Niccolo Faliero, and another Niccolo Faliero, of San 
Tomaso, were expelled from the Council, because they 
belonged to the family of the Doge. And this resolu- 
tion of creating the junta of twenty was much praised 
throughout the state. The following were the mem- 
bers of the junta of twenty : — Ser Marco Giustiniani, 
Procuratore, Ser Andrea Erizzo, Procuratore, Ser Lio- 
nardo Giustiniani, Procuratore, Ser Andrea Contarini, 
Ser Simone Dandolo, Ser Niccolo Volpe, Ser Giovanni 
Loredano, Ser Marco Diedo, Ser Giovanni Gradenigo, 
Ser Andrea Cornaro, Cavaliere, Ser Marco Soranzo, 
Ser Rinieri du Mosto, Ser Gazano Marcello, Ser Ma- 
rino Morosini, Ser Stefano Belegno, Ser Niccolo Lioni, 
Ser Filippo Orio, Ser Marco Trivisano, Ser Jacopo 
Bragadino, Ser Giovanni Foscarini. 

These twenty were accordingly called in to the 
Council of Ten ; and they sent for my Lord Marino 
Faliero the Duke : and my Lord Marino was then con- 
sorting in the palace with people of great estate, gen- 
tlemen, and other good men, none of whom knew yet 
how the fact stood. 

At the same time Bertucci Israello, who, as one of 
the ringleaders, was to head the conspirators in Santa 
Croce, was arrested and bound, and brought before the 
Council. Zanello del Brin, Nicoletto di Rosa, Nico- 
letto Alberto, and the Guardiaga, were also taken, to- 
gether with several seamen, and people of various 
ranks. These were examined, and the truth of the 
plot was ascertained. 

On the 16th of April judgment was given in the 
Council of Ten, that Filippo Calendaro and Bertuccio 
Israello should be hanged upon the red pillars of the 
balcony of the palace, from which the Duke is wont to 
look at the bull hunt : and they were hanged with gags 
in iheir mouths. 

The next day the following were condemned : — 
Niccolo Zuccuolo, Niccoletto Biondo, Nicoletto Doro, 
Marco Giuda, JacomeHo Dagolino, Nicoletto Fidele, 
the son of Filippo Calendaro, Marco Torello, called 
Israello, Stefano Trivisano, the money changer of Santa 
Margherita, and Antonio dalle Bende. These were all 
taken at Chiozzi, for they were endeavouring to 
escape. Afterwards, by virtue of the sentence which 
was passed upon them in the Council of Ten, they 



292 



APPENDIX TO THE 



were hanged on successive daj-s ; some singly and 
some in couples, upon the columns of the palace, be- 
ginning from the red columns, and so going onwards 
towards the canal. And other prisoners were dis- 
charged, because, although they had been involved in 
the conspiracy, yet they had not assisted in it : for 
they weie given to unders'and by some of the heads 
of the plot, that they were to come armed and pre- 
pared for the service of the state, and in order to 
secure certain criminals ; and they knew nothing else. 
Nicoletto Alberto, the Guardiaga, and Bartolommeo 
Ciricolo and his son, and several others, who were 
not guilty, were discharged. 

On Friday, the l6th day of April, judgment was 
also given in the atoresaid Council of Ten, that my 
Lord Marino Faliero, the Duke, should have his head 
cut off; and that the execution should be done on the 
landing-place of the stone staircase, where the Dukes 
take their oath when they first enter the palace. On 
the following day, the 17th of April, the doors of the 
palace being shut, the Duke had his head cut off, about 
the hour of noon. And the cap of estate was taken 
from the Duke's head before he came down stairs. 
When the execution was over, it is said that one of 
the Council of Ten went to the columns of the palace 
over against the place of St. Mark, and that he showed 
the bloody sword unto the people, crying out with a 
loud voice — " The terrible doom hath fallen upon the 
traitor!" — and the doors were opened, and the peo- 
ple all rushed in, to see the corpse of the Duke, who 
had been beheaded. 

It must be known that Ser Giovanni Sanudo, the 
councillor, was not present when the aforesaid sen- 
tence was pronounced ; because he was unwell and 
remained at home. So that only fourteen balloted ; 
that is to say, five councillors, and'nine of the Council 
of Ten. And it was adjudged, that all the lands and 
chattels of the Duke, as well as of the other traitors, 
should be forfeited to the state. And as a grace to the 
Duke, it was resolved in the Council of Ten, that he 
should be allowed to dispose of two thousand ducats 
out of his own property. And it was resolved, that 
all the councillors and all the Avogadori of the Com- 
monwealth, those of the Council of Ten, and the 
members of the junta, who had assisted in passing 
sentence on the Duke and the other traitors, should 
have the privilege of carrying arms both by day and 
by night in Venice, and from Grado to Cavazere. 
And they were also to be allowed two footmen carry- 
ing arms, the aforesaid footmen living and boarding 
with them in their own houses. And he who did not 
keep two footmen might transfer the privilege to his 
sons or his brothers; but only to two. Permission of 
carrying arms was also granted to the four Notaries of 
the Chancery, that is to say, of the Supreme Court, 
■who took the depositions ; and they were, Amedio, 
Nicoletto di Lorino, Steffanello, and Pietro de Com- 
postelli, the secretaries of the Signori di Notte. 

After the traitors had been hanged, and the Duke 
had had his head cut off, the state remained in great 
tranquillity and peace. And, as I have read in a 
Chronicle, the corpse of the Duke was removed in a 
barge, wiih eight torches, to his tomb in the church of 
San Giovanni e Paolo, where it was buried. The 
tomb is now in that aisle in the middle of the little 
church of Santa Maria d^lla Pace, which was built by 
Bishop Gabriel of Bergamo. It is a coffin of stone, 
with these words engraven thereon : " Heic jacet Do- 
mimu! Marinus Faletro Z)ux." — And they did not 
paint his portrait in the hall of the Great Council ; — 
but in the place where it ought to have been, you see 
these words: — "fl'ic est loais Marini Faletro^ de- 
capitati pro criminibus." — And it is thought that his 
house was granted to the church of Sant' Aposfolo ; it 
was that great one near the bridge. Yet this could not 
be the case, or else the family bought it back from the 
church ; for it still belongs to Ca Faliero. I must not 
refrain from noting, that some wished to write the 
following words in the place where his portrait ought I 
to have been, as aforesaid : — " Marimts Faletro Dux, I 
j temeritas me cepit. Pcsnas lui, decapitatus pro I 



criminibus.''^ — Others, also, indicted a couplet, wor- 
thy of being inscribed upon his tomb. 

" Dux Venetum jacet heic, patriam qui prodere tentans, 
Sceptra, decus, censum perdidit, atque caput." 



Note B. 

petrarch on the conspiracy of 
marino faliero. 

"Al giovane Doge Andrea Dandolo succedette un 
vecchio, il quale tardi si pose al limone dclla repub- 
blica, ma sempre prima di quel, che facea d' uopo a 
lui, ed alia patria: egli e Manno Faliero, personaggio 
a me noto per antica dimestichezza. Falsa era 1' 
opinione intorno a lui, giacche egli si mostro fornito 
piu di corraggio, che di senno. Non pago della pi ima 
dignita, entro con sinistro piede nel pubblico Palazzo : 
imperciocche questo Doge dei Veneti, magistrato s;icro 
in tutti i secoli, che dagli antichi fu sempre venerato 
qual nume in quella citta, I'altr'jeri fu decoliato nel 
vestibolo dell' istesso Palazzo. Discorreiei fin dal 
principio le cause di un tale evvento, e cosi vario, ed 
ambiguo non ne fosse il grido. Nessuno pero lo scusa, 
tutti atferrnano, che egli abbia voluto cangiir qualche 
cosa nell' ordine della repubblica a lui tramandato dai 
maggiori. Che desiderava egli di piu ? lo son d' 
avviso, che egli abbia ottenu'o cio, che non si con- 
cedette a nessun altro: mentre adempiva gli ufBcj di 
legato presso il Pontefice, e suite rive del Rodano 
trattava la pace, che io prima di lui avevo indarno 
tentato di conchiudere, gli fu conferito 1' onore del 
Ducato, che ne chiedeva, ne s' aspet'ava. Tomato in 
patria, penso a quello, cui nessuno non pose mente 
giammai, e soffri quello, che a niuno accadde mai' di 
sotfrire : giacche in quel luogo celeberrimo, e chiaris- 
simo, e bellissimo infra tutii quelli, che io vidi, ove i 
suoi antenati avevano ricevuii grandissimi onori in 
mezzo alle pompe trionfaii, ivi egli fu trascinato in 
modo servile, e spogliato delje insegne ducali, perdetle 
la testa, e macchio col proprio sangue le soglie del 
tempio, 1' atrio del Pala7Zo, e le scale marmoree ren- 
dute spesse volte illustri o dalle solenni feslivita, o 
dalle ostili spoglie. Ho notato il luogo, ora noto il 
tempo : e 1' anno del Natale di Cristo 1355, fu il 
giorno 18 d' Aprile. Si alto e il grido sparso, che se 
alcuno esaminera la disciplina, e le costumanze di 
quella citta, e quan'o mutamento di cose venga minac- 
ciato dalla morte di un sol uomo (quantunque molti 
altri, come narrano, essendo complici, o subirono 1' 
istesso supplicio, o lo aspetlano) si accorgera, che 
nulla di piu graude avvenne ai nostri lempi nella 
Italia. Tu forse qui attend! il miogiudizio: assolvo 
il popolo, se credere alia fama, benche abbia potuto e 
castigare piu nii'emente, e con maggior dolcezza ven- 
dicare il suo dolore : ma non cosi facilmente, si mo- 
dera un' ira giusta insieme, e grande in un numeroso 
popolo principalmente, nel quale il precipitoso, ed 
I instabile volgo aguzza gli s'imoli dell' irracondia con 
j rapidi, e sconsigliiti clamori. Compatisco, e nell' 
istesso tempo mi adiro con quell' infelice uomo, il 
I quale adorno di un' insolito onore, non so, che cosa si 
; volesse negli estremi anni della sua vita : la calamita 
di lui diviene sempre piu grave, perche dalla sentenza 
contra di e so promulgata aperjra, che egli fu non solo 
misero, ma insano, e demenle, e che con vane arti si 
usurpo per tanti anni una falsa fima di sapienza. 
Ammonisco i Dogi, i quali gli succederano, che questo 
e un' esempio posfo inanzi ai loro occlij, quale spec- 
chio, nel quale veggano d' essere non Signori, ma 
Duci, anzi nemmeno Duel, nia onorati servi della 
Repubblica. Tu sta sano, e giacche fluttuano le pub- 
bliche cose, sforsiamnci di governar modestissima- 
mente i privati nostri aSa.ri.''' — Levati, Fiaggi di 
Pet r area, \o\. iv. p. 323. 

The above Italian translation from the Latin epistles 
of Petrarch proves— Istly, That Mirino Faliero was 
a personal friend of Pelrarch's ; " antica dimesti- 
chezza," old intimacy, is the phrase of the poet. 



DOGE OF VENICE. 



293 



2dly That Petrarch thought that he had more courage 
than conduct, " piu di corraggio che di senno." 3dly, 
That there was some jealousy on the part of Petrarch ; 
for he says that Marino Faliero was treating of the 
peace which he himself had " vainly attempted to con- 
clude." 4thly, That the honour of the Dukedom was 
conferred upon him, which he neither sought nor ex- 
pected, '-che ne chiedeva ne aspettava," and which 
had never been granted to an) other in like circum- 
stances, " cio che non si concedette a nessun altro," a 
proof of the high esteem in which he must have been 
held. Sthly, 'I'hat he had a reputation f^r wisdom, 
only forfeited by the last enterprise of his life, " si 
usurpo per tanti anni una falsa fama di sapienza." — 
'• He had usurped for so many years a false fame of 
wisdom," rather a difficult task, 1 should think. People 
are generally found out before eighty years of age, at 
least in a republic. — From these,"and the other histo- 
rical notes which I have collected, it mvy be inferred, 
that Marino Faliero possessed many of the qualities, 
but not the success of a hero ; and that his passions 
were too violent. The paltry and ignorant account of 
Dr. Moore falls to the ground. Petrarch says, " that 
there had been no greater event in his times" {our 
times liierally), " nostri tempi," in Italy. He also dif- 
fers from the historian in saying that Faliero was "on 
the banks of ihe i?/io/ic," instead of at Rome, when 
elected ; the other accounts say, that the depu'ation of 
the Venetian senate met him at Ravenna. How this 
may have been, it is not for me to decide, and is of no 
great importance. Had the man succeeded, he would 
have changed the face of Venice, and perhaps of Italy. 
As it is, what are they both ? 



Note C. 
venetian society and manners. 

"Vice without splendour, sin without relief 
Even from the gluss of love to smooth it o'er ; 
But, in its stead, coarse lusts of habitude," &c. — (P. 289.) 

"To these attacks so frequently pointed by the go- 
vernment against the clergy, — to the continual strug- 
gles between the diflerent constituted bodies, — to these 
enterprises carried on by the mass of the nobles against 
the depositaries of power, — to all those projects of in- 
novation, which always ended by a stroke of state 
policy ; we must add a cause not less fitted to spread 
contempt for ancient doctrines ; this was the excess of 
corruption. 

" That freedom of manners, vvhich had been long 
boasted of as the principal charm of Venetian society, 
had degenerated into scandalous licentiousness : the tie 
of marriage was less sacred in tint Catholic country, 
than among those nations where the laws and religion 
admit of its being dissolved. Because they could not 
break the con'ract. they feigned that it had not existed ; 
and the ground of nullity, immodestly alleged by the 
married pair, was admitted with equal facility by 
priests and magistrates, alike corrupt. These divorces, 
veiled under another name, became so frequent, that 
the most important act of civil society was discovered 
to be amenable to a tribunal of exceptions j and to re- 
strain the open scandal of such proceedings became the 



ofl^ce of the police. In 1782, the Council of Ten de- 
creed, that every woman who should sue for a dissolu- 
tion of her marriige should be compelled to await the 
decision of the judges in some convent, to be named 
by the court. i Soon afterwards the same council sum- 
moned all causes of that nature before itself.2 This 
infringement on ecclesiastical jurisdiction having occa- 
sioned some remonstrance from Rome, the council 
retained only the right of rejecting the j)etition of the 
married persons, and consented to refer such causes to 
the holy office as it should not previously have re- 
jected. 3 

"There was a moment in which, doubtless, the de- 
struction of private fortunes, the ruin of youth, the 
domestic discord occasioned by these abuses, deter- 
mined the government to depart from its established 
maxims concerning the freedom of manners allowed 
the subject. All the courtesans were banished from 
Venice ; but their absence was not enough to reclaim 
and bring back good morals to a whole people brought 
up in the most scandalous licentiousness. Depravity 
reached the very bosoms of private fimilies, and even 
into the cloister; and they found themselves obliged 
to recall, and even to indemnify 4 women who some- 
times gained possession of important secrets, and who 
might be usefully employed in the ruin of men whose 
fortunes might have rendered them dangerous. Since 
that time licentiousness has gone on increasing; and 
we have seen mothers, not only selling the innocence 
of their daughters, but selling it by a contract, authen- 
tica'ed by the signature of a public officer, and the 
performance of which was secured by the protection 
of the laws. 5 

" The parlours of the convents of noble ladies, and 
the houses of the courtesans, though the police care- 
fully kept up a number of spies about them, were the 
only a.-semblies for society in Venice ; and in these 
two places, so different from each other, there was 
equal freedom. Music, collations, gallantry, were not 
more forbidden in the parlours than at the casinos. 
There were a number of casinos for the purpose of 
public assemblies, where gaming was the principal 
pursuit of the company. It was a strange sight to see 
persons of either sex masked, or grave in their magis- 
terial robes, round a table, invoking chance, and giving 
way at one instant to the agonies of despair, at the 
next to the illusions of hope, and that without uttering 
a single woid. 

" The rich had private casinos, but they lived incog- 
nito in them ; and the wives whom they abandoned 
found compensation in the liberty they enjoyed. The 
corruption of morals had deprived them of their em- 
pire. W^e have just reviewed the whole history of 
Venice, and we have not once seen them exercise the 
slightest influence."— DARU: Hist, de la Repub. de 
Venise, vol. v. p. 95. 

1 Correspondence of M. Schlick, French charge d'afiaires. 
Despatch of 24th August, 17B2. 

2 Ibid. Despatch, Slst August. 

3 Ibid. Despatch of 3d September, 1785. 

4 The decree for their recall designates them as nostre 
benemerite meretrici : a fund and some houses, called 
Case rampane, were assigned to them; hence the oppro- 
brious appellation of Carampane. 

5 Mayer, Description of Venice, vol. ii. ; and M. Arch- 
enholz, Picture of Italy, vol. i. ch. 2. 



25* 



294 



HEAVEN AND EARTH, 



[Part I. 



HEAVEN AND EARTH: 

A MYSTERY. 

FOUNDED ON THE FOLLOWING PASSAGE IN GENESIS, CHAP. VI. 

"And it came to pass — that the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; 
and they took them wives of all which they chose." 1 



And woman wailing for her demon lover."' — COLERIDGE. 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 



Angds. — Samiasa. 

Aznziel. 

Raphael the Archangel. 
Men. — Noah and his Sons. 

Irad. 

Japhet. 
Women. — Aii:ih. 

Aholibamah. 



Chorus of Spirits of the Earth. — Chorus of Mortals. 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



PART I. 

SCENE I. 

A woody and mountainous district near Mount 
Ararat. — Time, m idnight. 

Enter Anah and Aholibamah. 

Anah. Our father sleeps : it is the hour when they 
Who love us are accustom'd to descend 
Through the deep clouds o'er rocky Ararat : — 
How my heart beats ! 

Aho. Let us proceed upon 

Our invocation. 

Anah. But the stars are hidden. 

I tremble. 

Aho. So do I, but not with fear 
Of aught save their delay. 

Anah. My sister, though 

I love Azaziel more than oh, too much I 

What was I going to say ? my heart grows impious. 

Aho. And where is the impiety of loving 
Celestial natures ? 

Anah. But, Aholibamah, 

I love our God less since his angel loved me: 
This cannot be of good ; and though I know not 
That I do wrong, 1 feel a thousand fears 
Which are not ominous of right. 

Aho, Then wed thee 

Unto some son of clay, and toil and spin ! 
There 's Japhet loves'thee well, hath loved thee long: 
Marry, and bring forth dust ! 

Anah. I should have loved 

Azaziel not less, were he mortal ; yet 
I am glad he is not. I can not outlive h''jj. 
And when I think that his immortal wings 
Will one day hover o"er the sepulchre 
Of the poor "child of clay which so adored him, 
As he adores the Highest, death becomes 



Less terrible ; but yet I pity him : 

His grief will be of ages, or at least 

Mine would be such for him, were I the seraph, 

And he the perishable. 

Aho. Rather say, 

That he will single forth some other daughter 
Of Earth, and love her as he once loved Anah. 

Anah. And if it should be so, and she loved him, 
Better thus than that he should weep for me. 

,iho. If I thought thus of Samiasa's love, 
All seraph as he is, I 'd spurn him from me. 
But to our invocation ! — 'T is the hour. 
Anah. Seraph ! 

From thy sphere ! 
Whatever star contain thy glory; 
In the eternal depths of heaven 
Albeit thou watchest with " the seven," 3 
Though through space infinite and hoary 
Before thy bright wings worlds be driven, 
Yet hear ! 
Oh ! think of her who holds thee dear! 

And though she nothing is to thee. 
Yet think that thou ait all to her. 
Thou canst not tell, — and never be 
Such pangs decreed to aught save me, — 
The bitterness of tears. 
Eternity is in thine years. 
Unborn, undying beauty in thine eyes; 
With me thou canst not symp'thise, 
Exct^pt in love, and there thou must 
Acknowledge that more loving dust 
Ne'er wept beneath the skies. 
Thou walk'st thy many worlds, thou see'st 

The face of him who n;ade thee great. 
As he hath made me of the least 
Of those cast out from Eden"s gate : 
Yet, Seraph dear ! 
Oh hear ! 
For thou hast loved me, and I would not die 
Until I know what I must die in knowing, 
That th-^u forget'st in thine eternity 
Her whose heart death could not keep from 
o'ertlowing 
For thee, immortal essence as thou art ! 
Great is their love who love in sin and fear ; 
And such, I feel, are waging in my heart 
A war unworthy : to an Adamite 
Forgive, my Seraph ! that such thoughts appear, 
For sorrow is our element ; 
Delight 
An Eden kept afar from sight, 
Though sometimes with our visions blent. 
The hour is neir 
Which tells me v\ e are not abandon'd quite. — 
Appear! Appear! 
Seraph ! 
My own Azaziel ! be but here. 
And leave the stars to their own light. 
Aho. Smiiasa! 

Wheresoe'er 
Thou rulest in the upper air — 



1 Written at Ravenna, in October, 1821, and published 2 The archangels, said to be seven in number, and to 
in the "Liberal," in 1622. occupy the eighth rank in the celestial hierarchy. 



Scene I.] 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



295 



Or warring with the spirits who may dare 
Dispute with him 
Who made all empires, empire ; or recalling 
Some wandering star, which shoots through the 
abyss, [falling, 

Who.ie tenants dying, while their world is 
Shaie he dim destmy of cby in this; 
Or joining with the interior cherubim, 
Thoudeigne-t to partake their hymn — 
Samiasa ! 
I call thee, I await thee, and I love thee. 

Many may worship thee, that will I not : 
If that thy spirit down to mine may move thee, 
Descend and sliare my lot I 
ThoUfih 1 be formd of clay, 

And thou of beams 
More bright than those of day 
On Eden's streams, 
Thine immortality can not repay 

With love more warm than mine I 

My love. There is a ray 
In me, wliich, though forbidden yet to shine, 
1 feel was lighted at thy God's and thine. 
It may be hidden long : death and decay ] 

Our mother Eve bequeath'd us — but my heart 
Defies it : though this lite must pass away, 
Is that a cause for thee and me to part?' 
Thou art immortal — so am I : i feel — 

I feel my immortality o'ersvveep 
All pains, all tears, all fears, and {)eal, 

Like the eternal thutiders of ihe deep, 
Into my ears this truth — " Thou liv'st for ever ! " 
But if it be in joy 
I know not, nor would know ; 
That secret rests with the Almighty giver, 
Who folds ill clouds the fonts of bliss and woe. 

But thee and me he never can destroy ; 
Change us he may, but not o'erwhelm ; we are 
Of as eternal essence, and must war 
With him if he will war with us: with thee 

I can share all things, even immortal sorrow ; 
For thou hast ventured to share life with me, 
-And shall / shrink from thine eternity ? 

No! though the serpent's sting should pierce, me 
thorough. 
And thou thyself wert like (he serpent, coil 
Around me still ! and I will smile, 
And curse thee not ; but huld 
Thee in as warm a fold 

As but descend, and prove 

A mortal's love 
For an immortal. If the skies contain 
More joy than thou canst give and lake, remain ! 

Anah. Sister ! si-ter ! I view them winging 
Their bright way through the parted night. 

Aao. The clouds from off their pinions flinging, 
As though they bore to-morrow's light. 
Anah. But if our f ither see the si^ht ! 
Aho. He would but deem it was the moon 
Rising unto some sorcerer's tune 
An hour too soon. 
Anah. They come ! he comes! — Azaziel ! 
Aho. Haste 

To meet them ! Oh ! for wings to bear 
My spirit, while they hover there, 
To Samiasa's breast ! 

Anah. Lo ! they have kindled all the west, 
Like a leturning sunset ; — lo ! 
On Ararat's late secret crest 
A mild and many-colour'd bow. 
The remnant of their (lashing path, 
Now shines ! and now, behold ! it hath 
Return'd to night, as rijipling foam, 
Which the leviathan hath lash'd 
From his unfathomable home, 
When •-porting on the face of the cnlm deep. 

Subsides soon after he again hath dash'd 
Down, down, to where the ocean's fountains sleep. 
Aho. They have touch'd earth! Samiasa! 
Anah. My Azaziel ! 

[Exnnit. 



SCENE IL 
Enter Irad and Japhet. 

had. Despond not: wherefore wilt thou wander 
thus 
To add thy silence to the silent night, 
And lift ihy tearful eye unto the stars? 
They can not aid thee. 

Japh. But they soothe me — now 

Perhaps she looks upon them as I look. 
Methinks a being that is beautiful 
Become^h more so as it looks on beauty, 
The eternal beauty of undying things. 
Oh, Anah! 
Irad. But she loves thee not. 
Japh. Alas ! 

Irad, And proud Aholibamah spurns me also. 
Japh. I feel for thee too. 

Irad. Let her keep her pride, 

Mine hath enabled me to bear her scorn : 
It may be, time too will avenge it. 

Japh. Canst thou 

Find joy in such a thought ? 

Irad. Nor joy nor sorrow. 

I loved her well : I would have loved her better, 
Had love been met with love : as 't is, 1 leave her 
To brighter destinies, if so she deems them. 
Japh, What destinies? 

Irad. I have some cause to think 

She loves another. 
Japh. Anah ! 

Irad. No ; her sister. 

Japh. What other? 

Irad. That I know not ; but her air. 

If not her words, tells me she loves another. 

Japh. Ay, but not Anah : she but loves her God. 
Irad, Whateer she loveth, so she loves thee not, 
What can it profit thee ? 

Japh. True, nothing ; but 

I love. 
Irad. And so did I. 

Japh. And now thou lovest not. 

Or think'st thou lovest not, art thou happier ? 
Irad. Yes. 

Japh. I pity thee. 
Irad. Me! why? 

Japh. For being happy. 

Deprived of that which makes my misery. 

Irad. I take thy taunt as part of thy distemper. 
And would not feel as ihou dost for more shekels 
Than all our father's herds would bring, if weigh'd 
Against the metal of the sons of Cain — 
The yellow dust they try to barter with us. 
As if such useless and discolour'd trash, 
The refuse of the earth, could be received 
For milk, and wool, and flesh, and fruits, and all 
Our flf)cks and wilderness afford. — Go, Japhet, 
Sigh to the stars, as wolves howl to the moon — 
I must back to my rest. 

Japh. And so would I, 

If I could rest. 
Irad. Thou wilt not to our tents then ? 

Japh. No, Irad ; I will to the cavern, whose 
Mouth they say opens from the internal world. 
To let the inner spirits of the earth 
Forth when they walk its surface. 

Irad. Wherefore so ? 

What wouldst thou there ? 

Japh. Soothe further my sad spirit 

With gloom as sad : it is a hopeless spot, 
And I am hopeless. 

Irad. But 't is dangerous ; 

Strange sounds and sights have peopled it with terrors. 
I must go with thee. 

Japh. Irad, no ; believe me 

I feel no evil thought, -md fear no evil. 

Irad. But evil things will be thy foe the more 
As not being of them : turn thy steps aside, 
Or let mine be with thine. 

Japh. No, neither, Irad j 

I must proceed alone. 



296 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



[Part I. 



Irad. Then peace be with thee ! 

[Exit Irad. 

Japh. (.solus). Peace ! I have sought it where it 
should be found, 
In love — with love, too, which perhaps deserved it; 
And, in its stead, a heaviness of heart — 
A weaiiness of the spirit — listless days, 
And nights inexorable to sweet sleep — 
Have come upon me. Peace ! w hat peace ? the calm 
Of desolaiion, and the stillness of 
The untroddc-n forest, only broken by 
The sweeping tempest ihiough its groaning boughs; 
Such is the sullen or the fitful sate 
Of my mind overworn. 'J he e;irlh 's grown wicked, 
And many signs and portents have proclaim'd 
A change at hand, and an o'erwhelming doom 
To perishable beings. Oh, my An\h I 
When the dread hour denounced shall open wide 
The fountains of he deep, how mightest thou 
Have lain within this bosom, folded from 
The elements J this b'som, wliich in vain 
Hath beat for thee, and then will beat more vainly, 

While thine Oh, God ! at leat remit to her 

Thy wrath I for she i^ pure amidst the f liling 

As a star in the clouds, which cannot quench. 

Although they obcure it for an hour. My Anah ! 

How would 1 have adored thee, but thou wouldst not; 

And still would I redeem thee — see thee live 

When ocean is eirth's grave, and, unopposed 

By rock or shallow, the leviathan, 

Lord of the shoreless sea and watery world, 

Shall wonder at his boundlessness of lealm. 

[Exit Japhet. 
Enter Noah and Shem. 

Noah. Where is thy brother Japhet ? 

Shein. He went forth, 

According to his wont, to meet with Irad, 
He said ; but, as I fear, to bend his steps 
Towards Anah's tents, round which he hovers nightly, 
Like a dove round and round its pilbged nest; 
Or else he walks the wild up to the cavern 
Which opens to the heart of Ararat. 

Noah. What doth he there ? It is an evil spot 
Upon an earth all evil ; for things worse 
Than even wicked men resort there : he 
Still loves this daughter of a f.ited race. 
Although he could not wed her if she loved him, 
And that she doth not. Oh, the unhippy hearts 
Of men I that one of my blood, knowing well 
The destiny and evil of these days, 
And that the hour approacheih, should indulge 
In such forbidden yearnings i Lead the way ; 
He must be sought for ! 

Shem. Go not forward, father : 

I will seek Japhet. 

Noah. Do not fear for me : 

All evil things are powerless on the man 
Selected by Jehovah. — Let us on. 

Shern, To the tents of the fiiher of the sisters? 

Noah. No; to the cavern of the Caucasus. 

[Exeunt Noah and Shem. 

SCENE III. 

The mountains. — A caverrn^ and the rocks of Can- 
cas^us. 

Japh.(solus).Ye wilds, that look eternal ; and thou 
cave, 
Which seem'st unfithomable ; and ye mountains, 
So varied and so terrible in beauty ; 
Here, in your rugged majesty of rocks 
And toppling trees that twine their roots with stone 
In perpendicular phces, where the foot 
Of man would tremble, could he reach them — yes, 
Ye look eternal ! Yet, in a few days, 
Perhaps even hours, ye will be changed, rent, hurl'd 
Before the mass of waters ; and yon cave, 
Which seems lo lead into a lower world. 
Shall have its depths ?earch'd by the sweeping wave, 
And dolphins gambol in the li )n's den ! 



And man Oh, men! my fellow-beings! Who 

Shall weep above your universal grave. 

Save I ? Who sh>ll be left to weep > My kinsmen, 

Alas ! what am I better than ye are, 

That I must live beyond ye ? Where shall be 

The pleasant pi ices where I thoi.ght of Anah 

While I had hope ? or the more savage haunts, 

Scarce less beloved, where I de-pair'd for her ? 

And can it be ! — Shill yon exul ing peak, 

Whose glittering lop is like a distant star, 

Lie low beneath the boiling of the deep ? 

No more to have the morning sun break forth, 

And scatter back he mists in floa.ing folds 

From its tremendous b ow ? no more to have 

Day's broad orb drop behind its head at even, 

Leaving it with a cown of many hues? 

No more to be the be con of the world, 

For angels lo 'li^ht on, as ihe spot 

Nearest the stars ? And can those words " no more " 

Be meint for thee, for all ihings, save for us. 

And the predestined creeping things reserved 

By my sire to Jehovah's bidding? May 

lie pre-erve them, and / not have the power 

To sna'ch the loveliest of earth's daughters from 

A doom which even s me serpent, with his mate. 

Shall 'scape to save his kind to be prolong'd. 

To hiss and sting through some emerging world. 

Reeking and dank from out the slime, whose ooze 

Shill slumber o'er the wreck of this until 

The salt mornss subside into a sphere 

Beneaih the sun, and be the monument. 

The sole and undistioguish'd sepulchre. 

Of yet quick myriads of all life? How much 

Breath will be still'd at once ! All beauteous world ! 

So young, so mark'd out for destruction, I 

Wi h a cleft heart look on thee day by day. 

And night by nijht, thy number'd days and nights. 

I cannot save thee, cannot save even her 

Whose love had made me love thee more; but as 

A portion of thy dust, I cannot think 

Upon thy coming doom without a feeling 

Such as — Oh God ! and can.->t thou — [He pauses. 

A rushing sound from the cavern w heard, and shouts 
of laughter — afterwards a Spirit passes. 

Japh. In the name 

Of the Most High, what art thou ? 

Spirit ilaughi). Ha! ha! ha! 

Jnph. Bv all that earth holds holiest, speak ! 

Sp'rit (I'nughf:). Ha! ha! 

Japh. By the approaching deluge ! by the earth 
Which will be strangled by the ocean f by 
The deep which will lay open all her fountains ! 
The heaven which will convert her clouds to seas. 
And the Omnipotent who makes and crushes ! 
Thou unknown, terrible, and indistinct. 
Yet awful Thing of Shadows, speak to me ! 
Why dost thou laugh that horrid laugh ? 

Spirit. Why weep'st thou ? 

Jnph. For earth and all her children. 

Spirit. Ha I ha ! ha ! [Spirit vanishes. 

Japh. How the fiend mocks the tortures of a world, 
The cominij desolation of an orb, 
On which the sun shall rise and warm no life ! 
How the earth sleeps ! and all that in it is 
Sleep too ujion the very eve of death ! 
Why should they wake to meet it ? What is here. 
Which look like death in life, and speak like things 
Born ere this dying world ? They come like clouds ! 
[Various Spirits pass from the cavern. 

Spirit. Rejoice ! 
The abhorred race 
Which could not keep in Eden their high place, 

But listen'd to the voice 
Of knowledge without power. 
Are nigh the hour 
Of death ! 
Not slow, not single, not by sword, nor sorrow, 

Nor years, nor heart-breaJi, nor time's sapping 
motion, 



Scene III.] 



HEAVEN AJND EARTH. 



297 



Shall they drop off. Behold their last to-morrow ! 
Earth shall be oceai> ! 
And no breath, 
Save of the wind?, be on ;he unbounded wave ! 
Angels shall tire iheir wings, but find no spot: 
Not even a rnck from out ibe liquid grave 

Shall lift its point to save, 
Or show the place where strong Despair hath died, 
After long looking o'er the ocean wide 
For the expected ebb which cometh not : 
All shall be void, 
Destroy'd ! 
Another element shall be the lord 

Of life, and the abhnrr'd 
Children of dust be quench'd ; and of each hue 
Of earth nought left but the unbroken bluej 
And of the variegated mountain 
Shall nought remain 
Unchanged, or of the level plain; 
Cedar and pine shall lift their tops in vain : 
AH merged within the universal fountain, 
Man, earth, and fire, shall die, 
And sea .md sky 
Look vast and lifeless in the eternal eye. 
Upon the foam 
Who shall erect a home ? 
Japh. {coming forward). My sire ! 
Earth's seed s-hall not expire; 
Only the evil shall be put away 

From day. 
Avaunt ! ye exulting demons of the vraste ! 
Who howl your hideous joy 
When God destroys whom you dare not destroy; 
Hence ! haste ! 
Back to your inner caves! 
Until the waves 
Shall search you in your secret place, 
And drive your sullen race 
Forth, to be roll'd upon the tossing winds, 
In restless wieichedness along all space ! 
Spirit, Son of the saved ! 

When thou and thine have braved 
The wide and warring element ; 
When the great barrier of the deep is rent. 
Shall thou and thine be good or happy ? — No ! 
Thy new world and new race shall be of woe — 
Less goodly in their aspect, in their years 
Less than the glorious giants, who 
Yet walk the world in pride, 
The Sons of Heaven by many a mortal bride. 
Thine shall be no'hing of the past, save tears. 
And art thou not ashamed 

Thus to survive. 
And eit, and drink, and wive? 
With a base heart ^o f ir subdued and tamed, 
As even to hear this wide destruction named, 
Without such grief and courage, as should rather 

Bid thee await the world-dissolving wave, 
Than seek a shelter with thy favour'd father. 
And build thy city o'er the drown'd earth's grave? 
, Who would outlive their kind. 
Except the base and blind ? 
Mine 
Haie'h thine 
As of a different order in the sphere, 
But not our own. 
There is not one who hath not left a throne 

Vacant in heaven to dwell in darkness here, 
Rather than see his mates endure alone. 

Go, wretch 1 and give 
A life like thine to other wrelches — live! * 

And when the annihilating waters roar 

Above what they have done, 
Envy the giant patriarchs then no more, 
And scorn thy sire as ihe surviving one ! 
Thyself for being his son ! 
Chorus of Spirits issuing from the cavern. 
Rejoice ! 
No more the human voice 
Shall vex our joys in middle air 
With prayer ; 



No more 
Shall they adore; 
And we, who ne'er for ages have adored 

The prayer-exacting Lord, 
To whom the omission of a iacrifice 

Is vice ; 
We, we shall view the deep's salt sources pour'd 
Untd one element shall do the work 
Of all in chaos; until they. 
The creatures proud of their poor clay, 
Shall perish, and their bleached bones shall lurk 
In caves, in dens, in clefts of mountains, where 
The deep shall follow to their latest lair ; 

Where even the brutes, in their despair, 
Shall cease to prey on man and on each other. 

And the striped tiger shall lie down to die 
Beside the lamb, as ih ugh he were his brother; 
Till all things sh :ll be as they were, 
Silent and uncreated, save the sky : 
While a brief truce 
Is made with Death, who hall forbear 
The litile remnant of the past creation, 
To generate new nations tor his use; 
This lemnanf, floating o'er the undulation 
Of the subsiding deluge, from its slime. 
When the hot sun hath' baked the reeking soil 
Into a world, shall give again to 1 ime 
New beings— years — diseaes — sorrow — crime — 
W^ith all companionship of hate and toil. 

Until 

Japh. (intn-ruptirig thtm). The eternal will 
Shall deign to expound this dream 
Of gooG and evil ; and redeem 

Unto himself all times, all things; 
And, gather'd under his almighty wings. 
Abolish hell! 
And to the expiated Earth 
Restore the beauty of her birth. 

Her Eden in an endless paradise, 
Where man no more can fall as once he fell. 
And even the very demons shall do well ! 
Spirits. And when shall take effect this wondrous 

spell ? 
Japh. When the Redeemer cometh ; first in pain. 

And then in glory. 
Spirit. Meantinie still struggle in the mortal chain, 
Till earth wax hoary ; 
War with yourselves, and hell, and heaven, in vain, 

Until the clouds look gory 
With the blood reeking from each battle plain ; 
New times, new clmies, new arts, new men ; but still. 
The same old tears, old crimes, and oldest ill, 
Shall be amongst your race in different forms ; 
But the same moral storms 
Shall oversweep Ihe future, as the waves 
In a few hours the glorious giants' graves.* 

Chorus of Spirits. 

Brethren, rejoice ! 
Mortal, farewell ! 
Hark ! hark ! already we can hear the voice 
Of growing ocean's gloomy swell ; 

The winds, too, plume their piercing wings ; 
'I he clouds have nearly fili'd their springs; 
The fountains of the great deep shall be broken. 
And heaven set wide her windows ;2 while man- 
kind 
View, unacknowledged, each tremendous token — 
Still, as they were from the beginning, blind. 
We hear the sound they cannot hear, 
The mustering thunders of the threatening sphere ; 
Yet a few hours their coming is delay'd ; 
Their flashing banners, folded still on high, 
Yet undisplay'd, 



l"And ttiere were giants in the earth in those days, and 
after, mighty men, which were of old, men of renown." — 
Genesis. 

2"The same day were all the fountains of the great 
deep broken up, and Ihe windows of heaven were opeued." 
-- Ibid. 



gumammM 



H^MMMkdH 



^MMkJU 



298 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



[Part I. 



Save to the Spirit's all-pervading eye. 

Howl ! howl ! oh Earth ! 
Thy death is nearer than thy recent birth : 
Tremble, ye imountaius, soon to shrink below 

The ocean's overflow ! 
The wave shall break upon your cliffs ; and shells, 

'Ihe little shells, of ocein's least things be 
Deposed where now the eagle's offspring dwells — 
How shall he shriek o'er the renior.>eless sea ! 
And call his nestlings up wiih fruitless yell, 
Unanswer'd, save by the encroaching swell ; — 
While man shall long in vain tor his broad wings, 

'1 he wings which could not save : — 
Where could he rest them, while the w hole space brings 
Nought to his eye beyond the deep, his grave? 
Brethren, rejoice 1 
And loudly lift each superhuman voice — 

All die, 
Save the slight remnant of Seth's seed — 

The seed of Seth, 
Exempt for future sorrow's sake from death. 
But of the sons of Cain 
None shall remain ; 
And all his goodly daughters 
Must lie beneath the desolating waters : 
Or, floating upwaid, with their long hair laid 
Along the wave, the cruel heaven upbraid, 
Which would not spare 
Beings even in death so fair. 
It is decreed, 
All die ! 
And to the universal human cry 
The universal silence shall succeed ! 
Fly, brethren, fly 1 
But still rejoice ! 
'We fell ! 
They fall I 
So perish all 
These petty foes of Heaven who shrink from hell ! 

{The Spirits disappear, soarmg upwards. 
Japh. {solus). God hath proclaim'd the destiny of 
earth; 
My father's ark of safety hath announced it ; 
The very demons shriek it from their caves; 
The scroll i of Enoch prophesied it long 
In silent books, \\ hich, in their silence, say 
More to the mind than ihunder to the ear : 
And yet men listen'd not, nor listen ; but 
Walk darkling to their doom ; which, though so nigh, 
Shakes them no more in their dim disbelief, 
Than their last cries shall shake Ihe Almighty purpose, 
Or deaf obedient ocean, which fulfils it. 
No sign yet haisgs its banner in the air ; 
The clouds are lew, and of tlieir wonted texture; 
The sun will rise upon Ihe earth's last day 
As on the fourth day of ciealion, when 
God said unto him, " Shine !"aiid he broke forth 
Into the dawn, which iisrlited not the yet 
Unform'd forefather of mankind — but roused 
Before the human ori:on the earlier 
Made and far sweeter voices of the birds, 
Which in the open firmamen* of heaven 
Have wings like angels, and like them salute 
Heaven first each day before the Adimites ! 
Their matins now draw nigh —the east is kindling — 
And they will sing! and day will break ! Both near, 
So near "the awful close ! For these must drop 
Their outworn pinions on the deep ; and day, 
After the bright course of a few brief morrows, — 
Ay, day will rise ; but upon what? — a chaos, 
Which was ere day ; and which, renew'd. makes time 
Nothing ! for, without life, what are the hours? 
No more to dust than is e'ernity 
Unto Jehovah, who created both. 
Without him, even eternity would be 
A void : without man, time, as made for man, 
Dies with man, and is swallow'd in that rieep 
Which has no fountain ; as his race will be 

1 The book of Enoch, preserved by the Ethiopians, ia 
said by Ihem to be anterior to the flood. 



Devour'd by that which drowns his infant world. — 
What have we here ? Shat es of both earth and air ? 
No — all of heaven, they are so beautiful. 
I cannot trace their features ; but their forms, 
How lovelily they move along the side 
Of the grey mountain, scattering its mist ! 
And after the swart savage spirits, whose 
Infernal immortality pour'd forth 
Their impious hymn of triumph, they shall be 
Welcome as Eden. It may be they come 
To tell me the reprieve of our young world, 
For which I have so often pray'd — They come ! 
Anah ! oh, God ! and with her 

Enter Samiasa, Azaziel, .Anah, and Aholibamah. 

'Anah. Japhet ! 

Sam . Lo ! 

A son of Adam ! 

■^za. What doth the earth-born here. 

While all his race are slumbering ? 

Japh. Angel! what 

Dost thou on earth when thou shouldst be on high ? 

Aza. Know'st thou not, or forgett'st thou, that a part 
Of our great function is to guard thine earth ? 

Japh. But all good angels have forsaken earth, 
Which is condemn'd ; nay, even the evil fiy 
The approaching chaos. Anah ! Anah ! my 
In vain, and long, and still to be beloved ! 
Why walk'st thou with this spirit, in those hours 
When no good spirit longer lights below ? 

Anah. Japhet, I cannot answer thee ; yet, yet 
Forgive me 

Japh. May the Heaven, which soon no more 

Will pardon, do so ! for thou art greatly tempted. 

Jlho. Back to thy tents, insulting son of Noah ! 
We know thee not. 

Japh. The hour may come when thou 

May'st know me better j and thy s'ister know 
Me s:ill the same which I have ever been. 

Sam. Son of the patriarch, who hath ever been 
Upright before his God, wha:e'er thy gifts. 
And thy words seem of sorrow, mix'd with wrath, 
How have Azaziel, or myself, brought on thee 
Wrong? 

Japh. Wrong ! the greatest of all wrongs ; but thou 
Say'st well ; though she be dust, I did not, could noT, 
Deserve her. Farewell, Anah ! I have said 
That word so often ! but now say it, ne'er 
To be repeated. Angel ! or whate'er 
Thou art, or must be soon, hast thou the power 
To save this beautiful — the.'^c beautifiil 
Children of Cain? 

Aza. From what ? 

Jnph. And is it so. 

That ye too know not ? Angels ! angels ! ye 
Have shared man's sin, and, it may be, now must 
Partake his punishment; or, at the least. 
My sorrow. 

Sam. ' Sorrow I I ne'er thought till now 
To hear an Adami'e speak riddles to me. 

Japh. And hath not the Most High expounded 
them ? 
Then ye are lost, as they are lost. 

Jlho. So be it ! 

If they love as they are loved, they will not shrink 
More to be mortal, than I would to dare 
An immortality of agonies 
With Samiasa ! 

Anah. Sister ! sister ! speak not 

Thus. 

Aza. Fearest thou, my Anah ? 

Anah. Yes, for thee : 

I would resign the greater remnant of 
This little life of n)ine, before one hour 
Of thine eternity should know a pang. 

Japh. It is for him, then ! for the seraph thou 
Hast left me ! That is nothing, if thou hast not 
Left thy God too ! for unions like to these, 
Between a mortal and an immortal, cannot 
Be happy or be hallow'd. We are sent 
Upon the earth to toil and die : and they 



Scene III,] 



HEAVEN AND EARTH 



299 



Are made to minister on high unto 
The Hi^hes! : but if he cad save thee, soon 
The hour vviil come iu which celestial aid 
Alone can do so. 

Anah, Ah ! he speaks of death. 

Sam. Of death to tis ' and those who are with us ! 
But that the man seems full of sorrow, I 
Could smile. 

Japh. I grrieve not for myself, nor fear ; 

I am safe, not for my own deserts, but those 
Of a well-doin^ sire, who hath been found 
Righteous enough to save his children. Would 
His power was greater of redemption ! or 
That by exchanging my own life forheis, 
Who could alone have made mine happy, she, 
The last and loveliest of Cain's race, could share 
The ark which shall receive a remnant of 
The seed of Seth ! 

Mo. And dost thou think thit we, 

With Cain's, the eldest born of Adam's, blood 
Warm in our veins, — strong Cain 1 who was begotten 
la Paradise,— would mingle with Seth's children ? 
Seth, the la=t offspring of old Adam's dotage ? 
No, not to save all earth, were earth in peril ! 
Our race hath always dwelt apart from thine 
From the beginning, and shall do so ever. 

Japh, I did not speak to thee, Aholibamah ! 
Too much of the forefather whom thou vauntest 
Has come down in that haughty blood which springs 
From him who shed the first, and ;hat a brother's ! 
But thou, my Anah ! let me call thee mine, 
Albeit thou art not ; 't is a woid I cannot 
Part with, although I must from thee. My Anah ! 
Thou who dost rather make me dream that Abel 
Had left a daughter, whose pure pious race 
Survived in thee, so much unlike thou art 
The rest of the siern Caini^es, sive in beauty, 
For all of them are fairest in their favour • 

Aho, {interrupting him). And vvouldst thou have 
her like our father's foe 
In mind, in soul ? If 7 partook thy thought, 
And dream'd that anght of Abel was in her ! — 
Get thee hence, son of Noah ; thou makest strife. 

Japh. Offspring of Cain, thy father did so ! 

Aho. But 

He slew not Seth : and what hast thou to do 
With other deeds between his God anti him ? 

Japh. Thou speakest well : his God hath judged 
him, and 
I had not named his deed, but that thyself 
Didst seem to glory in him, nor to shrink 
From what he had done. 

Aho. He was our fathers' father ; 
The eldest born of man, the strongest, biavest, 
And most enduring : — Shall I blush for him 
From whom we had our being ? Look upon 
Our race ; behold their stature and their beau'y, 
Their courage, strength, and length of diys 

Japh. Tliey are number'd. 

Aho. Be it so ! but while yet their hours endure, 
I glory in my brethren and our fathers. 

Japh. My sire and race but glory in their God, 
Anah ! and thou ? 

Anah. Whate'er our God decrees, 

The God of Seth as Cain, I must obey, 
And will endeavour patiently to obey. 
But could I dare to pray in his dread hour 
Of universal vengeance (if such should be), 
It would not be to live, alone exempt 
Of all my house. My sister ! oh, my sister ! 
What were the world, or other worlds, or all 
The brightest future, without the sweet past — 
Thy love — my father's — all the life, and all 
The things which sprang up with me, like the stars, 
Making my dim existence radiant with 
Soft lights which were not mine? Aholibamah! 
Oh ! if there should be mercy — seek it, find it: 
I abhor death, because that thou must die. 

Aho. What, hath this dreamer, with his father's ark, 
The bugbear he hath built to scare the world. 



Shaken my sister ? Are we not the loved 
Of seraphs? and if we were not, must we 
Cling to a son of Noah for our lives ? 

Rather than thus But the enthusiast dreams 

The worst of dreams, the fantasies eiigender'd 
By hopeless love and heated vigils. Who 
Shall shake these solid mountains, this firm earth, 
And bid those clouds and wateis take a shape 
Distinct from that which we and all our sires 
Have seen them wear on their eternal way ? 
Who shall do this? 

Japh. He whose one word produced them. 

Aho. Who heard that w ord ? 

Japh. The universe, which leap'd 

To life before it. Ah ! smilest thou still in scorn? 
Turn to thy seraphs ; if they attest it not, 
They are none. 

Sa^n. Aholibamah, own thy God ! 

Aho. I have ever haiPd our Maker, Samiasa, 
As thine, and mine : a God of love, not borrow. 

Japh. Alas ! what else is love but sorrow ? Even 
He who made earth in love had soon to grieve 
Above its first and best inhabitants. 

Aho. 'T is said so. 

Japh. It is even so. 

Enter Noah and Shem. 

Noah. Japhet! What 

Dost thou here with these children of the wicked? 
Dread'st thou not to partake their coming doom ? 

Japh. Father, it cannot be a sin to seek 
To save an earih-born being ; and behold. 
These are not of the sinful, since they have 
The fellowship of angels. 

Noah. These are they, then. 

Who leave the throne of God, to take them wives 
From out the race of Cain ; the sons of heiven, 
Who seek earth's daughters for their beauty ? 

Aza. Patriarch ! 

Thou hast said it. 

Noah, Woe, woe, woe to such communion ! 

Hns not God made a barrier between earth 
And heaven, and limited each, kind to kind ? 

Sam. Was not man made in high Jehovah's image ? 
Did God not love what he had made ? And what 
Do we but imitate and emulate 
His love unto created love ? 

Noah. I am 

But man, and was not made to judge mankind, 
Far less the sons of God ; but as our God 
Has deign'd to commune with me, and reveal 
His judgments, I reply, that the descent 
Of seraphs from their everlasting seat 
Unto a perishable and perishing, 
Even on the very eve of perishing, world, 
Cannot be good, 

Aza. What ! though it were to save? 

Noah. Not ye in all your glory can redeem 
What he who made you glorious haih condemn'd. 
Were your immortal mission safety, 't would 
Be general, not for two, though beautiful; 
And beautiful they are, but not the less 
Condemn'd. 

Japh. Oh, father ! say it not. 

Noah. Son ! son ! 

If that thou wouldst avoid their doom, forget 
That they exist : they soon shall cease to be, 
While thou shall be the sire of a new world, 
And better. 

Japh. Let me die with this, and them ! 

Noah. Thou shouldst for such a thought, but shalt 
not ; he 
Who can redeems thee. 

Sam. And why him and thee. 

More than what he, thy son, prefers to both ? 

Noah. Ask him who made thee gieater than myself 
And mine, but not less subject to his own 
Almightiness. And lo ! his mildest and 
Least to be tempted messenger appears ! 



iMtt 



itflM 



J 



300 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



[Part I. 



Enter Raphael the Archangel. 
Raph. Spirits: 

Whose seat is near the throne. 
What do ye here? 
Is thus a seraph's duty to be shown, 
IS'ovv that the hour is near 
When earih must be alone ? 
Return ! 
Adore and burn, 
In glorious homige with the elected "seven." 
Your place is heiven. 
Sam. Raphael 1 

The first and fairest of the sons of God, 
How long h til this been law, 
That eanh by angels must be left untrod? 

Earth I which oft saw 
Jehovah's footsteps not disdain her sod ! 
The world he loved, and made 
For love ; and oft have we obey'd 
His frequenl mission with deli;^hled pinions : 

Adoring him in h\> least woiiis display'd; 
Watching this youngest s ar of his dominions; 
And, as the latest birth of his great word, 
Eager to keep it worthy of our Lord. 
Why is thy brow severe? 
And wherefore speak'st thou of de'Jruction near? 
Raph. Had Samiasa and Azaziel been 
lu their true place, with tne angelic choir. 
Written in fire 
They would have seen 
Jehovahs late decree, 
And not enquired their Maker's breath of me : 
But ignorance must ever be 
A part of sin ; 
And even the spirits' knowledge shall grow less 

As they wax proud wittiin ; 
For Blindness is the first-born of Excess. 

When all good ;ingels left the world, ye stay'd, 
Stung with strange passions, and debased 
By mortal feelings for a mortal maid : 
But ye are pardon'd thus far, and replaced 
With your pure equals. Hence ! away ! away I 
Or stiy, 
And lose eternity by that dehy ! 
Aza. And thou ! if earth be thus forbidden 
In the decree 
To us until this moment hidden. 
Dost thou not err as we 
In being here? 
Raph. I came to call ye bick to your fit sphere, 
In the great name and at the word of God. 
Dear, dearest in themselves, and scarce less dear 

That which I came to do : fill now we trod 
Together the eternal space; together 

Let us still walk the stars. True, earth must die: 
Her race. re;urn'd into her womb, must wither. 
And much which she inherits : bu' oh ! why 
Cannot this eaith be made, or be desiroy'd, 
Without involving ever some vast void 
In the immortal ranks? immortal still 

In their immeasurable forfeiture. 
Our brother Satan fell ; his burtiing will 
Rather than longer worship dared endure ! 
But ye who still are pure ! 
Seraphs ! less mighty than that mightiest one. 
Think how he was undoi.e! 
And think if tempting man can compensate 
For heaven desired too late? 
Long have I warr'd, 
Long mu t I war 
With him who deem"d it hard 
To be created, and to acknowledge him 
Who 'midst the cherubim 
Made him as suns to a dependent star, 
Leaving the archangels at his right hand dim. 

I loved him — beautiful he was : oh, heaven ! 
Save his who made, what beauty and what power 
Was ever like to Satan's I Would the hour 

In which he fell could ever be forgiven ! 
The wish is impious: but, oh ye ! 
Yet undestroy'd, be warn'd ! Eternity 



j With him, or with his God, is in your choice: 
He hath not tempted you ; he cannot tempt 
The angels, from his further snares exempt: 

But man hath listen'd to his voice. 
And ye to woman's— beautiful she is, 
The serpent's voice less subtle than her ki^s. 
The snake but vanquish'd dust ; but she will draw 
A second host from heaven, to break heaven's law. 
Yet, yet. oh lly ! 
Ye canno die; 
But they 
Shall pass away. 
While ye shall fill with shrieks the upper sky 

For perishable clay, 
Whose memory in your immortality 

Shall long outlast she sun u hich gave them day. 
Think how your essence ditfereth from theirs 
In all but suffering! why pariake 
The agony lo which they must be heirs — 
Born to be ploughd with )ears, and sown with cares, 
And reap'd by Death, lord of the human soil? 
Even had their days been left to toil their path 
Through time to dust, unshorleu'd by God's wrath. 
Still they are Evil's prey and Sorrow's spoil. 

Aho. Let them fly 1 

I hear the voice which says that all must die, 
Sooner than our white beaided patriarchs died; 
And that on high 
An ocean is prepared, 
While from below 
The deep shall rise to meet heaven's overflow. 

Few shall be spared. 
It seems; and, of that few, the race of Cain 
Must lift their eyes to Adim's God in vain. 
Sister ! since it is so, 
And the eternal Lord 
In vain would be implored 
For the reuiission of one hour of woe. 
Let us resign even what we h ive adored. 
And meet the wave, as we would meet the sword, 

If not unmoved, yet undismay'd. 
And wailing less for us than those who shall 
Survive in mortal or immortal thrall. 

And, when the fatal waters are allsy'd. 
Weep for the m\riads who can weep no more. 
Fly, seraphs ! to your own eternal shore. 
Where winds nor howl nor waters roar. 
Our p rtion is to die. 
And yours to live for ever : 
But which is best, a dead eternity. 
Or living, is but known to the gieat Giver. 
Obey him, a^ we shall obey ; 
I would not keep this life of mine in clay 
An hour beyond his will ; 
Nor see ye lose a portion of his grace. 
For all the mercy which Seths race 
Find still. 
Fly ! 
And as your pinions bear ye back to heaven, 
Think that my love still mounts with thee on high, 

Samiasa ! 
And if I look up with a teirless eye, 

'T is that an angel's bride disdains to weep, — 
Farewell! Now rise, inexorable deep ! 
Anah. And must we die ? 

And must I lose thee too, 

Azaziel ? 
Ob, my heart ! my heart ! 

Thy prophecies were true ! 
And yet Ihou wert so happy too I 
The blow, though not unlook'd for, falls as new : 
But yet depart ! 

Ah ! why ? 
Yet let me not retain ihee — fly ! 
My pangs can be but brief; but thine would be 
Etert al, if repulsed from heaven for me. 
Too much already hast thou deign'd 
1 o one of Adam's race I 
Our doom is sorrow : not to us alone, 
But to the spirits who have not disdain'd 
To love us, cometh anguish with disgrace. 



Scene III.] 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



301 



The fir^t who taught us knowledge hath been hurl'd 
From his once archangel ic throne 
Into some unknown world : 

And thou, Azaziel I No — 
Thou shall not suffer woe 
Forme. Away! nor weep! 
Thou canst not weep ; but yet 
May'st sutfer more, not weeping : then forget 
Her, whom (he surges of ihe all-strangling deep 

Can bring no pang like this. Fly ! tiy ! 
Being gone, 't will be less difficult to die. 
Japh.. Oh say not so ! 

Father ; and thou, archangel, thou ! 
Surely celestial mercy lurks below 
That pure severe serenity of biow : 
Let them not meet this sea without a shore, 
Save in our ark, or let me be no more ! 
Noah. Pe^ce, child of passion, peace ! 
If not within thy heart, yet with thy tongue 

Do God no wrong ! 
Live as he wills it — die, when he ordains, 
A righteous death, unlike the seed of Cain's. 

Cease, or be sorrowful in silence ; cease 
To weary Heaven's ear with thy selfish plaint. 
Wouidst thou have God commit a sin for thee ? 
Such would it be 
To alter his intent 
For a mere mortal sorrow. Be a man ! 
And bear what Adam's race must bear, and can. 
Japfi. Ay, father ! but when they are gone, 
And we are all alone. 
Floating upon the azure desert, and 
The depth beneath us hides our own dear land, 
And dearer, silent friends iind brethren, all 
Buried in its immeasurable breast, 
Who, who, our tears, our shrieks, shall then command ? 
Can we in desolation's peace have rest? 
Oh God ! be thou a God, and spare 
Yet while 't is time! 
Renew not Adam's fall : 

Mankind were then but twain. 
But they are numerous now as are the vraves 

And ihe tremendous rain, 
Whose drops thall be less thick than would their 
graves. 
Were graves permitted to the seed of Cain. 
Noah. Silence, vain boy ! each word of thine 's a 
Clime. 
Angel ! forgive this stripling's fond despair. 

Raph, Seraphs ! these mortals speak in passion : Ye ! 
Who are, or should be, pa?sionless and pure, 
May now return with me. 

Sam. It may not be: 

We have chosen, and will endure. 
Raph. Say 'st thou? 

Aza, ' He hath said it, and I say, Amen ! 

Raph. Again ! 
Then froni this hour. 
Shorn as ye are of all celestial power, 
And aliens from your God, 
Farewell ! 
Japh. Alas! where shall they dwell? 

Hark, hark ! Deep sounds, and deeper still. 
Are howling from the mountain's bosom: 
There's not a breath of wind upon the hill, 

Yet quivers every leaf, and drops each blossom: 
Earth groans as if beneath a heavy loid. 
Noah. Hark, hark ! the ^ea-birds cry ! 
In clouds they overspread the lurid sky. 
And hover round the mountain, where before 
Never a white wing, wetted by the wave. 

Yet dared to soar. 
Even when the waters wax'd too fierce to brave. 
Soon it shall be their only shore, 
And then, no more ! 
Japh. The sun ! the sun! 

He riseth, but his better light is gone ; 
And a black circle, bound 

His glaring disk around, 
Proclaims earth's last of summer days hath shone I 
The clouds return into the hues of night, 



Save where their brazen-colour'd edges streak 

The verge where brighter morns were wont to break. 

Noah. And lo ! yon li sh of light, 
The distant thunder's harbinger, appears ! 

It comeih ! hence, away ! 
Leave to the elements their evil prey ! 
Hence to where our all-hallow'd ark uprears 
Its safe and wreckless sides ! 

Japh. Oh, father, stay ! 
Leave not my Anah to the swallowing tides ! 

Noah. Must we not leave all life to such ? Begone ! 

Japh. Not I. 

Noah. Then die 

With them ! 
How darest thou look on that prophetic sky, 
And seek to save what all things now condemn, 
In overwhelming unison 

With just Jehovah's wrath ! 

Japh. Can rage aad justice join in the same path ? 

Noah. Bla phemer ! darest thou murmur even now! 

Raph. Patriarch, be still a father ! smooth thy brow : 

Thy son, despite his folly, shall not sink : 
He knows not what he says, yet shall not drink 

With sobs the salt foam of the swelling waters ;i 
But be, when passion passeth, good as thou, 

Nor perish like heaven's children with man's 
daughters. 

Aho. The tempest cometh ; heaven and earth unite 
For the annihilati n of all life. 
Unequal is the strife 
Between our strength and the Eternal Might ! 

•Sam. But ours is with thee; we will bear ye far 

To some untroubled star. 
Where thou and Anah shall partake our lot : 

And if thou dost not weep for thy lost earth, 
Our forfeit heaven shall also be forgot. 

Anah. Oh ! my dear father's tents, my place of 
birth, 
And mountains, land, and woods ! when ye are not, 
Who shall dry up my tears ? 

Aza. Thy spirit-lord. 

Fear not ; though we are shut from heaven. 
Yet much is ours, whence we can not be driven. 

Raph. Rebel ! thy words are wicked, as thy deeds 
Shall henceforth be but weak : the flaming sword, 
Which chased the first-born out of Paradise, 
Still flashes m the angelic hands. 

Aza. It cannot slay us: threaten dust with death, 
And talk of weapons unto th t which bleeds. 
What are thy swords in our immortal eyes? 

Raph. 1 he moment comeih to approve thy strength ; 
And learn at length 
How vain to war with what thy God commands : 
Thy former force was in thy faith. 

Enter Mortals, flying for refuge. 

Chorus of Mortals. 

The heavens and earth are mingling — God ! oh God ! 

What have we done ? Yet spare ! 

Hark ! even the forest-beasts howl forth their prayer ! 

The d I agon crawls from out his den, 

To herd, in terror, innocent with men ; 
And the birds scream their agony through air. 
Yet, yet, Jehovah ! yet withdraw thy r d 
Of wrath, and pity thine own world's despair. 
Hear not man only but all nature plead ! 

Raph, Farewell, thou earth ! ye wretched sons of 
clay, 
I cannot, must not, aid you. 'T is decreed ! 

[Exit Raphael. 

Japh. Some clouds sweep on as vultures for their 

. prey, 
While others, fix'd as rocks, await the word 
At which their wrathful vials shall be pour'd. 
No a7ure more shall rot)e the firmament. 
Nor spangled stars be glorious : Death hath risen : 
In the sun's place a pale and ghastly glare 
Hath wound itself around the dying air. 

Aza. Come, Anah ! quit this chaos-founded prison, 
To which the elements again repair, 



26 



S02 



HEAVEN AND EARTH- 



[Part I. 



To turn it into what it was : beneath 

The shelter of these wina:s thou stnll be safe, 

As was the eifile's iiestlinsi once within 

Its mother's. — Let the comina; chaos ch.ife 

With all its tlenients 1 Heeti not their din ! 

A brighter world than this, where thou shalt breathe 

Ethefed lite, will we explore: 

These darken'd clouds are not the only skies. 

[Jcariti and Sauuasa jii/ ox}\ and disappear 

wilk diiah and dhoiiiiainah, 
Japh. They are gone! They have disappear'daniidst 

the roar 
Of the forsaken world ; and never more. 
Whether they live, or die with all earth's life, 
Now near its last, can aught restore 
Auali unto these eyes. 

Chorus of Mortals. 
Oh son of Noah ! uiercv on thy kind ! 
What ! wilt thmi l?:ive us all — all — all behind ? 
While safe amidst the elemental strife, 
Thou sitt'st within thy guarded ark ? 
J. Mother {olf'crins hn- infant to Japhet). Oh let 
this child endvirk ! 
I brought hin> firtii in woe, 
But thought it joy 
To see him to m\^b;»som clinging so. 
Why was he born? 
What hath he done — 
My unwean'd siin — 
To move Jehovah's wrath or scorn ? 
What is there in this milk of mine, that death 
Should stir all heaven and earth up to destroy 

My boy. 
And roll the wa'ers o'er his placid breath? 
Save him. thou seed of Seth I 
Or cursed be — with him who made 
Thee and thy race, for which we are betray'd ! 
Japh. Peace! 't is no hour for curses, but for prayer! 

Chcrtis of Mortals. 
For prayer I ! ! 
And where 
Shall prayer ascend, 
When the swoln cKnids vinlo the mountains beiid 

And burst. 
And gushing oceans every barrier rend, 
Until the very deserts know no thirst ? 
Accu'sed 
Be he who made thee and thy sire ! 
We deen\ our curses vain ; we must expire ; 

But as we knnv the woi^st. 
Why should our hymn be rxised, our knees be bent 
Befo're the implacxble Omnipotent, 
Since we must fall the same ? 
If he hath made earth, let it he his shame, 

To make a world for torture.— Lo ! they come, 
The laathsome witers, in their raare I 
And with their roar nnke wholesome nature dumb! 

The forests' trees (ctwal with the hour 
When Paradise upsprung. 

Ere Eve gave Adam knowledge for her dower, 
Or Adam his first hymn of slavery sung)^ 

So massy, vast, yet greeu iu their old age. 
Are overtopp'd. 

Their summer blossoms by the surges lopp'd, 
Which rise, and rise, and Vise. 



I Vainly we look up to the lowering skies — 

They meet the seas, 
I And shut out God from our beseeching eyes. 
! Ply, son of Noah, Ily ! and take thine'ease, 
j In tliine allotted ocean-tent ; 
And view, all tliwting o'er the element, 
I The corpses of the world of thy young days : 
j Then to Jehovah raise 

j Thv song of praise '. 

,3 Mon'al. Blessed are the dead 
I Who die in the Lord ! 

And though the waieis be o'er earth outspread, 
Yet, as his won!. 
Be the decree adoreti ! 
He gave me life — he taketh but 
The breath \\ hich is his own : 
And thougii these eyes should he for ever shut, 
Nor longer this weak voice before his throne 
Be heard in supplicating tone, 

Still blessed be" the Lord, 
For what is p.ist, 
Por that uhich is: 
Por all are his. 
Prom first to last — 
Time — sp \ce — eternity — life — death — 

The vast known and inuneasunable unknown. 
He made, and c\n unnnke ; 

And shall /, for a little g-asp of breath, 
Blaspheme ind groan ? 

No ; let me die, as I have lived, in faith, 
Nor quiver, though the universe may quake I 

Chonts of Mortals. 
Where shall we flv ? 
Not to the mountains high ; 
For now their torrents rush, with double roar, 

To meet the ocean, which, advancing still, 
Alreadv gitxsps each divwning hill, 
Nor leaves an uusearch'd cave. 

£j»/er a TVoman, 
Woman. Oh, save me, save ! 
Our valley is no more ; 

My father and my father's tent, 
! r*Iy bretliien and luy brethren's herds, 

The pleasant trees that o'er our noonday bent. 
And sent forth evening songs from sweetest birds, 
The little rivulet which fresheu'd all 
Our pastures green. 
No more ai e to lie seen. 
When lo the mountain cliti" I climb'd this mi ^n, 

I turn'd to bless the snot. 
And not a leaf appear'a about to fall ; — 

And now they are not! — 
Whv was I born? 

Japh. To die ! in youth to die ! 

And happier in that dixim. 
Than to behold the univers;vl tomb. 

Which I 
Am thus condemn'd to weep above in vain. 
Why, when all perish, why must I remain? 

[The waters rise : Meyi Jiy in eivry direetion ; 
fH(i;n/ are overtaken hy the waves ; the Chintis 
of Mortals dif poses in starch of safity up ihe 
mountains: Jayhit remains upon a rocfe, 
while the^rkjLoats towards him in the dis- 
tance. 



r1 



Scene I.] 



SARDANAPALUS. 



303 



SARDANAPALUS:* 
A TRAGEDY. 



TO 

THE ILLUSTRIOUS GOETHE. 

A STRANGER 

PRESUMES TO OFFER THE HOMAGE 

OF A LITERARY VASSAL TO HIS LIEGE LORD, 

THE FIRST OF EXISTING WRITERS, 

WHO HAS CREATED 

THE LITERATURE OF HIS OWN COUNTRY, 

AND ILLUSTRATED THAT OF EUROPE. 

THE UNWORTHY PRODUCTION 

WHICH THE AUTHOR VENTURES 

TO INSCRIBE TO HIM 

IS ENTITLED 
SARDANAPALUS. 



PREFACE. 

In publishing the followina: Tragedies 2 I have only 
to repeat, tliat they were not composed with the most 
remote view to the stage, On the attemi)( made by 
the managers in a former instance, the jjublic opinion 
has been already expressed. With regard to my own 
private feelings, as it seems that they are to stand for 
nothing, I shall say nothing. 

For the historical foundation of the following com- 
positions the reader is referred to the Notes. 

The Author has in one instance attempted to pre- 
serve, and in the other to aj)proach, the "unities;" 
conceiving that with any very distant departure from 
them, there may be poetry, but can be no drama. He 
is aware of the unpopularity of this notion in present 
English literature; but it is not a system of his own, 
being merely an opinion, which, not very long aijo, 
was the law of literature throughout the world, and is 
still so in the more civilized parts of it. But "nous 
avons change tout cela," and are reaping the advan- 
tages of the change. The writer is far from conceiv- 
ing that any thing he can adduce by personal precept 
or example cnn at all approach his regular, or even 
irregular predece-sors : he is merely giving a reason 
why he preferred the more regular formation of a 
structure, however feeble, to an entire abandonment 
of all rules whatsoever. Where he has failed, the 
failure is in the architect, — and not in the art. 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 



MEN. 
Sardanapalus, King of Ninetyeh and Jstyria, Scc 
Arbaces, the Mcde who aspired to the Throne. 



Beleses, a Chaldean and Soothsayer. 

Salemenes, the King^s Brother-iii-Law. 

Alfada, an Assyrian Officer of the Palace. 

Pania. 

Zames. 

Sfero. 

Balea. 

WOMEN. 
Zarina, the Queen. 
Myrrha, an Ionian female Slave, and the Favojirite 

of Sardanapalus. 
Women convposiixg the Harem of Sardanapalus, 

Guards, Attendants, Chaldean Priests, Medes, 

4-c. ^c. 

Scene— a Hall in the Royal Palace of Nineveh. 



In this tragedy it has been my intention to follow the 
account of Diodorus Siculus ; reducing it, however, to 
such dramatic regularity as I best could, and trying to 
approach the unities. I therefore suj^pose the rebel- 
lion to exjjlnde and succeed in one day by a sudden 
conspiracy, instead of the long war of the history. 



1 Written nt Rnvenna, in the early part of 1821, and 
published in Deremlier of thnt year. 

2 "SardanapaluM" origlnnlly appeared in the same 
volume with "The Two Foticnri." — E. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. 

A Hall in the Palace. 

Salemenes (solus). He hath wrong'd his queen, but 
still he is her lord; 
He hath wrong'd n)y sister, still he is my brother ; 
He hath wiong'd his people, still he is their sovereign, 
And I must be his friend as well as subject : 
He must not perish thus. I will not see 
The blood of Nimrod and Seniiramis 
Sink in the earth, and thirteen hundred years 
Of empire ending like a shepherd's tale ; 
He must be roused. In his efl'eminate heart 
There is a careless courage which corruption 
Has not all quench'd, and latent energies, 
Repress'd by circumstance, but not destroy'd — 
Steup'd, but not drown'd, in deep voluptuousness. 
If born a peasant, he had been a man 
To have reach'd an empire : to an empire born, 
He will bequeath none; nothing but a name. 
Which his sons will not prize in heritage: — 
Yet, not all lost, even yet he may redeem 
His sloth and shame, by only being that 
Which he should be, as easily as the thine 
He should not be and is. Were it less toil 
To sway his nations than consume his life? 
To head an army than to rule a harem ? 
He sweats in palling pleasures, dulls his soul. 
And saps his goodly" strength, in toils which yield not 
Health like the chase, nor glory like the war — 
He must be roused. Alas ! there is no sound 

[Sound of ioft nivsic heard from within. 
To rouse him short of tiiunder. Hark ! the lute. 
The lyre, the timbrel ; the lascivious tinklings 
Of lulling instruments, the softening voices 
Of women, and of beings less than women, 
Must chime in to the echo of his revel. 
While the great king of all we know of earth 



304 



SARDANAPALUS. 



[Act I. 



Lolls crown'd with roses, and his diadem 

Lies negligeutly by to be caught up 

By the first manly hand wliich dares to snatch it. 

Lo, where they come! already I perceive 

The reeking odours of the perfumed trains, 

And see the bright gems of ihe gliuering girls, 

At once his chorus and his council, flash 

Along the gallery, and amidst the damsels, 

As femininely garb d, and scarce less female, 

The grandson of Semiramis, the man-queen. — 

He comes ! Sh 11 I await him ? yes, and front him, 

And tell him what all good men tell e^ch other. 

Speaking of him and his. They come, the slaves 

Led by the monarch subject to his slaves. 

SCENE II. 

Entey- Sardanapalus effeminately dressed, his Head 
crowned with. Flowers, and his Robe negligently 
flowing, attended by a Train of Women and 
young Slaves. 

Sar. (speaking to some of his attejidaiits). Let the 
pavilion over the Euphrates 
Be garlanded, and lit, and furnish'd forth 
For an especial banquet ; at the hour 
Of midnight we will sup there: see nought veanting, 
And bid the galley be prepared. There is 
A cooling breeze which crisps the broad clear river: 
We will embark anon. Fair nymphs, w ho deign 
To share the soft hours of Sardanapalus, 
We '11 meet again in that the sweete-t hour, 
When we shall gather like the stars above us, 
And you will form a heaven as bright as theirs; 
Till then, let each be mi^tress of her time, 
And thou, my own Ionian Myrrha,i choose 
Wilt thou along with them or me? 

Myr. My lord 

Sar. My lord, my life ! why answerest thou so 
coldly ? 
It is the curse of kings to be so answer'd. 
Rule thy own hours, thou rulest mine — say, wouldst 

thou 
Accompany our guests, or charm away 
The moments from me ? 

Myr. The king's choice is mine. 

Sar. I pray thee say not so : my chiefest joy 
Is to contribute to thine every wish. 
I do not dare to breathe my own desire. 
Lest it should clash with thine ; for thou art still 
Too prompt to sacrifice thy thoughts for others. 

Myr. I would remain : I have no happiness 
Save in beholding thine; yet 

Sar. Yet! what yei .? 

Thy own sweet will shall be the only barrier 
Which ever rises betwixt thee and me. 

Myr. I think the present is the wonted hour 
Of council ; it w^ere better 1 retire. 

Sal. (comes forward and says). The Ionian slave 
says well : let her retire. 

Sar. Who answers ? How now, brother ? 

Sal. The queen's brother, 

And your most faithful vassal, royal lord. 

Sar. (addressing his train). As I have said, let all 
dispose their hours 
Till midnight, when again we pray your presence. 

[The court retiring. 

To Myrrha (who is going). Myrrha ! I thought 
thou wouldst remain. 

Myr. Great king. 

Thou didst not say so. 

Sar. But thou lookedst it : 

I know each glance of those Ionic eyes, 
Which said thou wouldst not leave me. 

Myr. Sire 1 your brother 

1 " The Ionian name had been still more comprehen- 
sive, having included the Achaians and the Beotians, who, 
togt'ther with those to whom it was afterwards confined, 
would make nearly the whole of the Greek nation; and 
among the orientals it was always the general name for 
the Greeks." — MITFORD'S Greece, vol. i. p. 199. 



Sal. His consarVs brother, minion of Ionia ! 
How darest thou name t»c and not blush ? 

Sar. Not blush ! 

Thou hast no more eyes than heart to make her crim- 
son 
Like to the dying day on Caucasus, 
Where sunset tints the snow with rosy shadows. 
And then reproach her with ihine own cold blindness, 
Which will not see it. What ! in tears, my Myrrha ? 

Sal. Let them flow on j she weeps for more than 
one, 
And is herself the cause of bitterer tears. 

Sar. Cursed be he who caused those tears to flow ! 

Sal. Curse not thyself— niillions do that already. 

Sar. 'i hou dost forget thee : make me not remember 
I am a monarch. 

Sal. Would thou couldst ! 

Myr. My sovereign, 

I pray, and thou, too, prince, permit my absence. 

Sar. Since it must be so, and this churl has check'd 
Thy gentle spirit, go ; but recollect 
That we must forthwith meet : I had rather lose 
An empire than thy presence. {Exit Myrrha. 

Sal. It may be, 

Thou wilt lose both, and both for ever 1 

Sar. Brother ! 

I can at least command myself, who listen 
To language such as this :" yet urge me not 
Beyond my easy nature. 

Sal. 'T is beyond 

That easy, far too e^sy, idle nature. 
Which I would urge thee. that I could rouse thee ! 
Though 't were against myself. 

Sar. By the god Baal ! 

The man would make me tyrant. 

Sal. So thou art, 

Think'st thou there is no tyranny but that 
Of blood and chains ? The despotism of vice — 
The weakness and the wickedness of luxury — 
The negligence — the apathy — the evils 
Of senvu 1 sloth — produce ten thousand tyrants, 
Whose delegated cruelty surpasses 
The worst acts of one energetic master. 
However harsh and hard in his own bearing. 
The false and fond examples of thy lusts 
Corrupt no less than they oppiess, and sap 
In the same moment all thy pageant power 
And those who should sustain it ; so that whether 
A foreign foe invade, or civil broil 
Distract within, both will alike prove fatal : 
The first ihy subjects have no heart to conquer; 
The last they rather would assist than vanquish. 

Sar. Why, what makes thee the mouth-piece of the 
people ? 

Sal. Forgiveness of the queen, my sister's wrongs; 
A natural love unto my infant nephews; 
Faith to the king, a faith he may need shortly, 
In more than words ; respect tor Nimrod's line : 
Also, another thing thou knowest not. 

Sar, What's that? 

Sal. To thee an unknown word. 

Sar. Yet speak it; 

I love to learn. 

Sal. Virtue. 

Sar. Not know the word ! 

Never was word yet rung so in my ears — 
Worse than the rabble's shout, or "splitting trumpet : 
I 've heard thy sister talk of nothing else. 

Sal. To change the irksome theme, then, hear of 
vice. 

Sar. From whom ? 

Sal. Even from the winds, if thou couldst listen 
Unto the echoes of the nation's voice. 

Sar. Come, I 'm indulgent, as thou knowest, patient, 
As thou hast often proved — speak out, what moves 
thee ? 

Sal. Thy peril. 

Sar. Say on, 

Sal. Thus, then : all the nations, 

For they are many, whom thy father left 
In heritage, are loud in wrath against thee. 



Scene II.] 



A TRAGEDY. 



305 



Sar. 'Gainst me ! What would the slaves ? 

Sal. A king. 

Sar. And what 

Am I then ? 

Sal. In their eyes a nothing ; but 

In mine a man who might be something still. 

Sar. The railing drunkards ! why, what would they 
have? 
Have they not peace and plenty ? 

Sal. Of the first 

More than is glorious ; of the last, far less 
Than the king recks of. 

Sar. Whose then is the crime, 

But the false satraps, who prgvide no better ? 

Sal. And somewhat in the monarch who ne'er looks 
Beyond his palace walls, or if he stirs 
Beyond them, 't is but to some mountain palace, 
Till summer heats wear down, glorious Baal ! 
Who built up this vast empire, and wert made 
A god, or at the least shinest like a god 
Through the long centuries of thy renown. 
This, thy presumed descendant, ne'er beheld 
As king the kingdoms thou didst leave as hero, 
Won with thy blood, and toil, and time, and peril ! 
For what ? to furnish imposts for a revel. 
Or multiplied extortioas for a minion. 

Sar. I understand thee — thou wouldst have me go 
Forth as a conqueror. By all the stars 
Which the Chaldeans read — the restless slaves 
Deserve that I should curse them with their wishes, 
And lead them forth to glory. 

Sal. Wherefore not ? 

Semiramis — a woman only — led 
These our Assyrians to the solar shores 
Of Ganges. 

Sar. 'T is most true. And how return'd ? 

Sal. Why, like a man — a hero ; baffled, but 
Not vanquish'd. With but twenty guards, she made 
Good her retreat to Bactria. 

Sar. And how many 

Left she behind in India to the vultures ? 

Sal. Our annals say not. 

Sar. Then I will say for them — 

That she had better woven within her palace 
Some twenty garments, than with twenty guards 
Have fled to Bactria, leaving to the ravens, 
And wolves, and men — the fiercer of the three, 
Her myriads of fond subjects. Is this glory ? 
Then let me live in ignominy ever. 

Sal. All warlike spirits have not the same fate. 
Semiramis, the glorious parent of 
A hundred kings, although she fail'd in India, 
Brought Persia, Media, Bactria, to the realm 
Which she once sway'd — and thou mighVst sway. 

Sar. I sway them — 

She but subdued them. 

Sal. It may be ere long 

That they will need her sword more than your sceptre. 

Sar. There was a certain Bacchus, was there not ? 
I 've heard my Greek girls speak of such — they say 
He was a god, that is, a Grecian gnd. 
An idol foreign to Assyria's worship, 
Who conquer'd this same golden realm of Ind 
Thou prat'st of, where Semiramis was vanquish'd. 

Sal. I have heard of such a man j and thou per- 
ceiv'st 
That he is deem'd a god for what he did. 

Sar. And in his godship I will honour him — 
Not much as man. What, ho ! my cupbearer ! 

Sal. What means the king ? 

Sar. To worship your new god 

And ancient conqueror. Some wine, I say. 

Enter Cupbearer. 
Sar. {addressing the Cupbearer). Bring me the golden 
goblet thick with gems. 
Which bears the name of Nimrod's chalice. Hence, 
Fill full, and bear it quickly. [Exit Cupbearer. 

Sal. Is this moment 

A fitting one for the resumption of 
The yet uuslept-ofi' revels ? 



Re-enter Cupbearer, with wine. 
Sar. (taking the cup from him). Noble kinsman, 
If these barbarian Greeks of the far shores 
And skirts of these our realms lie not, this Bacchus 
Conquer'd the whole of India, did he not ? 
Sal. He did, and thence was deem'd a deity. 
Sar. Not so : — of all his conquests a few columns, 
Which may be his, and might be mine, if I 
Thought them worth purchase and conveyance, are 
The landmarks of the seas of gore he shed, 
The realms he wasted, and the hearts he broke. 
But here, here in this goblet is his title 
To immortality — the immortal grape 
From which he first express'd the soul, and gave 
To gladden that of man, as some atonement 
For the victorious mischiefs he had done. 
Had it not been for this, he would have been 
A mortal still in name as in his grave ; 
And, like my ancestor Semiramis, 
A sort of semi-glorinus human monster. 
Here 's that which deified him — let it now 
Humanise thee ; my surly, chiding brother, 
Pledge me to the Greek god ! 

Sal. For all thy realms 

I would not so blaspheme our country's creed. 

Sar. That is to say, thou thinkest him a hero. 
That he shed blood by oceans j and no god. 
Because he turn'd a fruit to an enchantment, 
Which cheers the sad, revives the old, inspires 
The young, makes weariness forget his toil, 
And fear her danger ; opens a new world 
When this, the present, palls. Well, then 7 pledge thee 
And him as a true man, who did his utmost 
In good or evil to surprise mankind. [Drinks. 

Sal. Wilt thou resume a revel at this hour ? 
Sar. And if I did, 't were better than a trophy, 
Being bought without a tear. But that is not 
My present purpose : since thou wilt not pledge me, 
Continue what thou pleasest. 
(To the Cupbearer.) Boy, retire. 

[Exit Cupbearer. 
Sal. I would but have recall'd thee from thy dream ; 
Better by me avvaken'd than rebellion. 

Sar. Who should rebel? or why? what cause? 
pretext ? 
I am the lawful king, descended from 
A race of kings who knew no predecessors. 
What have I done to thee, or to the people. 
That thou shouldst rail, or they rise up against me ? 
Sal. Of what thou hast done to me, I speak not. 
Sar. But 

Thou think'st that I have wrong'd the queen: is't 
not so ? 
Sal. Think ! Thou hast wrong'd her ! 
Sar. Patience, prince, and hear me. 

She has all power and splendour of her station. 
Respect, the tutelage of Assyria's heirs. 
The homage and the appanage of sovereignty. 
I married her as monarchs wed — for state, 
And loved her as most husbands love their wives. 
If she or thou supposedst I could link me 
Like a Chaldean peasant to his mate. 
Ye knew nor me, nor monarchs, nor mankind. 
Sal. I pray thee, change the theme : my blood dis- 
dains 
Complaint, and Salemenes' sister seeks not 
Reluc!ant love even from Assyria's lord ! 
Nor would she deign to accept divided passion 
With foreign strumpets and Ionian slaves. 
The queen is silent. 
Sar. And why not her brother ? 

Sal. I only echo thee the voice of empires, 
Which he who long neglects not long will govern. 
Sar. The ungrateful and ungracious slaves! they 
murmur 
Because 1 have not shed their blood, nor led them 
To dry into the desert's dust by myriads. 
Or whiten with their boiics the banks of Ganges; 
Nor decimated them with savige laws, 
Nor sweated them to build up pyramids, 
Or Babylonian walls. 



26* 



20 



306 



SARDANAPALUS; 



[Act I. 



Sal. Yet these are trophies 

More worthy of a people and iheir prince 
Than songs, and luies, and feists, and concubines, 
And lavisii'd treasures, ;ind contemned virtues. 

Sar. Or for my trophies I have founded cities: 
There 's Tarsus and Anchialus, both built 
In one day — what could that blood-loving beldame, 
My martial grandam, chaste Semiramis, 
Do more, except destroy them ? 

Sal. 'T is most true; 

I own thy merit in those founded cities, 
Built for a whim, recorded with a verse, 
Which shames both them and thee to coming ages. 

iSar. Shame me ! By Baal, the cities, though well 
built. 
Are not more goodly than the verse ! Say what 
Thou wilt against me, my mode of life or rule, 
But nothing 'gainst the truth of that brief record. 
Why, those few lines contain the history 
Of all things humin : hear — •' Sardanapalus, 
The king, and son of Anacyndaiaxes, 
In one day built Anchialus and Tarsus. 
Eat, drink, and love ; the rest 's not worth a fillip."' i 

Sal. A worthy moral, and a wise inscription. 
For a king to put up before his subjects! 

Sar. Oh, thou vvouldst have me doubtless set up 
edicts — 
"Obey the king — contribute to his treasure — 
Recruit his phalanx — spill your blood at bidding — 
Fall down and worship, or get up and toil." 
Or thus — " Sardanapalus on this spot 
Slew fifty thousand of his enemies. 
These are their sepulchres, and this his trophy." 
I leave such things to conquerors ; enough 
For me, if I can make my subjects feel 
The weight of human misery less, and glide 
Ungroaning to the tomb : I take no license 
Wbich I deny to them. We all are men. 

Sal. Thy sires have been revered as gods — 

Sar. In dust 

And death, where they are neither gods nor men. 



1 "For this expedition he took only a small chosen 
body of the phalanx, but all his light troops. In the first 
day's march he reached Anchialus, a town said to have 
been founded by the king of Assyria, Sardanapalus. The 
fortifications, in their magnitude and extent, still in 
Arrian's time, bore the character of greatness, which the 
Assyrians appear singularly to have affected in works of 
the kind. A monument representing Sardanapalus was 
found there, warranted by an inscription in Assyrian cha- 
racters, of course in the old Assyrian language, which the 
Greeks, whether well or ill, interpreted thus: 'Sardana- 
palus, son of Anacyndaraxeg, in one day founded Anchia- 
lus and Tarsus. Eat, drink, play; all other hum:in joys 
are not worth a fillip.' Supposing this version nearly 
exact (for Arrian says it was not quite so^, whether the 
purpose has not been to invite to civil order a people dis- 
posed to turbulence, rather than to recommend immoder- 
ate luxury, may perhaps reasonably be questioned. What, 
indeed, could be the object of a king of Assyria in found- 
ing such towns in a country so distant from his capital, 
and so divided from it by an immense extent of sandy 
deserts and Infty mountains, and, still more, how the in- 
habitants could be at once in circumstances to abandon 
themselves to the intemperate jnys which their prince 
has been supposed to have recommended, is not obvious : 
but it may deserve observation that, in that line of coast, 
the southern of Lesser Asia, ruins of cities, evidently of 
an age after Alexander, yet barely named in history, at 
this day astonish the adventurous traveller by their mag- 
nificence and elegance. Amid the desolation which, un- 
der a singularly barbarian government, has for so many 
centuries been daily spreading in the finest countries of 
the globe, whether more from soil and climate, or from 
opportunities for commerce, extraordinary means must 
have been found for communities to flourish there; 
whence it may seem that the measures of Sardanapalus 
were directed by juster views than have been commonly 
ascribed to him: but that monarch having been the last 
of a dynasty ended by a revolution, obloquy on his me- 
mory would follow of course from the policy of his suc- 
cessors and their partisans. The inconsistency of tra- 
ditions concerning Sardanapalus is striking in Diodorus's 
account of him. " — MITFORD'S Greece, vol. ix. p. 311. 



Talk not of such to me ! the worms are gods ; 

At least they banqueted upon your gods, 

And died for la:;k of farther nutriment. 

Those gods were merely men; look to their issue — 

I feel a thousand mortal things about me. 

But nothing godlike,— unless it may be 

The thing which you condemn, a disposition 

To love and to be merciful, to pardon 

The follies of my species, and (that's human) 

To be indulgent to my own. 

Sal. Alas ! 

The doom of Nineveh is seal'd. — Woe — woe 
To the unrivall'd city ! 

Sar. What dost dread ! 

iSaZ. Thou art guarded by thy foes : in a few hours 
The tempest may break out which overwhelms thee, 
And thine and mine; and in another day 
What is shall be the pa-t of Belus' race. 

Sar. What must we dread ? 

Sal. Ambitious treachery, 

Which has environ'd thee with snares ; but yet 
There is resource : empower me with thy signet 
To quell the machinations, and I lay 
The heads of thy chief foes before thy feet. 

.Sar. The heads — how many ? . 

Sal. Must I stay to number 

When even thine own 's in peril ? Let me go ; 
Give me thy signet — trust me with the rest. 

Sar. I will trust no man with unlimited lives. 
When we take those from others, we nor know 
What we have taken, nor the thing we give. 

Sal. Wouldst thou not take their lives who seek for 
thine? 

Sar. That 's a hard question — But I answer. Yes. 
Cannot the thing be doi.e without ? Who are they 
Whom thou suspectest ?— Let them be arrested. 

Sal. I would thou wouldst not ask me; the next 
moment 
Will send my answer through thy babbling troop 
Of paramours, and thence fiy o'er the palace, 
Even to the city, and so baifle all. — 
Trust me. 

Sar. Thou knowest I have done so ever ; 
Take thou the signet. [Gives the sigjiet. 

Sal. I have one more request — 

Sar. Name it. 

Sal. That thou this night forbear the banquet 
In the pavilion over the Euphrates. 

Sar. Forbear the banquet ! Not for all the plotters 
That ever shook a kingdom ! Let them come, 
And do their worst : I shall not blench for thera ; 
Nor rise the sooner ; nor forbear the goblet; 
Nor crown me with a single rose the less ; 
Nor lose one joyous hour. — I fear them not. 

Sal. But thou wouldst arm thee, wouldst thou not, 
if needful ? 

Sar. Perhaps. I have the goodliest armour, and 
A sword of such a temper; and a bow 
And javelin, which might furnish Nimrod forth: 
A little heavy, but yet not unwieldy. 
And now I think on 't, 't is long since I 've used them, 
Even in the chise. Hast ever seen them, brother? 

Sal. Is this a time for such fanastic trifling? — • 
If need be, wilt thou wear them ? 

Sar. Will I not ? 

Oh ! if it must be so, and these rash slaves 
Will not be ruled with less, I '11 use the sword 
Till they shall wish it turn'd into a distaff. 

Sal. They say thy sceptre 's turn'd to that already. 

Sar. That 's false ! but let them say so : the old 
Greeks, 
Of whom our captives often sing, related 
The same of their chief hero, Hercules, 
Because he loved a Lydian queen : thou seest 
The populace of all the nations seize 
Each calumny thev can to sink their sovereigns. 

Sal. They did riot speak thus of thy fathers. 

Sar. No; 

They dared not. They were kept to toil and combat ; 
And never changed their chains but for their armour : 
Now they have peace and pastime, and the license 



Scene II.] 



A TRAGEDY, 



307 



To revel and to rail ; it irks me not. 

I would not give the smile of one fair girl 

For all the popular breath that e'er divided 

A name from nothing. What are the rank tongues 

Of this vile herd, grown insolent with feeding, 

That I should prize their noisy praise, or dread 

Their noisome clamour ? 

Sal. You have said they are men j 

As such their hearts are something. 

Sar. So my dogs' are ; ^ 

And better, as more faithful : — but, proceed ; 
Thou hast my signet : — since they are tumultuous, 
Let them be temper'd, yet not roughly, till 
Necessity enforce it, 1 hate all pain. 
Given or received ; we have enough within us, 
The meanest vassal as the loftiest monarch, 
Not to add to each other's natural burthen 
Of mortal misery, but rather lessen, 
By mild reciprocal alleviation. 
The fatal penalties imposed on life : 
But this they know not, or they will not know. 
I have, by Baal ! done all I could to soothe them: 
I made no wars, I added no new imposts, 
I interfered not with iheir civic lives, 
I let them pass their days as best might suit them, 
Passing my own as suited me. 

Sal. Thou stopp'st 

Short of the duties of a king ; and therefore 
They say thou art unfit to be a monarch. 

Sar. They lie. — Unhappily, I am unfit 
To be aught save a monarch ; else for me 
The meanest Mede might be the king instead. 

Sal. There is one Mede, at least, who seeks to be so. 

Sar. What mean'st ihou! — 'tis thy secret; thou 
desirest 
Few questions, and I'm not of curious nature. 
Take the fit steps ; and, since necessity 
Requires, I sanction and support thee. Ne'er 
Was man who more desired to rule in peace 
The peaceful only : if they rouse me, better 
They had conjured up stern Nimrod from his ashes, 
" The mighty hunter." I will turn these realms 
To one wide desert chase of brutes, who were, 
But would no more, by their own choice, be human. 
What they have found me, they belie ; that which 
They yet may find me — shall defy their wish 
To speak it worse ; and let them thank themselves. 

Sal. Then thou at last canst feel ? 

Sar. Feel ! who feels not 

Ingratitude? 

Sal. I will not pause to answer 

With words, but deeds. Keep thou awake that energy 
Which sleeps at times, but is not dead within thee, 
And thou may'st yet be glorious in thy reign, 
As powerful in tliy realm. Farewell ! 

[Exit Salemenes. 

Sar. (solus.) Farewell ! 

He 's gone ; and on his finger bears my signet, 
Which is to him a sceptre. He is stern 
As I am heedless ; and the slaves deserve 
To feel a master. What may be the danger, 
I know not : he hath found it, let him quell it. 
Must I consume my life — this little life — 
In guarding against all may make it less? 
It is not worth so much ! It were to die 
Before my hour, to live in dread of death. 
Tracing revolt ; suspecting all about me. 
Because they are near; and all who are remote. 
Because they are far. But if it should be so — 
If ftey should sweep me off from earth and empire. 
Why, what is earth or empire of the earth ? 
I have loved, and lived, and multiplied my image; 
To die is no less natural than those 
Acts of this clay ! 'T is true I have not shed 
Blood as I might have done, in oceans, till 
My name becime the synonyme of death — 
A terror and a trophy. But for this 
I feel no penitence ; my life is love : 



1 See Miscellanies, — "liiscTiption on the Monument 
of a Newfoundland Dog." — E. 



If I must shed blood, it shall be by force. 

Till now, no drop from an Assyrian vein 

Hath flow'd for me, nor hath the smallest coin 

Of Nineveh's va^t treasures e'er been lavished 

On objec s which could cost her sons a tear: 

If then they hate me, 't is because I hate not : 

If they rebel, 'tis because I oppress not. 

Oh, men ! ye must be ruled with scythes, not sceptres, 

And movv'd down like the grass, else all we reap 

Is rank abundance, and a rotten harvest 

Of discontents infecting the fair soil, 

Making a desert of fertility. — 

1 'U think no more. Within there, ho ! 

Enter an Attendant. 
Sar. Slave, tell 

The Ionian Myrrha we would crave her presence. 
Mtend. King, she is here. 

Myrrha enters. 

Sar. {apart to Attendant). Away ! 
(Addressing Myrrha. ) Beautiful being ! 

Thou dost almost anticipate my heart ; 
It throbb'd for thee, and here thou comest : let me 
Deem that some unknown influence, some sweet 

oracle. 
Communicates between us, though unseen, 
In absence, and attracts us to each other. 

Myr. There doth. 

Sar. I know there doth, but not its name : 

What is it ? 

Myr. In my native land a God, 

And in my heart a feeling like a God's, 
Exalted ; yet I own 't is only mortal; 
For what I feel is humble, and yet happy — 

That is, it would be happy ; but 

[Myrrha pauses. 

Sar. There comes 

For ever something between us and what 
We deem our happiness: let me remove 
The barrier which that hesitating accent 
Proclaims to thine, and mine is seal'd. 

Myr. My lord ! — 

Sar. My lord — my king — sire— sovereign; thus 
it is — 
For ever thus, address'd with awe. I ne'er 
Can see a smile, unless in some broad banquet's 
Intoxicating glare, when the buffoons 
Have gorged themselves up to equality, 
Or I have quiff'd me down to their abasement. 
Myrrha, I can hear all these things, these names. 
Lord — king — sire — monarch — nay, time was I 

prized them ; 
That is, I suffer'd them — from slaves and nobles ; 
But when they falter from the lips I love. 
The lips which have been press'd to mine, a chill 
Comes o'er my heart, a cold sense of the falsehood 
Of this my station, which represses feeling 
In those for whom I have felt most, and makes me 
Wish that I could lay down the dull tiara, 
And share a cottage on the Caucasus 
With thee, and wear no crowns but those of flowers. 

Myr. Would that we could ! 

Snr. And dost thou feel this ? — Why ? 

Myr. Then thou wouldst know what thou canst 
never know. 

Sar. And that is 

Myr. The true value of a heart ; 

At least, a woman's. 

Sar. I have proved a thousand — 

A thousand, and a thousand. 

Myr. Hearts ? 

Sar. I think so. 

Myr. Not one ! the time may come thou may'st. 

Sar. It will. 

Heai; Myrrha ; Salemenes has declared — 
Or why or how he hath divined it, Belus, 
Who founded our great realm, knows more than I — 
But Salemenes hath declared my throne 
In peril. 

jyiyr. He did well. 



MMiiitaytfi 



tt. 



308 



SARDANAPALUS: 



[Act I. 



Sar. And say'st thou so ? 

Thou whom he spurn'd so harshly, and now dared 
Drive from our presence with his savage jeers, 
And made thee weep and blush ? 

Myr. I should do both 

More frequently, and he did well to call me 
Back to my duty. But thou spakest of peril — 

Peril to thee 

Sar. Ay, from dark plots and snares 

From Medes — and discontented troops and nations. 
I know not what — a hibyrinth of things — 
A maze of mutter'd threats and mysteries : 
Thou know'st the man — it is his usual custom. 
But he is honest. Come, we '11 think no more on 't — 
But of the midnight festival. 

Myr. 'T is time 

To think of aught save festivals. Thou hast not 
Spurn 'd his sage cautions ? 
Sar. What ? — and dost thou fear ? 

Myr. Fear ! — I 'm a Greek, and how should I fear 
death? 
A slave, and wherefore should I dread my freedom ? 
Sar. Then wherefore dost thou turn so pale ? 
Myr. I love. 

Sar. And do not I ? I love thee far — far more 
Than either the brief life or the wide realm. 
Which, it may be, are menaced; — yet I blench not. 
Myr. That means thou lovest nor thyself nor me ; 
For he who loves another loves himself, 
Even for that other's sake. This is too rash : 
Kingdoms and lives are not to be so lo^t. 
Sar. Lost! — why, who is the aspiring chief who 
dared 
Assume to win them ? 

Myr. Who is he should dread 

To try so much ? When he who is their ruler 
Forgets himself, will they remember him ? 
Sar. Myrrha! 

Myr. Frown not upon me : you have smiled 

Too often on me not to make those fro'wns 
Bitterer to bear than any punishment 
Which they may augur — King, I am your subject ! 
Master, I am your slave ' Man, I have loved you ! — 
Loved you, I know not by what fatal weakness. 
Although a Greek, and born a foe to monarchs — 
A slave, and hating fetters — an Ionian, 
And, therefore, when I love a stranger, more 
Degraded by that passion than by chains ! 
Still I have loved you. If that love were strong 
Enough to overcome all former nature, 
Shall it not claim the privilege to save you ? 

Sar. Save me, my beauty ! Thou art very fair, 
And what I seek of thee is love — not safety. 
Myr. And without love where dwells security ? 
Sar. 1 speak of woman's love. 
Myr. The very first 

Of human life must spring from woman's breast. 
Your first small words are taught you from her lips. 
Your first tears quench'd by her, and your last sighs 
Too often breathed out in a woman's hearing. 
When men have shrunk from the ignoble care 
Of watching the last hour of him who led them. 

Sar. My eloquent Ionian ! thou speak'st music; 
The very chorus of the tragic song 
I have heard thee talk of as the favourite pastime 
Of thy far father-land. Nay, weep not — calm thee. 
Myr. I weep not.— But I pray thee, do not speak 
About my fathers or their land. 

Sar. Yet oft 

Thou speakest of them. 

Myr. True — true : constant thought 

Will overflow in words unconsciously ; 
But when another speaks of Greece, it wounds me 
Sar. Well, then, how wouldst thou save me, as thou 

saidst ? 
Myr. By teaching thee to save thyself, and not 
Thyself alone, but these vast realms, from all 
The rage of the worst war — the war of brethren. 
Sar. Why, child, I loathe all war, and warriors ; 
I live in peace and pleasure : what can man 
Do more ? 



Myr. Alas! my lord, with common men 
There needs too oft the show of war to keep 
The substance of sweet peace ; and, for a king, 
'T is sometimes better to be fear'd than loved. 

Sar. And I have never sought but for the last. 

Myr. And now art neither. 

Sar. Dost thou say so, Myrrha? 

Myr. I speak of civic popular love, selfAove, 
Which means that men are kept in awe and law, 
Yet not oppressed — at least they must not think so, 
Or if they think so, deem it necessary, 
To ward otf worse oppression, their own passions. 
A king of feasts, and tlowers, and wine, and revel, 
And love, and mirth, was never king of glory. 

Sar. Glory ! what 's that ? 

Myr. Ask of the gods thy fathers. 

Sar. They cannot answer ; when the priests speak 
for them, 
'T is for some small addition to the temple. 

Myr. Look to the annals of thine empire's founders. 

Sar. They are so blotted o'er with blood, I cannot. 
But what wouldst have? the empire has been founded. 
I cannot go on multiplying empires. 

Myr. Preserve thine own. 

Sar. At least, I will enjoy it. 

Come, Myrrha, let us go on to the Euphrates: 
The hour invites, the galley is prepared. 
And the pavilion, deck'd for our return. 
In fit adornment for the evening banquet. 
Shall blaze with beauty and with light, until 
It seems unto the stars which are above us 
Itself an opposite star ; and we will sit 
Crown'd with fresh flowers like — — 

Myr. Victims. 

Sar. No, like sovereigns, 

The shepherd king of patriarchal time-. 
Who knew no brighter gems than summer wreaths, 
And none but tearless triumphs. Let us on. 

Enter Pania. 

Pan. May the king live for ever ! 

Sar. Not an hour 

Longer than he can love. How my soul hates 
This language, which makes life itself a lie. 
Flattering dust with eternity. Well, Pania ! 
Be brief. 

Pan. I am charged by Salemenes to 
Reiterate his prayer unto' the kin?, 
That for this day, at least, he will not quit 
The palace : when the general returns. 
He will adduce such reasons as will warrant 
His daring, and perhaps obtain the pardon 
Of his presumption. 

Sar. What ! am I then coop'd ? 

Alreadv captive ? can I not even breathe 
The breath of heaven ? Tell prince Salemenes, 
Were all Assyria raging round the walls 
In mutinous myriads, I would still go forth. 

Pan. I must obey, and yet 

Myr. Oh, monarch, listen.— 

How many a day and moon thou hast reclined 
Within these palace walls in silken dalliance. 
And never shown thee to thy people's longing; 
Leaving thy subjects' eyes ungratified. 
The satraps uncbntroll'd, the gods unworshipp'd, 
And all things in the anarchy^of sloth. 
Till all. save evil, slumber'd through the realm ! 
And wilt thou not now tarry for a day,— 
A day which may redeem thee? Wilt thou not 
Yield to the few still faithful a few hours, * 

For them, for thee, for thy past father's race. 
And for thy sons' inheritance ? 

Payi. 'T is true ! 

From the deep urgency with which the prince 
Despatch'd me to your sacred presence, I 
Must dare to add my feeble voice to that 
Which now has spoken. 

Sar. No, it must not be. 

Myr. For the sake of thy realm ! 

Sar. Away ! 

Pan. For that 



Scene II.] 



A TRAGEDY. 



309 



Of all thy faithful subjects, who will rally 
Round thee and thine. 

Sar. These are mere fantasies : 

Theie is no peril : — 't is a sullen scheme ^ 

Of Salen)enes, to approve his zeal, 
And show himself more necessary to us. 

Myr. By all that 's good and glorious take this 
counsel. 

Sar. Business tomorrow. 

Myr. Ay, or death to-night. 

Sar. Why let it come then unexpectedly, 
'Midst joy and gentleness, and mirth and love; 
So let me fall like the pluck'd rosel — far better 
Thus than be wither'd. 

Myr. Then thou wilt not yield, 

Even for the sake of all that ever stirr'd 
A monarch into action, to forego 
A trifling revel. 

Sar. No. 

Myr. Then yield for m we; 

For my sake ! 

Sar. Thine, my Myrrha ! 

Myr. 'T is the first 

Boon which I ever ask'd Assyria's king. 

Sar. That 's true, and were 't my kingdom must be 
granted. 
Well, for thy sake, I yield me, Pania, hence ! 
Thou hear'st me. 

Pa7i. And obey. [Exit Pania. 

Sar. I marvel at thee. 

What is thy motive, Myrrha, thus to urge me ? 

Myr. Thy safety ; and the certainty that nought 
Could urge the prince thy kinsman to require 
Thus much from thee, but some impending danger. 

Sar. And if I do not dread it, why shouldst thou ? 

Myr. Because thou dost not fear, I fear for thee, 

Sar. To-morrow thou wilt smile at these vain fancies. 

Myr. If tlie worst come, I shall be where none weep, 
And that is better than the power to smile. 
And thou ? 

Sar. I shall be king, as heretofore. 

Myr. Where ? 

Sar. With Baal, Nimrod, and Semiramis, 

Sole in Assyria, or with them elsewhere. 
Fate made me what I am — may make me nothing — 
But either that or nothing must I be : 
I will not live degraded. 

Myr. Hadst thou felt 

Thus always, none would ever dare degrade thee. 

Sar. And who will do so now ? 

Myr. Dost thou suspect none ? 

Sar. Suspect ! — that 's a spy's office. Oh ! we lose 
Ten thousand precious moments in vain words. 
And vainer fears. Within there ! — ye slaves, deck 
The hall of Nimrod for the evening revel : 
If I must make a prison of our palace, 
At least we '11 wear our fetters jocundly ; 
If the Euphrates be forbid us, and 
The summer dwelling on its beauteous border. 
Here we are still unmenaced. Ho ! within there ! 

[Exit Sardanapalus. 

Myr. (sola). Why do I love this man ? My coun- 
try's d (ughters 
Love none but heroes. But I have no country ! 
The slave hath lo»t all save her bonds. I love him ; 
And that 's the heaviest link of the long chain — 
To love whom we esteem not. Be it so : 
The hour is coming when he '11 need all love, 
Aqjl find none. To fall from him now were baser 
Than to have stabb'd him on his throne when highest 
Would have been noble in my country's creed : 
I was not made for either. Could I save him, 
I should not love him better, but myself; 
And I have need of the last, for I have fallen 
In my own thoughts, by loving this soft stranger: 
And yet methinks I love him more, perceiving 
That he is hated of his own barbarians, 
The natural foes of all the blood of Greece. 
Could I but w ike a single thought like those 
Which even the Phrygians felt when battling long 
'T wixt Ilion and the sea, within his heart, 



He would tread down the barbarous crowds, 

triumph. 
He loves me, and I love him ; the slave loves 
Her master, and would free him from his vices. 
If not, I have a means of freedom still. 
And if I cannot teach him how to reign, 
May show him how alone a king can leave 
His throne. I must not lose him from my sight. 



and 



lExit. 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. 

The Portal of the same Hall of the Palace. 

Beleses (solus). The sun goes down : methinks he 
sets more slowly, 
Taking his last look of Assyria's empire. 
How red he glares aiDongst those deepening clouds, 
Like the blood he predicts. If not in vain, 
Thou sun that sinkest, and ye siars which rise, 
I have outwatch'd ye, reading ray by ray 
The edicts of your orbs, which make Time tremble 
For what he brings the nations, 'tis the furthest 
Hour of Assyria's years. And yet how calm ! 
An earthquake should announce so great a fall — 
A summer's sun discloses it. Yon disk. 
To the star-read Chaldean, bears upon 
Its everlasting page the end of what 
Seem'd everlasting; but oh ! thou true sun! 
The burning oracle of all that live. 
As fountain of all life, and symbol of 
Him who bestows it, wherefore dost thou limit 
Thy lore unto calamity ? Why not 
Unfold the rise of days more worthy thine 
All-glorious burst from ocean ? why not dart 
A beam of hope athwart the future years. 
As of wrath to its days ? Hear me ! oh, hear me ! 
I am thy worshipper, thy priest, thy servant — 
I have gazed on thee at thy rise and fall. 
And bovv'd luy head beneath thy mid-day beams, 
When my eye dared not meet thee. I have watch'd 
For thee, and after thee, and pray'd to thee. 
And sacrificed to thee, and read, and fear'd thee, 
And ask'd of thee, and thou hast ansvver'd — but 
Only to thus much : while I speak, he sinks — 
Is gone — and leaves his beauty, not his knowledge, 
To the delighted west, which revels in 
Its hues of dying glory. Yet what is 
Death, so it be but" glorious ? 'T is a sunset j 
And mortals may be happy to resemble 
The gods but in decay. 

Enter Arbaces, Ly an inner door. 

.Irh. Beleses, why 

So wrapt in thy devotions ? Dost thou stand 
Gazing to trace thy disappearing god 
Into some realm of undiscover'd day ? 
Our business is with night — 'tis come. 

Bel. But not 

Gone. 

Arb. Let it roll on — we are ready. 

Bel. Yes. 

Would it were over ! 

Arb. Does the prophet doubt. 

To whom the very stars shine victory ? 

Bd. I do not doubt of victory — but the victor. 

Arb. Well, let thy science settle that. Meantime 
I have prepared as many glittering spears 
As will out-sparkle our allies — your planets. 
There is no more to thwart us. The she-king, 
That less than woman, is even now upon 
The waieis with his female m;ites. The order 
Is issued for the feast in the pavilion. 
The first cup which he drains will be the last 
Quatf'd by the line of Nimrod. 

Bel. 'T was a brave one. 

Arb. And is a weak one— 'tis worn out— we'll 
mend it. 



itih. Ty>mT^r"' iti, vi-^iU,.- ^- ' ' '^ ' r :' *-^ - 



.H^,.*ri.>s">Uy»*m-*"l 



310 



SARDANAPALUS 



[Act II. 



Bel. Art sure of that? 

^rb. Its founder was a hunter — 

I am a soldier — what is there to fear ? 

Bel. The soldier, 

Arb. And the priest, it may be : but 

If you thought thus, or ihink, why not retain 
Your king of concubines ? why stir me up ? 
Why spur me to this enterprise ? your own 
No less than mine ? 

Bel. Look to the sky ! 

Arb. I look, 

Bel. What seest thou ? 

Arb. A fair summer's twilight, and 

The gathering of the stars. 

Bel. And 'midst them, mark 

Yon eailiest, and the brightest, which so quivers, 
As it would quit its place in the blue ether. 

Arb. Well: 

Bel. 'T is thy natal ruler — thy birth planet. 

Arb. {touching his scabbard.) My star is in this scab- 
bard : when it shines. 
It shall outdazzle comets. Let us think 
Of what is to be d me to justify 
Thy planets and their por;ents. When we conquer, 
They shall have tern; les — ay, and priests — and thou 
Shalt be the pontiff of— what gods thou wilt j 
For I observe that they are ever just. 
And own the bravest for the most devout. 

Bel. Ay, and the most devout for brave — thou hast 
not 
Seen me turn back from battle, 

Arb. No ; I own thee 

As firm in fight as Babylonia's captain, 
As skilful in Chaldea's worship : now. 
Will it but please thee to forget the priest, 
And be the warrior ? 

Bel. Why not both? 

Arb. The better ; 

And yet it almost shames me, we shall have 
So little to effect. This woman's warfare 
Degrades the very conqueror. To have pluck'd 
A bold and bloody despot from his throne, 
And grappled with him, cl ishing steel with steel, 
That were heroic or to win or fall ; 
But to upraise my sword against this silkworm. 
And hear him whine, it may be 

Bei. Do not deem it : 

He has that in him which may make you strife yet j 
And were he all you Ihink, his guards are hardy, 
And headed bv the cool, stern Salemenes. 

Arb. They '11 not resist. 

Bel. Why not? they are soldiers. 

Arb. True, 

And therefore need a soldier to command them. 

Bel. That Salemenes is. 

Arb. But not their king. 

Besides, he hates the efFeminaie thing that governs. 
For the queen's sake, his sister. Mark you not 
He keeps aloof from all the revels ? 

Bel. But 

Not from the council — there he is ever constant. 

Arb. And ever thwarted : what would you have more 
To make a rebel out of? A fool reigning. 
His blood dishonour'd, and himself disdain'd : 
Why, it is his revenge we work for. 

Bel. Could 

He but be brought to think so : this I doubt of. 

Arb. What, if we sound him ? 

Bel. Yes — if the time served. 

Enter Balea. 

Bal. Satraps ! The king commands your presence at 
The feast to-night, 

Bel. To hear is to obey. 

In the pavilion ? 

Bal. No ; here in the palace. 

Arb. How ! in the palace ? it was not thus order'd. 

Bal. It is so order'd now. 

Arb. And why ? 

Bal. I know not. 

May I retire ? 



Arb. Stay. 

Bel. (to Arb. aside). Hush ! let him go his way. 
{AlUrnalely 10 Bal.) Yes, Balea, thank the monarch, 

ki s ihe hem 
Of his imperial robe, and say, his slaves 
Will take the crunis he deigns to scatter from 
His royal table at he hour — was't midnight? 

Bal. It was : the place, the hall of Nimrod. Lords, 
I humble me before you, and depart. [Exit Balea. 

Arb. I like not this same sudden change of place ; 
There is some mystery : wherefore should he change 
it? 

Bel. Doth he not change a thousand times a day? 
Sloth is of all things the most fanciful — 
And moves more parasangs in its intents 
Than generals in their marches, when they seek 
To leave their foe at fault. — Why dost thou muse ? 

Arb. He loved that gay pavilion, — it was ever 
His summer dotage. 

Bel. And he loved his queen — 

And thrice a thousand harlotry besides — 
And he has loved all things by turns, except 
Wisdom and glory. 

Arb. Still — I like it not. 
If he has changed — why, so must we : the attack 
Were easy in the isolated bower, 
Beset wiih drowsy guards and drunken courtiers j 
But in the hall of Nimrod 

Bel. Is it so ? 

Methought the haughty soldier fear'd to mount 
A throne too easily — does it disappoint thee 
To find there is a slipperier step or two 
Than what was counted on ? 

Arb. When the hour comes, 

Thou shall perceive how far I fear or no. 
Thou hast seen my life at stake — and gaily play'd for: 
But here is more upon the die — a kingdom. 

Bd. I have foretold already — thou wilt win it: 
Then on, and prosper. 

Arb. Now were I a soothsayer, 

I would have boded so much to myself. 
But be the stars obey'd — I cannot quarrel 
With them, nor their interpreter. Who 's here ? 

Enter Salemenes. 

Sal. Satraps ! 

Bel. My prince ! 

Sal. Well met — I sought ye both. 

But elsewhere than the palace. 

Arb. Wherefore so ? 

Sal. 'T is not the hour, 

Arb. The hour ! — what hour ? 

Sal. Of midnight. 

Bel. Midnight, my lord ! 

Sal. VVhat, are you not invited ? 

Bel. Oh ! yes — we had forgotten. 

Sal. Is it usual 

Thus to forget a sovereign's invitation? 

Arb. Why — we but now received it. 

Sal. Then why here ? 

Arb. On duty. 

Sal. On what duty? 

Bel. On the state's. 

We have the privilege to approach the presence; 
But found the monarch absent. 

Sal. And I too 

Am upon duty. 

Arb. May we crave its purport ? 

Sal. To arrest two traitors. Guards I Within there ! 



Enter Guards. 



Satraps, 



Sal. (co7itinuing). 
Your swords. 

Bel. {delivering his). My lord, behold my scimitar. 

Arb. {drawing his .sward) Take mine. 

Sal. {advancing). 1 will. 

Arb. But in your heart the blade — 
I The hilt quits not this hand. 

I Sal. {drawing). How ! dost thou brave me ? 

j 'T is well — this saves a trial, and false mercy. 
Soldiers, hew down the rebel ! 



^^^^^^^^_^^__g|ggg^^ 



^ 



Scene I.] 



A TRAGEDY. 



311 



Jirb. Soldiers! Ay — 

Alont you dare not. 

Sal. Alone! foolish slave — 

What is there in thee thai a prince should shrink from 
Of open force? We diead thy treason, not 
']'hy s reng h : thy ooth is nought without its venom— 
The seipent's, not the lion s. Cut hiin down. 
£eZ. (uifer^oiijig^). Arbaces! Are you mad ? Have 
I not reiider'd 
My sword? Then trust like me our sovereign's justice. 
Jlrb. No — I will sooner trust the stars thou prat'st 
of, 
And this slight arm, and die a king at least 
Of my own breath and body — so far that 
None else shall chiin them. 

Sal. (to the Guards). You hear him and me. 

Take him not,— kill. 

iThe Guards atlacli Arbnces, who defends himself 
valiantly and dexterously till Iney waver. 
Sal. Is it even s'l ; and must 

I do the hangman's office ? Recreants ! ste 
How you should fell a traitor. 

[Salemenes attacks Arhaces. 

Enter Sardanapalus and Train. 

Sar. Hold your hands — 

Upon your lives, I say. What, deaf or drunken ? 
My sword ! Q fool, I wear no sword : here, fellow, 
Give nie thy weapon. [To a Guard. 

iSardanapalus snatches a sword from one of 
the sold(ers, and rushes between the combatants 
— thty separate. 

Sar. In my very palace ! 

What hinders me from cleaving you in twain, 
Audacious brawlers ? 

£d. Sire, your justice. 

Sal. Or — 

Your weakness. 

Sar. {raising the sword). How ? 

Sal. Strike ! so the blow's repeated 

Upon yon traitor — whom you spare a moment, 
I trust, for torture — I 'm content. 

Sar. What — him! 

Who dares assail Arbaces ? 

Sal. I ! 

Sar. Indeed ! 

Prince, you forget yourself. Upon what warrant ? 

Sal. (showing the signet). Thine. 

Arb. (confused). The king's! 

Sal. Yes ! and let the king confirm it. 

Sar, I parted not from this for such a purpose. 

Sal. You parted with it for your safety — I 
Emijloy'd it for the best. Pronounce in person. 
Here I am but your slave — a moment past 
I was your representative. 

Sar. Then sheathe 

Your swords. 

[Arbaces and Salemenes return their swords to 
the scabbards. 

Sal. Mine 's sheathed : I pray you sheathe not yours : 
'T is the sole sceptre left you now with safety. 

Sar. A heavy one , the hilt, too, hurts my hand. 
(To a Guard.) Here, fellow, take thy weapon back. 

Well, sirs. 
What doth this mean ? 

Bel. The prince must answer that. 

Sal. Truth upon my part, treason upon theirs. 

Sar. Treason — Arbaces ! treachery and Beleses ! 
That were an union I will not believe. 
Where is the proof ? 

Sal. I '11 answer that, if once 

The king demands your fellow-traitor's sword. 

Arb. (to Sal. I A sword which hath been drawn as 
oft as thine 
Against his foes. 

Sal. And now against his brother, 

And in an hour or so against hinibelf. 

Sar. That is not possible : he dared not ; no — 
No — I '11 not hear of such things. These vain bick- 
erings 
Are spawn'd in courts by base intrigues, and baser 



Hirelings, who live by lies on good men's lives. 
You must have been deceived, my broiher. 

Sal. First 

Let him deliver up his weapon, and * 

Proclaim himself your subject by that duty. 
And 1 will answer all. 

Sar. Why, if I thought so — 

But no, it cannot be : the Mede Arbaces — 
The trusty, rough, true soldier— the be^t captain 

Of all who discipline our nations No, 

I'll not insult him thus, to bid him render 

The scimitar to me he never yielded 

Unto our enemies. Chief, keep your weapon. 

Sal. (delivering back the signet.) Monarch, take 
back your signet. 

Sar. " No, retain it j 

But use it with more moderation. 

Sal. Sire, 

I used it for your honour, and restore it 
Because I cann it Keep it with my own. 
Bestow it on Arbaces. 

Sar. So I should : 

He never ask'd it. 

Sal. Doubt not, he will have it, 

Without that hollow semblance of respect. 

Bd. 1 know not what hath prejudiced the prince 
So strongly 'gainst two subjects, than whom none 
Have been more zealous for Assyria's weil. 

Sal. Peace, factious priest, and faithless soldier! 
thou 
Unit'st in thy own person the worst vices 
Of the most dangerous orders of mankind. 
Keep thy smooth words and juggling homilies 
For ihose who kuovv thee not. Thy fellow's sin 
Is, at the least, a bold one, and not tempei'd 
By I he tricks taught thee in Chaldea. 

Bel. Hear him. 

My liege — the son of Belus ! he blasphemes 
The worship of the land, which bows the knee 
Before your fathers. 

Sar. Oh ! for that I pray you 

Let him have absolution. I dispense with 
The worship of dead men ; feeling that I 
Am mortal, and believing that the race 
From whence 1 sprung are — what I see them — 
ashes. 

Bd. King ! Do not deem so : they are with the stars, 
And 

Sar. You shall join them there ere they will rise, 
If you preach farther — Why, this is rank treason. 

Sal. My lord ! 

Sar. To school me in the worship of 

Assyria's idols ! Let him be released — 
Give him his sword. 

Sal. My lord, and king, and brother, 

I pray ye pause. 

Sa7: Yes, and be sermonised. 

And dinn'd, and deafen'd with dead men and Baal, 
And all Chaldei's starry mysteries. 

Bel. Monarch! respect them. 

Sar. Oh ! for that — I love them j 

I love to watch them in the deep blue vault. 
And to compare hem with my Myrrha's eyes j 
I love to see their rays redoubled in 
The tremulous silver of Euphrates' wave. 
As Ihe light breeze of midnight crisps the broad 
And rolling water, sighing through the sedges 
Which fringe his banks: but whether they maybe 
Gods, as sfime say, or the abodes of gods, 
As others hold, or simply lamps of night, 
Worlds, or the lights of worlds, I know nor care not. 
There's something sweet in my uncertainty 
I would not change f ir your Chaldean lore j 
Beides, I know of these all clay can know 
Of aught above it, or below it — nothing. 
I see their brilliancy and feel their beauty — 
When they shine on my grave I shall know neither. 

Bd. For neither, sire, say better. 

Sar. I will wait, 

If it so please you, pontifl', for that knowledge. 
In the mean time receive your sword, and know 



-Mpm- 



312 



SARDANAPALUS; 



[Act ir. 



That I prefer your service militant 
Uuto your ministry — not lovinjc either. 
Sal.(asuU). His hists have made him mad. Then 
must 1 save him, 
Spite of himself. 

Sar. Please you to hear me, Satraps ! 

And chiefly thou, my priest, because 1 doubt thee 
More than the soldier; and would doubt thee all 
Wert thou not half a warrior : 1ft us part 
In peace — 1 '11 not say panlon — w hich must be 
Earn'd t)y the guilty ; this I'll not pmnounce ye, 
AUhouijh u\M\ this breath of mine depends 
Your own ; and. deadlier for ye, on n\y fen's. 
lUit tVar not — for that I am soft, not fearful — 
And so live on. Were 1 the thins; some think me, 
Your heads would now bedrippinsf the last drops 
Of their attainted sore from the h^h gxtes 
Of this our pal ice, into the dry dust. 
Their only portion of the coveteil kingdom 
They would be ciH>wn'd to reign o'er — let that pass. 
As I'have said, 1 will not lieiui ye guilty, 
Nor doom ye guiltle>s. Albeit better meu 
Than ye or 1 stapil ready to arraigi\ you ; 
And should 1 lewe your fate to sterner judges, 
And proofs of all kinds, 1 might s;\crihce 
Two men, who, whatsoe'er they now are, 'were 
Once honest. Ye are free, sii's." 

jirb. Sire, this clemency 

Bel, (intmttpting him). Is worthy of youj-self j and, 
ah hough innocent, 
We thank — ^ 

6\ir. Priest! keep your thanksgivings for Belus ; 
His otlspring needs none. 

Bel. Rut being innocent 

^'ar. Be silent — Guilt is loud. If ye are loyal. 
Ye are ii\i\ired men, and should be sad, not grateful. 

2kl. So we should be, wei-e justice always done 
By earthly power lunniuotent ; but innoceuca 
jNiust oft receive her right as a mere favour. 

Sar. That 's a good sentence for a homily, 
Though ni>t for this occasion. Prithee keep it 
To plead thy sovereign's caus-e before his people, 
Bel. 1 trust there is no cause. 
Sar, No cause, perhaps ; 

But many causers : — if ye meet with such 
In the exercise of vour inquisitive function 
On e:\rlh, or shoulcl you re id of it in heaven 
In some nusterious twinkle of the stai-s. 
Which are your chronicles, I pray you note, 
That there are woree thina:s In^twixt earth and heaven 
Than him who ruleth many and slays none; 
And, hating not hinjself, yet loves his fellows 
Knough to spare even those who would not sp,ire him 
Were they once mxsters — but that 's doubtful. Satrajw ! 
Your swords and peisons are at liberty 
To use them as ye w ill — but from this hour 
1 ha\^> no call for either. Salemenes! 
Follow me. 

[E.rtxtiit Sardanapaius. Sahmeytes, and the 
Tt-am, iV<"m leaving ^irbaces and Belesis. 
Jirb, Beleses ! 

JSel. Now, what think you ? 

Arb. That we are lost. 

Bel. That we have won the kina^lom. 

jirb. What ? thus suspected — with the swoni slung 
o'er us 
But by a single hair, and that still wavering, 
To l>t' blown down by his imperious breath 
Which spred us— why, 1 know not. 

Bel. ' Sei^k not why ; 

But let us profit l)y the interval. 
'Pho hour IS still our own — our power (he same — 
The nij:ht the same we destined. He hath changotJ 
Nothing except our ignomnce of all 
Suspicion into such a certainty 
As must make madness of delay. 

Jirb. And vet 

Btl. What, doubting still ? 

„Jrft. He spared our lives, nay, more, 

Saved them from Salemeues. 



Bel. And how long 

Will he so spare? till the first drunken uiinute. 
Jirb. Or sober, rather. Yet he did it nobly ; 
Gave rovally what we had forfeited 
Basely - — 
Bd. Say bravely. 

.irh. Somewhat of both, perhaps. 

But it has touch'd me, and, whate'er betide, 
1 will no further on. 
Bel. And lose the world. 

jirb. Lose any thing except my own esteem. 
Btl. 1 tilush thit we should owe our lives to such 
A king of distalts ! 

irb. But no less we owe them ; 

Atul I shi^uld blush far more to (;»ke the grantor's ! 
Bel. Thou may'st endure whate'er thou wilt — the 
stai-s 
Have written otherw ise. 

.irb. Though they came down, 

And marshall'd me the way in ail their brightness, 
I would not follow. 

Bet. This is weakness — worse 

Than a scared beldam's dreaming of the dead. 
And waking in the dark. — Go to — go to. 

Jirb. aiethought he Iwk'd like Nimrod as he spoke, 
Even as the proud imperial statue stands 
I^ooking the monarch of the kinsis around it, 
And sways, while they but ornament, the temple. 

Bel. I told you that you had (oo much despisetl hiai, 
And that there was some royalty within him — 
What then ? he is the nobler foe. 

.irb. But we 

The meaner.— W'ould he had not sjwred us ! 

Bd. So — 

Wouldst thou be sacrificed thus readily ? 

Jrb. No — but it had been better to have died 
Than live ungrateful. 

Bel. Oh, the souls of some men ! 

Thou wouldst digest what some call treason, and 
Foots treachery — and, behold, upon the sudden, 
iNOcause for something or for nothing, this 
Rash reveller steps, ostetjtatiously, 
' r wixt thee and Salemenes, thou art turn'd 
Into — what shall I say ? — Sard anapalus ! 
1 know no name more ignominious. 

Jirb. But 

An hour a«ro, who dared to term me such 
Had held his life Init lightly — as it is, 
I must forgive yon, even as he forgave us — 
Senxiramis herself would not have done it. 

Bel. No — the queen likevi no sharers of the king- 
dom. 
Not even a husband. 

..irb. I must serve him truly 

Bel. And humbly ? 

.irb. ' No, sir, proudly — being honest. 

I shall be nearer thrones than you lo'heaven;" 
And if not quite so haughty, yet more lofty. 
You may do your own deeiiiing— you have codes, 
.\nd mysteries, and corollaries of 
Right and wrong, w hich I lack for my dii-ection. 
And must pursue but what a plain heart teaches. 
And now you know me. 

7u '. Have vou finjsh'd ? 

.irb. ' Yes — 

Willi vou. 

Bel.' And would, perhaps, betray as well 

As quit me ? 

Jrb. That 's a sacerdotal thought. 

And not a soldier's. 

Bel. Pe it what you will — 

Tri'ce with these wrausilings, autl but hear me. 

,irb, " No — 

There is more peril in your subtle spirit 
Than in a phalanx. 

Bel. If it must be so — 

I 'II on alone. 

Jirb. Alone ! 

Bel. Thrones hold but one. 

Jirb, But this is fill'd. 



^MiSSimii 



mk 



- 



Scene I.] 



A TRAGEDY. 



313 



Bel. With worse tlv\n vacancy — 

A despised monarch. Look to it, Ai l):ici)s : 
I have still aided, cherish'd, loved, and urjied jouj 
Was willini; even lo serve you, in the hope 
To serve and save Assyria. Heaven itself 
Seeni'd to consent, and" all events were friendly, 
Kven to the last, till that your spirit shrunk 
Into a shallow softness ; hut now, rather 
Than sec my country languish, I will bo 
Her saviour or the vicliuj of her tyrant, 
Dr one or both, for sometimes both are one ; 
And if I win, Arbaces is my servant. 

Arh. Your servant ! 

JkK Why not ? belter than be slave. 

The ^(irdon'd slive of she Sardanapalus ! 

Enter Pania, 
Pan. My lords, I bear an order from the king. 
.Srb. It is obey'd ore spoken. 
Bel. Nolwilhstandinsr, 

Let 's hear it. 

Pan, Forthwith, on this very nii^ht. 

Repair to your respective satrapies 
Of Babylon and Media. 
Bel. With our troops? 

Pan. My order is unto the satraps and 
Their household train. 

Jrb. I3ut 

Bel. It must be obey'd ; 

Say, we depart. 

Pan. My order is to see you 

Depart, and not to bear your answer. 

Bd. (aside). Ay! 

Well, sir, we will accompany you hence. 

Pan. I will retire lo marshal forth the sfuard 
Of honour which betils your rank, and wait 
Your leisure, so that it the hour exceeds not. 

[Exit Pania. 
Bd. Now then obey ! 
Jlrb. Doubtless. 

Bel. Yes, to the gates 

That grate the palace, which is now our prison — 
No further. 

Alb. Thou hast harp'd the truth indeed ! 

The realm itself, in all its wide extension. 
Yawns dungeons at each step far thee and me. 
Bel. Graves! 

Arb. If I thought so, this good sword should dig 
One more than mine. 

Bel. ' It shall have work enough. 

Let me hope better than th )U augurest ; 
At present, let us hence as best we may. 
Thou dost agree with me in understanding 
This order as a sentence ? 

Jrb. Why, what other 

Interpretation should it boar? it is 
The very policy of orient monarchs — 
Pardon and poison — fivurs and a sword — 
A distant voyage, and an eternal sleep. 
How many satraps in his father's time — 
For he I own is. or at least was, bloodless — 
Bel. But will not, can not be so now. 
Alb. I doubt it. 

How many satraps have I seen set out 
In his sire's day for mighty vice-royallies, 
Whose tombs are on their path ! i know not how, 
Hut they all sickcn'd by the way, it was 
So long and heavy. 

Bel. Let us but regain 

The free air of the city, and we 'II shorten 
The journey. 

Arb. 'T will be shorten'd at the gates. 

It may be. 

Bel. No ; they hatdly will risk that. 
They mean us to die privately, but not 
Within the palace or the city walls. 
Where we are known, and may have partisans i 
If they had me.mt to shy us here, we were 
No longer with the living. Let us hence. 
Arb. If I but thought he did not mean my life 



27 



Bel. Fool! hence — what else should despotism 
alarm'd 
Mean ? Let us but rejoin our troops, and maich. 

Arb. Towards our provinces ? 

Bel. No; towards your kingdom. 

There 's time, there 's ho ut, and hope, and power, and 

means, 
Which ilieir half measures leave us in full scope.— 
Away 1 

Arb. And I even yet repenting must 
Relapse to guilt 1 

Bel. Self-defence is a virtue. 

Sole bulwark of all right. Away, 1 say 1 
Let 's leave this place, the air grows thick and choking. 
And the walls have a scent of night-sh.ule — hence ! 
Let us not leave ihem lime for further council. 
Our quick departure proves our civic zeal ; 
Our quick dep .riure hinders our good oscort. 
The worthy IMnia, from anticipating 
The orders of some parasangs trom hence : 

Nay, theic 's no oilier choice, bu- hence, I say. 

[Exit wtth Arbaces, who follows reluctanlly. 

Enter Sardanapalus and Saleinenes. 

Sar. Well, all is remedied, and without bloodshed. 
That worst of mockeries of a remedy : 
We are now secure by these men's exile. 

Hal. Yes, 

As he who treads on (lowers is from the adder 
Twined round Ilieir roots. 

Sar. Why, what wouldst have me do ? 

Sal. Undo what you have done. 

Sar. Revoke my pardon ? 

Sal, Replace the crown now tottering on your 
temples. 

Sar, 'I'hat were tyrannical. 

Sal. But sure. 

Sar. We are so. 

What danger can they work upon the frontier? 

Sal, They are not there yet — never should they be 
so,f 
Were 1 well listen'd to. 

Sar. Nay, I have listen'd 

Impartially to thee — why imt to them ? 

Sal, You may know that herealler ; as it is, 
I take my leave' to order forth the guard. 

Snr. And you will join us at the banquet? 

Sal, Sire, 

Disi)ei>se with me — I am no wassailer : 
Comuiaiid me in all service save the Hacchanl's. 

S>ir, Nay, but 't is lit to revel now and then. 

Sal. And lit that some should watch for those who 
revel 
Too ofl. Am I permitted to depart? 

Sar. Yes S ay a moment, my good Salemenes, 

My brother, my best subject, belter prince 

'J'lian I am king. You should have been the monarch, 

And I — I know not what, and care ui-t; but 

'I'hink not 1 am insensible to all 

Thine honest wisdom, and thy rough yet kind. 

Though ofl reproving, snllVnuice of my follies. 

If 1 have spared these men against thy counsel. 

That is, their lives — it is not that I doubt 

The advice w is sound ; but, let them live : we will not 

Cavil about their lives — so let them mend them. 

Their banishment will leave me s:ill sound sleep, 

Which (heir death had not left me. 

Sal. Thus you run 

The risk to sleep for ever, to save traitors — 
A miniieiit's i)aiig now changed for years of crime. 
Still let them be made quiet. 

Sar. Tempt me not ; 

My word is i)ast. 
Sal, Rut it may bo recall'd. 

Sar. 'T is royal. 

Sal. And should therefore be decisive. 

I This half induluence of an exile serves 
Rut to provoke — a pardon should be full, 
, Or it is none. 

i Sar. And who persuaded me 

' After I had repeal'd them, or at least 



314 



SARDANAPALUS 



[Act III. 



Only dismiss'd fhem from our presence, who 
Urged me to send them to their sat.apies ? 

Sal, I'rue; that I had forg<.tten; that is, sire, 
If they e'er reach'd their satrapies — why, then, 
Reprove me more for my advice. 

Sar. And if 

They do not reach them — look to it ! — in safety, 
In safety, mark me — and security — 
Look to thine own. 

Sal. Permit me to depart j 

Their safety shall be cared for. 

Sar. Get thee hence, then : 

And, prithee, think more gently of thy brother. 

Sal. Sire, I shall ever duly serve my sovereign. 

[Exil Salemenes. 

Sar, (soliis). That man is of a temper too severe^ 
Hard but as lofty as the rock, and free 
From all the taints of conmion earth — while I 
Am softer clay, impregnated with tlowers: 
But as our mould is, niust the produce be. 
If I have err'd this time, 't is on the side 
Where error sits mo^t lightly on that sense, 
I know not what to call it ; but it reckons 
With me oftfimes for piin, and someumes pleasure j 
A spirit which seems placed about my heart 
To count lis throbs, not quicken them, and ask 
Questions which mortal never dared to ask me, 
Nor Baal, though an oracular deity — 
Albeit his marble f*ce majestical 
Frowns as the shadows of '.he evening dim 
His brows to changed expression, till at times 
I think the statue l^oks in act to speak. 
Away with these vain thoughts, I will be joyous — 
And here comes Joy's true herald. 

Enter Myrrha. 

Myr. King ! the sky 

Is overcast, and musters muttering thunder. 
In clouds that seem approaching fast, and show 
In forked flashes a commanding tempest. 
Will you then quit the palace ? 

Sar. Tempest, say'st thou ? 

Myr. Ay, my good lord. 

Sar. For my own part, I should be 

Not ill content to vary the smooth scene, 
And watch the warring elements ; but this 
Would little suit the silken garments and 
Smooth faces of our festive friends. Say, Myrrha, 
Art thou of those who dread the roar of clouds ? 

Myr. In my own country we respect their voices 
As auguries of Jove. 

Sar. Jove ! — ay, your Baal — 

Ours also h^s a property in thunder. 
And ever and anon some falliig bolt 
Proves his divinity,— and yet sometimes 
Strikes his own altars. 

Myr. That were a dread omen. 

Sar. Yes — for the priests. Well, we will not go 
forth 
Beyond the palace walls to-night, but make 
Our feast within. 

Myr. Now, Jove be praised ! that he 

Hath heard the prayer thou wouid&t not hear. The 

gods 
Are kinder to thee than thou to thyself. 
And Hash this s'orm between thee and thy foes, 
To shield thee from them. 

Sat. Child, if there be peril, 

Methinks it is the same within these walls 
As on the river's brink. 

Myr. Not so ; these walls 

Are high and strong, and guarded. Treison has 
To penetrate through many a winding way, 
And massy portal ; but in the pavilion 
There is no bulwark. 

Sar. No, nor in the palace. 

Nor in the fortress, nor upon the lop 
Of cloud-fenced Caucasus, w here the eagle sits 
Nested in pa'hiess clefts, if treachery be: 
Even as the arrow finds the airy king, 
The steel will reach the earthly. But be calm ; 



The men, or innocent or guilty, are 
Banish'd, and far upon their way. 

Myr. They live, then ? 

Sar, So sanguinary ? Thou 1 

Myr. I would not shrink 

From just infliction of due punishment 
On tho-e who seek your life : were't otherwise, 
I should not merit mine. Besides, you heard 
The princely Salemenes. 

Sar. This is strange; 

The gentle and the austere are both against me, 
And urge me to revenge. 

Myr. 'T is a Greek virtue. 

Sar. But not a kingly one — I '11 none on 't j or 
If ever I indulge in't, it shall be 
With kings — my equals. 

Myr. These men sought to be so. 

Sar. Myrrha, this is too feminine, and springs 
From fear 

Myr. For you. 

Sar. No matter, still 't is fear. 

I have observed your sex, once roused to wrath, 
Are timidly vindictive to a pi ch 
Of perseveiance, which I would not copy. 
I thought you were exempt from this, as from 
The childish helplessness of Asian women. 

Myr. My lord, 1 am no boaster of my love. 
Nor of my attributes j I have shared your splendour. 
And will partake your foriunes. You may live 
To find one slave more true than subject myriads: 
But this the gods avert ! I am content 
To be beloved on trust for what I feel, 
Rather than prove it to you in your griefs, 
Which might not yield to any cares of mine. 

Sar. Grief cannot come where perfect love exists, 
Except to heighten it, and vanish from 
That which it could not scare away. Let 's in — 
The hour approaches, and we must prepare 
To meet the invited guests who grace our feast. 

lExeunt. 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. 

The Hall of the Palace illuminated — Snrdanapalus 
and h<s Guestf! at Tabic. — A storm without, and 
Thunder occasionally heard during the Banquet. 

Sar. Fill full ! why this is as it should be : here 
Is my true realm, amidst biight eyes and faces 
Happy as fair ! Here sorrow cannot reach. 

Zam. Nor elsewhere — where the king is, pleasure 
sparkles. 

Sar. Is not this better now than Nimrod's huntings. 
Or my wild grand im's chase in search of kingdoms 
She could not keep w hen conquer'd ? 

Alt. Mighty though 

They were, as all thy royal line have been. 
Yet none of those who wen! before have reach'd 
The acme of Sardanapilus, who 
Has placed hi^ joy in peace— the sole true glory. 

Sar. And pleasure, good Altada, to which glory 
Is but the path. Wh.if is it that we seek ? 
Enjoyment ! We have cut the way short to it. 
And not gone tracking it through human ashes. 
Making a grave with every footstep. 

Zam. No ; 

All hearts are happy, and all voices bless 
The king of peace, who holds a world in jubilee. 

Sar. Art sure of that ? 1 have heard otherwise; 
Some say that there be traitors. 

Zam. Traitors they 

Who dare to say so ! — 'T is impossible. 
What cause ? 

Sar. What cause ? true,— fill the goblet up ; 

We w ill not think of them : there are none such. 
Or if there be, they are gone. 

Mt. Guests, to my pledge ! 

Dow n on your knees, and drink a measure to 



•^^-•^^^ 



arngmtmam 



^ 



Scene I.] 



A TRAGEDY. 



315 



The safety of the king — the monarch, say I ? 
The god Sardanapalus ! 

[Zariits and the Guests kneel^ and exclaim — 
Mightier than 
His father Baal, the god Sardanapalus ! 

[It thunders as they kned ; some start up in 
confusion. 
Zam. Why do you rise, my friends? in that strong 
peal 
His father gods consented. 

Myr. Menaced, rather. 

King, wilt ihou bear this mad impiety ? 

Sar. Impie y ! — nay, if the sires who reign'd 
Before me can be gods, I'll not disgrace 
Their lineage. But arise, my pious friends ; 
Hoard your devotion for the thunderer there: 
I seek but to be loved, not worshipp'd. 

Alt. Both — 

Both you must ever be by all true subjects. 

Sar. Melhinks the thunders siill increase : it is 
An awful night. 

Myr. Oh yes, for those who have 

No palace to protect ihcir worshippers. 

Sar. That's true, my Mynha; and could I convert 
My realm to one wide shelter for the wretched, 
I 'd do it. 

Myr. Thou 'rt no god, then, not to be 
Able to work a will so good and general, 
As thy wish would imply. 

Sar. And your gods, then, 

Who can, and do not ? 

Myr. Do not speak of that, 

Lest we provoke them. 

Sar. True, they love not censure 

Better than mortals. Friends, a thought has struck me : 
Were there no temples, would theie, think ye, be 
Air worshippers? that is, when it is angry, 
And pelting as even now. 

Myr. The Persian prays 

Upon his mountain. 

Sar. Yes, when the sun shines. 

Myr. And I would ask if this your palice were 
Unroof'd and desolate, how many flatterers 
Would lick the dust in which the king lay low ? 

.4Z^ The fair Ionian is ton sarcastic 
Upon a nation whom she knows not well ; 
The Assyrians know no pleasure but their king's, 
And hornage is their pride. 

Sar. Nay, pardon, guests, 

The fair Greek's readiness of speech. 

Alt. Pardon > sire : 

We honour her of all things next to thee. 
Hark ! what was that? 

Zam. That ! nothing but the jar 
Of distant portals shaken by the wind. 
Alt. It sounded like the clash of— hark again ! 
Zarn. The big rain pattering on the roof. 
Sar. No more. 

Myrrha, my love, hast Ihou thy shell in order? 
Sing me a song of Sappho, her, thou knovv'st, 
Who in thy country threw 

Enter Pania, with his sword and garments bloody, 
and disordered. The guests rise in confusion. 
Pan. (to the Guards). Look to the portals ; 
And with your best speed to the walls wi;hout. 
Your arms ! To arms ! The king 's in danger. Mon- 
arch ! 
Excuse this haste, — 't is faith. 
Sar. Speak on. 

Pan. It is 

As Salemenes fear'd ; the faithless satraps 

Sar. You are wounded — give some wine. Take 

breath, good Pania. 
Pan. 'Tis nothing— a mere flesh wound. lam 
worn 
More with my speed to warn my sovereign, 
Than hurt in his defence. 

Myr. Well, sir, the rebels? 

Pan. Soon as Arbaces and Beleses reach'd 
Their stations in the city, they refused 



To march ; and on my attempt to use the power 
Which 1 was delegated with, they call'd 
Upon their troops, who rose in fierce defiance. 
Myr. All? 

Pan. Too many. 

Sar. Spare not of thy free speech, 

To spare mine ears the truth. 

Pan. My own slight guard 

Were faithful, and what's left of it is still so. 
Myr. And are these all the force still faithful ? 
Pan. No — 

The Bactrians, now led on by Salemenes, 
Who even then was on his way, still urged 
By strong suspicion of the Median chiefs, 
Are numerous, and nuke strong head against 
'1 he rebels, hghtiiig inch by inch, and forming 
An orb around the palace, wheie they mean 
To centre all their force, and save the king. 

{He hesitates.) I am charged to 

Myr. 'T is no time for hesitation. 

Pan. Prince Salemenes doth implore ihe king 
To arm himself, ;ilthongh but for a moment, 
And show himself unto the soldiers: his 
Sole presence in this instant might do more 
Th-tn hosts can do in his behalf. 

Sar. What, ho ! 

My armour there. 

Myr. And wilt thou ? 

Sar. Will I i!0t ? 

Ho, there ! — but seek not for the buckler : 't is 
Too heavy : — a light cuirass and my sword. 
Where are the rebels? 

Pan. Scarce a furlong's length 

From Ihe outward wall the fiercest conflict rages. 

Sar. 'I'hen 1 may charge on horseback. Sfero, ho ! 
Order my horse out. — There is space enough 
Even in our courts, and by the outer gate, 
To marshal half the horsemen of Arabia. 

[Exit Sfero for the armour. 
Myr. How I do love thee ! 
Sar. I ne'er doubted it. 

Myr. But now I know thee. 

Sar. (to his Attendant). Bring down my spear too.— 
Where 's Salemenes ? 

Pan. Where a soldier should be. 

In the thick of the fight. 

Sar. Then hasten to him Is 

The path still open, and communication 
Left 'tvvixt the palace and the phalanx ? 

Pan. 'T was 

When I late left him, and I have no fear : 
Our troops were steady, and the phalanx form'd. 

Sar. Tell him to spare his person for the present, 
And that I will not spare my own — and say, 
I come. 
Pan, There's victory in the very word. 

[Exit Pania. 
Sar. Altada — Zames — forth, and arm ye 1 There 
Is all in readiness in the armoury. 
See that the women are bestow'd in safely 
In the remote apartments : let a gi:ard 
Be set before them, wiih strict charge to quit 
The post but with their lives — command it, Zames. 
Altada, arm yourself, and return here ; 
Your post is near our person. 

[Exeunt Zames, Altada, and all save Myrrha. 

Enter Sfero and others with the King^s Arms, ^c. 
Sfe. King I your armour. 

iSar. (arming himself). Give me the cuirass — so : 
my baldric ; now 
My sword : I had forgot the helm — where is it ? 
That "s well — no, "t is too heavy : you mistake, too — 
It was not this 1 meant, but that which bears 
A diadem around it. 

Sfe. Sire, I deem'd 

That too conspicuous from the precious stones 
To risk your sacred brow beneath — and trust me, 
This is of better metal, though less rich. 

Sar. You deem'd ! Are you loo turn'd a rebel ? Fel- 
low ! 



316 



SARDANAPALUS: 



[Act III. 



Your part is to obey : return, and — no — i 

It is too late — I will go forth without it. 

Sfe. At least, wear this. I 

Sar. Wear Caucasus ! why, 't is 

A mountain on my temples. | 

Sfe. Sire, the meanest j 

Soldier goes not forth thus exposed to battle. | 

All men will recognise you — for the storm | 

Has ceased, and the moon breaks forth in her bright- 
ness. 

Sar. 1 go forth to be recognised, and thus 
Shall be so sooner. Now — my spear ! I 'm arm'd. 

[In going stops short, and turns to Sfero. 
Sfero — I had forgotten — bring the mirror, i 

Sfe. The mirror, sire ? 

Sar. Yes, sir, of polish 'd brass, 

Brought from the spoils of India — but be speedy. ^ 

[Exit Sfero. 

Sar. Myrrha, retire unto a place of safety. 
Why went you net forth with the other damsels ? 

Myr. Because my place is here. 

Sar. And when I am gone 

Myr. I follow. 

Sar. You ! to battle ? 

Myr. If it were so, 

'T were not the first Greek girl had trod the path. 
I will await here your return. 

Sar. The place 

Is spacious, and the first to be sought oat, 
If they prevail ; and, if it be so, 
And I return not 

Myr. Still we meet again. 

Sar. How? 

Myr. In the spot where all must meet at last — 
In Hades ! If there be, as I believe, 
A shore beyond the Styx j and if there be not, 
In ashes. 

Sar. Barest thou so much ? 

Myr. I dire all things 

Except survive what I have loved, to be 
A rebel's booty : forth, and do your bravest. 

Re-enter Sfero with the mirror. 
Sar. (looking at himself). This cuirass fits me 
well, the baldric better, 
And the helm not at all. Methinks I seem 

[Flings away the helmet after trying it again. 
Passing well in these toys ; and now to prove them. 
Altada ! Where 's Altada ? 

Sfe. Waiting, sire, 

Without : he has your shield in readiness. 

Sar. True ; I forgot he is my shield-bearer 
By right of blood, derived from age to age. 
Myrrha, embrace me ; — yet once more — once more — 
Lo've me, whate'er betide. My chiefest glory 
Shall be to make me worthier of your love. 
Myr. Go forth, and conquer ! 

[Exeunt Sardanapalus and Sfero. 
Now, I am alone. 
All are gone forth, and of that all how few 
Perhaps return. Let him but vanquish, and 



l"In the third Act, where Sardanapalus calls for a 
mirror to look at himself in his armour, recollect to quote 
the Latin passage from Juvenal upon Otho (a simi'ar cha- 
racter, who did the same thing). Gifford will help you to 
it. The trait is, perhaps, too familiar, but it is historical 
(of Otho, at least), and natural in an effeminate charac- 
ter."— Lord B. to Mr. M.— E. 

2 "Ille tenet speculum pathici gestamen Othonis, 
Actoris Arunci sp'ilium, quo se ille videbat 
Armatum, cum jam tolli vexilla juberet. 
Res memoranda novis annalibu»<, sitque recenti 
Historia, speculum civilis farcina belli."— 

JUV. Sat. ii. 

"This grasps a mirror — pathic Otho's boast 
(Auruncan Actor's spoil), where, while his host, 
With shouts, the signal of the fight required. 
He view'd his mailed form; view'd, and admired ! 
Lo, a new subject for the historic page, 
A mirror, 'midst the arms of civil race ! " — 

GIFFORD. —E. 



Me perish ! If he vanquish not, I perish ; 
For I will not outlive him. He has wound 
About my heart, I know not how nor why. 
Not for that he is king ; for now his kingdom 
Rocks underneath his throne, and the earth yawns 
To yield him no more of it than a grave ; 
And yet I love him more. Oh, mighty Jove ! 
Forgive this monstrous love for a barbarian, 
Who knows not of Olympus ! yes, I love him 

Now, now, far more than Hark — to the war 

shout ! 
Methinks it nears me. If it should be so, 

[She draws forth a small vial. 
This cunning Colchian poison, which my father 
Learn'd to compound on Euxine shores, and taught me 
How to preserve, shall free me ! It had freed me 
Long ere this hour, but that 1 loved, until 
I half forgot I was a slave : — where all 
Are slaves save one, aud proud of servitude, 
So they are served in turn by something lower 
In the degree of bondage, we forget 
That shackles worn like ornaments no less 
Are chains. Again that shout ! and now the clash 
Of arms — and now — and now 

Enter Altada. 

Alt. Ho, Sfero, ho ! 

Myr. He is not herej what wouldst thou with 
him ? How 
Goes on the conflict ? 

Alt. Dubiously and fiercely. 

Myr. And the king ? 

Alt. Like a king. I must find Sfero, 

And bring him a new spear and his own helmet. 
He fights till now bare-headed, and by far 
Too much exposed. The soldiers knew his face, 
And the foe too ; and in the moon's broad light, 
His silk tiara and his flowing hiir 
Make him a mark too royal. Every arrow 
Is pointed at the fair hair and fair features, 
And the broad fillet which crowns both. 

Myr. Ye gods, 

Who fulminate o'er my fathers' land, protect him ! 
Were you sent by the king ? 

Alt. By Salemenes, 

Who sent me privily upon this charge. 
Without the knowledge of the careless sovereign. 
The king ! the king fights as he revels ! ho ! 
What, Sfero ! I will seek the armoury — 
He must be there. [Exit Altada. 

Myr. 'T is no dishonour — no — 

'T is no dishonour to have loved this man. 
I almost wish now, what I never wish'd 
Before, that he were Grecian. If Alcides 
Were shamed in wearing Lydian Omphale's 
She-garb, and wielding her vile distaff, surely 
He, who springs up a Hercules at once. 
Nursed in effeminate arts from youth to manhood, 
And rushes from the banquet to the battle. 
As thousrh it were a bed of love, deserves 
That a Greek girl s-.;0uld be his paramour, 
And a Greek bard his minstrel, a Greek tomb 
His monument. How goes the strife, sir? 

Enter an Officer. 

Officer. Lost, 

Lost almost past recovery. Zames ! Where 
Is Zames? 

Myr. Posted with the guard appointed 
To watch before the apartment of the women. 

[Exit Officer. 

Myr. (sola). He's gone; and told no more than 
that all 's lost ! 
What need have I to know more ? In those words, 
Those little words, a kingdom and a king, 
A line of thirteen axes, ar d the lives 
Of thousands, and the fortune of all left 
With life, are merged ; and I, too, with the great, 
Like a small bubble breaking with the wave 
Which bore it, shall be nothing. At the least, 
My fate is in my keeping : no proud victor 
Shall count me "with his spoils. 



tmim^i 



Scene I.] 



A TRAGEDY. 



317 



Enter Pania. 

Pan. Away with me, 

Myrrha, without delay ; we must not lose 
A moment — all that 's left us now. 

Myr. The king ? 

Pan. Sent me here to conduct you hence, beyond 
The river, by a secret passage. 

Myr. Then 

Ha li ves 

Pan. And cliarged me to secure your life, 

And beg you to live on for his sake, till 
He can rejoin you. 

Myr. Will he then give way ? 

Pan. Not till the last. Still, still he does whate'er 
Despair can do ; and step by step disputes 
The very palace. 

Myr. They are here, then ; — ay, 

Their shouts come ringing through the ancient halls, 
Never profaned by rebel echoes till 
This fatal night. Farewell, Assyria's line ! 
Farewell to all of Nimrod 1 Even the name 
Is now no more. 

Pan. Away with me — away ! 

Myr. No : I '11 die here ! — Away, and tell your 
king 
I loved him to the last. 

Enter Sardanapalus and Salemenes with Soldiers. 

Pania quits Myrrha, and ranges himself with 

them. 

Sar. Since it is thus, 

We '11 die where we were born — in our own halls. 
Serry your ranks — stand firm. 1 have despatch'd 
A trusty satrap for the guard of Zames, 
All fresh and faithful ; they '11 be here anon. 
All is not over.— Pania, look to Myrrha. 

[Pania returns towards Myrrha. 

Sal. We have breathing time 5 yet one more charge, 
my friends — 
One for Assyria ! 

Sar, Rather say for Bactria ! 

My faithful Bactrians, I will henceforth be 
King of your nation, and we '11 hold together 
This realm as province. 

Sal. Hark ! they come — they come. 

Enter Beleses and Arbaces with the Rebels. 

Arb. Set on, we have them in the toil. Charge ! 

charge ! 
Bel. On ! on ! — Heaven fights for us, and with us 
— On! 
[They charge the King and Salemenes with their 
Troops, who defend themselves till the Arrival 
of Zames with the Guard before mentioned. 
The Rebels are then driven off, and pursued 
by Salemenes, &fC. As the King is going to 
join the pursuit, Beleses crosses him. 
Bel. Ho ! tyrant— I will end this war. 
Sar. Even so. 

My warlike priest, and precious prophet, and 
Grateful and trusty subject : yield, I pray thee. 
I would reserve thee for a fitter doom, 
Rather than dip my hands in holy blood. 
Bel. Thine hour is come. 

Sar. No, thine.— I 've lately read. 

Though but a young astrologer, the stars ; 
And ranging round the zodiac, found thy fate 
In the sign of the Scorpion, which proclaims 
That thou wilt now be crush'd. 
Bel. But not by thee. 

[They fight; Beleses is wounded and disarmed. 
Sar. {raising his sword to despatch him, exclaims — 
Now call upon thy planets, will they shoot 
From the sky to preserve their seer and credit? 

[A party of Rebels enter and rescue Beleses. 
They assail the King, who, in turn, is rescued 
by a Party of his Soldiers, who drive the 
Rebels off. 



The villain was a prophet after all. 
Upon them — ho ! there — victory is ours. 

[Exit in pursuit. 

Myr. {to Pan.) Pursue ! Why stand'st thou here, 
and lea vest the ranks 
Of fellow-soldiers conquering without thee? 

Pan. The king's command was not to quit thee. 

Myr. Me ! 

Think not of me — a single soldier's arm 
Must not be wanting now. I ask no guard, 
I need no guard : what, with a world at stake, 
Keep watch upon a woman ? Hence, I say, 
Or thou art shamed ! Nay, then, I will go forth, 
A feeble female, 'midst their desperate strife, 
And bid thee guard me f/iere— where thou shouldst 

shield 
Thy sovereign. [Exit Myrrha. 

Pan. Yet stay, damsel ! — She 's gone. 

If aught of ill betide her, better I 
Had lost my life. Sardanapalus holds her 
Far dearer than his kingdom, yet he fights 
For that too ; and can I do less than he. 
Who never flash'd a scimitar till now ? 
Myrrha, return, and I obey you, though 
In disobedience to the monarch. [Exit Pania. 

Enter Altada and Sfero by an opposite door. 

Alt. Myrrha ! 

What, gone? yet she was here when the fight raged, 
And Pania also. Can aught have befallen them ? 

Sfe. I saw both safe, when late the rebels fied : 
They probably are but retired to make 
Their way back to the harem. 

Alt. If the king 

Prove victor, as it seems even now he must, 
And miss his own Ionian, we are doom'd 
To worse than captive rebels. 

Sfe. Let us trace them j 

She cannot be fled far ; and, found, she makes 
A richer prize to our soft sovereign 
Than his recover'd kingdom. 

Alt. Baal himself 

Ne'er fought more fiercely to win empire, than 
His silken son to save it : he defies 
All augury of foes or friends ; and like 
The close and sultry summer's day, which bodes 
A twilight tempest, bursts forth in such thunder 
As sweeps the air and deluges the earth. 
The man 's inscrutable. 

Sfe. Not more than others. 

All are the sons of circums'ance : away — 
Let 's seek the slave out, or prepare to be 
Tortur'd for his infatuation, and 
Condemn'd without a crime. [Exeunt. 

Enter Salemenes and Soldiers, SfC. 
Sal. The triumph is 

Flattering : they are beaten backward from the palace, 
And we have open'd regular access, 
To the troops station'd on the other side 
Euphrates, who may still be true ; nay, must be, 
When they hear of our victory. But where 
Is the chief victor ? where 's the king ? 

Enter Sardanapalus, cum suis, SfC. and Myrrha. 

Sar. Here, brother. 

Sal. Unhurt,! hope. 

Sar. Not quite ; but let it pass. 
We 've clear'd the palace 

Sal. And I trust the city. 

Our numbers gather ; and I 've ordered onward 
A cloud of Parthians, hitherto reserved, 
All fresh and fiery, to be pour'd upon them 
In their retreat, which soon will be a flight. 

Sar. It is already, or at least they march'd 
Faster than I could follow with my Bactrians, 
Who spared no speed. I am spent : give me a seat. 

Sal. There stands the throne, sire. 

Sar. 'T is no place to rest on, 

For mind nor body : let me have a couch, 

[They place a seat. 



27* 



318 



SARDANAPALUS 



[Act IV. 



A peasant's stool, I care not what : so — now 
I breathe more freely. 

Sal. This great hour has proved 

The brightest and most glorious of your life. 

Sar. And the most tiresome. Where's my cup- 
bearer ? 
Bring me some water. 

Sal. {smiling). 'T is the first time he 

Ever had such an order: even I, 
Your most austere of counsellors, would now 
Suggest a purpler beverage. 

Sar. Blood — doubtless. 

But there 's enough of that shed ; as for wine, 
I h-ive learn'd to-night the price of the pure element : 
Thrice have 1 drunk of it, and thrice renew'd, 
Wilh greater strength than the grape ever gave me, 
My charge upon the rebels. Where 's the soldier 
Who gave me water in his helmet ? 

0/76 of the Guards. Slain, sire ! 

An arrow pierced h'n brain, while, scattering 
The list drops from hi^ helm, he slood in act 
To place it on his brows. 

Sar. Slain ! unrewarded ! 

And slain to serve my thirst : that's hird, poor slave ! 
Had he but lived, I would have gorged him with 
Gold : all the gold of earth could ne'er repay 
The pleasure of that draught ; for I was parch'd 
As 1 am now. [They bring water — he drinks 

I live again — from henceforth 
The goblet I reserve for hours of love, 
But war on water. 

Sa!. And that bandage, sire, 

Which girds your arm ? 

Sar. A scratch from brave Beleses. 

Myr. Oh ! he is wounded ! 

Sar. Not too much of that ; 

And yet it feels a little stiff and painful, 
Isow 1 am cooler. 

Myr. You have bound it with 

Sar. The fillet of my diadem : the first time^ 
That ornament was ever aught to me. 
Save an incumbrance. 

Myr. (to the Atteiidants). Summon speedily 
A leech of the most skilful : pray, reiire : 
I will unbind your wound and tend it. 

Sar. Do so, 

For now it throbs sufl5ciently ; but what 
Know'st thou of wounds ? yet wherefore do I ask ? 
Know'st thou, my brother, where I lighted on 
This minion ? 

Sal. Herding with the other females, 

Like frighten'd antelopes. 

iSar. No : like the dam 

Of the young lion, femininely raging, 
(And femininely meaneth furiously," 
Because all passions in excess are female,) 
Against the hunter flying vviih her cub. 
She urged on with her voice and gesture, and 
Her floating hair and flashing eyes, the soldiers, 
In the pursuit. 
Sal. Indeed ! 

Sar. You see, this night 

Made warriors of more than me. 1 paused 
To look upon her, and her kindled cheek ; 
Her large blick eyes, that flash'd through her long hair 
As it stream'd o'er her j her blue veins that rose 
Along her most transparent brow ; her nostril 
Dilated from its symmetry ; her lips 
Apart; her voice that clove through all the din, 
As a lute piercelh through the cymbal's clash, 
Jarr'd but not drown'd by the loud brattling j her 
Waved arms, more dazzling with their own born 

whiteness 
Than the steel her hand held, which she caught up 
From a dead soldier's grasp ; — all these things made 
Her seem unto the troops a prophetess of 
Victory, or Victory herself. 
Come down to hail us hers. 

Sal. (aside). This is too much. 

Again the love-fit 's on him, and all 's lost 
Unless we turn his thoughts. 



(Alcud). But pray thee, sire, 
Think of your wound — you said even now 't was 
painful. 
Sar. That 's true, too ; but I must not think of it. 
Sal. I have look'd to all things needful, and will now 
Receive reports of progress mide in such 
Orders as 1 had given, and then return 
To hear your further pleasure. 

Sar. Be it so. 

Sal. {in retiring). Myrrha ! 

Myr. Prince ! 

Sal. You have shown a soul to-night, 

Which, were he not my sister's lord But now 

I have no time: thou lovest the king ? 

Myr. I love 

Sardanapalus. 

Sal. But wouldst have him king still ? 

Myr. I would not have him less than what he 

should be. 
Sal, Well then, to have him king, and yours, and all 
He should, or should not be ; to have him live. 
Let him not sink back into luxury. 
You have more power upon his spirit than 
Wisdom within these walls, or fierce rebellion 
Raging without: lo^k ueil that he relapse not. 

Myr. There needed not the voice of Salemenes 
To urge me on to this: I will not fail. 

All that a woman's weakness can 

I Sal. Is power 

I Omnipotent o'er such a heart as his : 
Exert it wisely. [Exit Salemenes. 

Sar. Myrrha! what, at whispers 

With my stern brother? I shall soon be jealous. 
Myr. {smiling). You have cause, she; for on the 
earth there breathes not 
A man more worthy of a woman's love — 
A soldier's trust — a subject's reverence — 
A king's esteem — the whole world's admiration ! 

Sar. Praise him, but not so warmly. 1 must not 
Hear tho,-e sweet lips grow eloquent in aught 
That throws me into shade ! yet you speak truth. 

Myr. And now retire, to have your wound look'd to. 
Pray, lean on me. 

Sar. Yes, love ! but not from pain. 

[Exeunt omnes. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. 

Sardanapaliis discovered sleeping upon a Couch, and 
occasionally disturbed in his slumbers, with Myr- 
rha watching. 

Myr. {sola gazing). I have stolen upon his rest, if 
rest it be, 
Which thus convulses slumber : shall I wake him ? 
No, he seems calmer. Oh, thou God of Quiet ! 
Whose reign is o'er sealed eyelids and soft dreams, 
Or deep, deep sleep, so as to be unfathom'd. 
Look like thy brother. Death,— to still — so stirless — 
For then we are hippies', as it may be, we 
Are happiest of nil within the realm 
Of thy stern, silent, and unwakening twin. 
Again he moves — again the play of pain 
Shoots o'er his features, as the sudden gust 
Crisps the reluc'ant lake ihat lay so calm 
Bereath the mountain shadow ; or the blast 
Ruffles the autumn leaves, that drooping cling 
Faintly and motionless to their loved boughs. 
I must awake him — yet not yet : who knows 
From what I rouse him ? It seems pain ; but if 
I quicken him to heavier pnin ? The fever 
Of this tumultuous night, the grief too of 
His wound, thoush sliiiht, may cause all this, and shake 
Me more to see than him to suffer. No : 
Let Nature use her own maternal means, — 
And I await to second, not disturb her. 

Sar. (awakening). Not so — although ye multiplied 
the s!ars, 



1 



Scene I.] 



A TRAGEDY. 



319 



And gave them to me as a realm to share 

From you and with you ! I would not so purchase 

The empire of eternity. Hence — hence — 

Old hui.ter of the earliest brutes ! and ye, 

Who hunted fellow creatures as if brutes ! 

Once bloody mortals — and now bloodier idols, 

If your priests lie not ! And thou, gh istly beldame ! 

Dripping with dusky gore, and trani[)ling on 

The carcasses of Inde — awav ! away ! 

Where am I? Where the spectres ? Where No — 

that 
Is no false phan'om : I should know it 'midst 
All that the dead dare gloomily raise up 
From their black gulf to daunt the living. Mj'rrha! 

Myr. Alas! thou art pile, and on thy brow the drops 
Gather like night dew. My beloved, hush — 
Calm thee. Thy speech seems of another world, 
And thou art lord of this. Be of good cheer; 
All will go well. 

Sar. Thy hand — so — 't is thy hand ; 

'T is tiesh ; grasp — clasp — yet closer, till I feel 
Myself that which I was. 

Myr. At least know me 

For what I am, and ever must be — thine. 

Sar. I know it now. I know this life again. 
Ah, Myrrha! I hive been where we shall be. 

My>. My lord! 

<Sttr. I He been i' the grave — where worms are 
lords, 

And kings are But I did not deem it so ; 

I thought 't was nothing. 

Myr. So it is ; except 

Unto the timid, who anticipate 
That which may never be. 

Sar. Oh, Myrrha ! if 

Sleep shows such things, what may not death disclose ? 

Myr. I know no evil death can show, which life 
Has not already shown to those who live 
Imbodied longest. If there be indeed 
A shore where mi;id survives, 't will be as mind, 
All unincorporate: or if thjre flits 
A shadow of this cumbrous clog of clay. 
Which stalks, methinks, between our souls and heaven, 
And fetters us to earth — at least the phantom, 
Whate'er it have to fear, will not fear death. 

Sar. I fear it not ; but I have felt — have seen — 
A legion of the dead. 

Myr. And so have I. 

The dust we tread upon was once alive, 
And wretched. But proceed : what hast thou seen ? 
Speak it, 'twill lighten thy dimm'd mind. 

Sar. ' Methought — 

Myr. Yet pause, thou art tired — in pain — ex- 
hausted ; all 
Which can impair both strength and spirit: seek 
Rather to sleep again. 

Sar. Not now — I would not 

Dream ; though I know it now to be a dream 
What I have dreamt : — and canst thou bear to hear it ? 

Myr. I can bear all things, dreams of life or death. 
Which I participate with you in semblance 
Or full reality. 

Sar. And this look'd real, 

I tell you : after that these eyes were open, 
I saw them in their flight— "for then they tied. 

Myr. Say on. 

Sar. I saw, that is, I dream'd myself 

Here — here — even where we are, guests as we were. 
Myself a host that deem'd himself but guest, 
Willing to equal all in social freedom ; 
But, on my right hand and my left, instead 
Of thee and Zames, and our custom'd meeting, 
Was ranged on my left hand a haughty, dark, 
And deadly face — I could not recognise it, 
Yet I had seen it, though I knew not where: 
The features were a giant's, and the eye 
Was still, yet lighted ; his long locks curl'd dowQ 
On his va>t bust, whence a huge quiver rose 
With shaft-heads feather'd from the eagle's wing, 
That peep'd up bristling through his serpent hair. 
I invited him to fill the cup which stood 



Between us, but he answer'd not — I fill'd it — 

He took it not, but stired upon me, till 

I trembled at the tix'd glare of his eye: 

I frown'd upon him as a king should frown — 

He frown'd not in his turn, but look'd upon me 

With the same aspect, which appali'd me more. 

Because it changed not ; and 1 lurn'd for refuge 

To milder guests, and sought them on the right. 

Where thou wert wont to be. But [He pauses. 

Myr. What instead ? 

Sar. In thy own chair — thy own place in the ban- 
quet — 
I sought thy sweet face in the circle — but 
Instead — a grey-hair'd, withered, bloody-eyed, 
And bloody-handed, ghastly, ghostly thing. 
Female in garb, and crown d upon the brow, 
Furrow'd with years, yet sneering with the 
Of vengeance, leering too with that of lust, 
Sate : — my veins curdled. 

Myr. Is this all ? 

Sar. Upon 

Her right hand — her lank, bird-like, right hand 

stood 
A goblet, bubbling o'er with blood ; and on 
Her left, anotlier, fill'd with — what I saw not. 
But turn'd from it and her. But all along 
The t ible sale a range of crowned wretches. 
Of various aspects, but of one expression. 

Myr. And felt you not this a mere vision ? 

Sar. No : 

It was so palpable, I could have touch'd them. 
I turn'd from one face to another, in 
The hope to find at last one which I knew 
Ere 1 saw theirs: but no — all turn'd upon me, 
And staled, but neither ate nor d ank. but stared, 
Till I grew stone, as they seeni'd hdf to be, 
Yet breathing stone, fir I felt life in them. 
And life in me: there was a horrid kind 
Of sympathy between us, as if they 
Had lost a part of death to come to me, 
And I the half of life to sit by them. 
We were in an existence all apart 

From heaven or earth And rather let me see 

Death all than such a being ! 

Myr. And the end ? 

Sar, At last I sate, marble, as they, when rose 
The hunter and the cione; and smiling on me — 
Yes, the enlarged but noble aspect of 
The hunter smiled upon me — I should say, 
His lips, for his eyes moved not — and the woman's 
Thin lips relax'd to soniehing like a smile. 
Bo'h rose, ai d he crown'd figmes on each hand 
Rose also, as if aping their chief shades — 
Mere mimics even in death — but I sale still : 
A desperate courage crept through every limb. 
And at the last 1 fear'd Ihem not, but laugh'd 
Full in their phantom faces. But then — then 
The hunter laid his hand on mine : I took it. 
And grasp"d it — but it melted from my own ; 
While he too vanish'd. and left nothing but 
The memory of a heio, for he look'd so. 

Myr. And was: the ancestor of heroes, too. 
And ihiue no less. 

Sar. Ay, Myrrha, but the woman, 

The female who remamd, she flew u|)on me. 
And burnt my lips up wih her noisonie kisses j 
And, flinging down the gnhiels on each hand, 
Methought their poisons flow'd around us, till 
Each form'd a hideous river. Still she clung j 
The other phantoms, like a row of statues, 
S'ood dull as in our temples, but she still 
Embraced me, while I shrm k from her, as if, 
In lieu of her remote descend mt. I 
Had been the son who slew her for her incest. 
Then — then — a ctnos of all loathsome ihinsrs 
Throng'd thick and shapeless : I was dead, yet feeling 
Buried, and raised again — consumed by woims, 
Purged by the tiames, aiid wither'd in the air ! 
I can fix nothing further of mv Ihnush's, 
Save that I long'd f r thee, and sought f)r thee, 
In all these agonies, — and woke and found thee. 



320 



SARDANAPALUS; 



[Act IV. 



Myr. So shalt thou tind me ever at thy side, 
Here and hereafter, if the last may be. 
But think not of these things — (he mere creations 
Of late events, acting upon a frame 
Unused to toil, yet over-wrought by toil 
Such as might try the sternest. 

Sar. I am better. 

Now that I see thee once more, wtmt was seen 
Seems nothing. 



Sal. 



Enter Salemenes. 
Is the king so soon awake ? 



Sar. Yes, brother, and I would I had not slept j 
For all the predecessors of our line 
Rose up, methought, to drag me down to them. 
My father was amongst them, too ; but he, 
1 know not why, kept from me, leaving me 
Between the hunter-founder of our race. 
And her, the homicide and husband-killer, 
Whom you call glorious. 

Sal. So I term you also, 

Now you have shown a spirit like to hers. 
By day-break I propose that we set forth. 
And charge once more the rebel crew, whO still 
Keep gathering head, repulsed, but not quite quell'd. 

Sar. How wears the night ? 

Sal. There yet remain some hours 

Of darkness: use them for your furfher rest. 

Sar. No, not to-night, if 't is not gone : methought 
I piss'd hours in that vision. 

Myr. Scarcely one ; 

I watch'd by you : it was a heavy hour, 
But an hour only. 

Sar. Let us then hold council j 

To-morrow we set forth. 

Sal. But ere that time, 

I had a grace to seek. 

Sar. 'T is granted. 

Sal. Hear it 

Ere you reply too readily ; and 't Is 
For your ear only. 

Myr. Prince, I take my leave. 

[Exit Myrrha. 

Sal. That slave deserves her freedom. 

Sar. Freedom only I 

That slave deserves to share a throne. 

Sal. Your patience — 

'T is not yet vacant, and 't is of its partner 
I come to speak with you. 

Sar. How ! of the queen ? 

Sal. Even so. I judged it fitting for their safety. 
That, ere the dawn, she sets forth with her children 
For Paphlagonia, where our kinsman Cotta 
Governs ; and there at all events secure 
My nephews and your sons their lives, and with them 
Their just pretensions to the crown in case • 

Sar. I perish — as is probable : well thought — 
Let them set forth with a sure escort. 

Sal. That 

Is all provided, and the galley ready 
To drop down the Euphrates; but ere they 
Depart, will you not see 

Sar. My sons ? It may 

Unman my heart, and the poor boys will weep ; 
And what can I reply to comfort them. 
Save with some hollow hopes, and ill-worn smiles ? 
You know I cannot feign. 

Sal. But you can feel ! 

At least, I trust so : in a word, the queen 
Requests to see you ere you part — for ever. 

Sar. Unto what end ? what purpose ? I will grant 
Aught — all that she can ask — but such a meeting. 

Sal. You know, or ought to know, enough of 
women, 
Since you have studied them so steadily. 
That what they ask in aught that touches on 
The heart, is dearer to their feelings or 
Their fancy, than the whole external world. 
I think as you do of my sister's wish ; 
But 'twas her wish — she is my sister — you 
Her husband — will you grant it ? 



Sar. T will be useless : 

But let her come. 

Sal. I go. [Exit Salemenes. 

Sar. We have lived asunder 

Too long to meet again — and iioxv to meet ! 
Have I not cares enow, and pangs enow. 
To bear alone, that we must mingle sorrows, 
Who have ceased to mingle love ? 

Reenter Salemenes and Zarina, 

Sal. My sister ! Courage : 

Shame not our blood with trembling, but remember 
From whence we sprung. The queen is present, sire. 

Zar. I pray thee, brother, leave me. 

Sal. Since you ask it. 

[Exit Salemenes. 

Zar, Alone with him ! How many a year has pass'd, 
Though we are still so young, since we have met, 
Which I have worn in widowhood of heart. 
He loved me not ; yet he seems little changed — 
Changed to me only — would the change were mutual ! 

He speaks not — scarce regards me — not a word 

Nor look — yet he was soft of voice and aspect, 
Indifterent, not austere. My lord ! 

Sar. Zarina ! 

Zar. No, not Zarina — do not say Zarina. 
That tone — that word — annihilate long years, 
And things which make them longer. 

Sar. 'T is too late 
To think of these past dreams. Let 's not reproach — 
That is, reproach me not — for the last time 

Zar. And first. I ne'er reproach"d you. 

Sar. 'T is most true ; 

And that reproof comes heavier on my heart 
Than But our hearts are not in our own power. 

Zar. Nor hands j but I gave both. 

Sar. Your brother said 

It was your will to see me, ere you went 
From Nineveh with {He hesitates). 

Zar. Our children : it is true. 

I wish'd to (hank you that you have not divided 
My heart from all that 's le'ft it now to love — 
Those who are yours and mine, who look like you, 
And look upon me as you look'd upon me 
Once But they have not changed. 

Sar. Nor ever will. 

I fain would have them dutiful. 

Zar. I cherish 

Those infants, not alone from the blind love 
Of a fond mother, but as a fond woman. 
They are now the only tie between us. 

Sar. Deem not 

I have not done you justice : rather make them 
Resemble your own line than their own sire. 
I trust them with you — to you : fit them for 

A throne, or, if that be denied You have heard 

Of this night's tumults ? 

Zar. I had half forgotten, 

And could have welcomed any grief save yours, 
Which gave me to behold your face again. 

Sar. The throne — I say it not in fe^r — but 'tis 
In peril : they perhaps may never mount it : 
But let them not for this lose sight of it. 
I will dsre all things to bequeath it them ; 
But if I fail, then they must win it back 
Bravely — and, won, wear it wisely, not as I 
Have wasted down my royalty. 

Zar. They ne'er 

Shall know from me of aught but what may honour 
Their father's memory. 

Sar. Rather let them hear 

The truth from you than from a trampling world. 
If they be in adversity, they '11 learn 
Too soon the scorn of crowds for crownless princes, 
And find that all their father's sins are theirs. 
My boys I — I could have borne it were I childless. 

Zar.' Oh ! do not say so — do not poi.son all 
My peace left, by unwishing that thou wert 
A father. If thou conquerest, they shall reign, 
And honour him who saved the realm for them. 
So little cared for as his own : and if 



Scene I.] 



A TRAGEDY. 



321 



Sar. 'T is lost, all earth will cry out, thank your 
father ! 
And they will swell the echo with a curse. 

Zar, That they shall never do ; but rather honour 
The name of him, who, dying like a king, 
In his last hours did more for his own memory 
Than many monarchs in a length of days, 
Which date the flight of time, but make no annals. 

Sar. Our annaK draw perchance unto their close j 
But at the least, whate'er the past, their end 
Shall be like their beginning — memorable. 

Zar. Yet be not rash — be careful of your life, 
Live but for those who love. 

Sar. And who are they ? 

A fciave, who loves from passion — I '11 not say 
Ambition — she hath seen thrones shalie, and loves j 
A few friends who have revell'd till we are 
As one, for they are notliing if I fall j 
A brother I have injured — children whom 
I have neglected, and a spouse—— 

Zar. Who loves. 

Sa7: And pardons ? 

Zar. I have never thought of this. 

And cannot pardon till I have condemn'd. 

Sar. My wife ! 

Zar. Now blessings on thee for that word ! 

I never thought to hear it more — from thee. 

Sar. Oh ! thou wilt hear it from my subjects. Yes — 
These slaves whom I have nurtured, pnmper'd, fed. 
And swoln with peace, and gorged with plenty, till 
They reign themselves — all monarchs in their man- 
sions — 
Now swarm forth in rebellion, and demand 
His death, who made their lives a jubilee; 
While the few upon whom I have no claim 
Are faithful ! This is true, yet monstrous. 

Zar. ?Tis 

Perhaps too natural ; for benefits 
Turn poison in bad minds. 

Sar. And good ones make 

Good out of evil. Happier than the bee, 
Which hives not but from wholesome flowers. 

Zar. Then reap 

The honey, nor inquire whence 't is derived. 
Be satisfied — you are not all abandon'd. [you, 

Sar. My life insures me that. How long, bethink 
Were not I yet a king, should I be mortal ; 
That is, where mortals are, not where they must be ? 

Zar. I know not. But yet live for my — that is. 
Your children's sake ! 

Sar. My gentle, wrong'd Zarina ! 

I am the very slave of circumstance 
And impulse — borne away with every breath ! 
Misplaced upon the throne — misplaced in life. 
I know not what I could have been, but feel 
I am not what I should be — let it end. 
But take this with thee : if I was not form'd 
To prize a love like thine, a mind like thine, 
Nor dote even on thy beauty — as I 've doted 
On lesser charms, for no cause save that such 
Devotion was a duty, and I hated 
All that look'd like a chain for me or others 
(This even rebellion must avouch) ; yet hear 
These words, pei haps among my last — that none * 
E'er valued more thy virtues, though he knew not 
To profit by them — as the miner lights 
Upon a vein of virgin ore, discovering 
Thit which avails him nothing : he hath found it, 
But 't is not his — but some superior's, who 
Placed him to dig, but not divide the wealth 
Which sparkles at his feet ; nor dare he lift 
Nor poise it, but must grovel on, upturning 
The sullen earth. 

Zar. Oh ! if thou hast at length 

Discover'd that my love is worth esteem, 
I ask no more — but let us hence together. 
And / — let me say we — shall yet be happy. 
Assyria is not all the earth — we '11 find 
A world out of our own — and be more bless'd 
Than I have ever been, or thou, with all 
An empire to indulge thee. 



21 



Enter Salemtnes. 

Sal. I must part ye — 

The moments, which must not be lost, are passing. 

Zar. Inhuman brother ! wilt thou thus weigh out 
Instants so high and blest ? 

Sal. Blest ! 

Zar. He hath been 

So gentle with me, that I cannot think 
Of quitting. 

Sal. So — this feminine farewell 

Ends as such partings end, in no departure. 
1 thought as much, and yielded against all 
My better bodings. But it must not be. 

Zar. Not be? 

Sal. Remain, and perish 

Zar. With my husband 

Sal. And children. 

Zar. Alas ! 

Sal. Hear me, sister, like 
My sister : — all 's prepared to make your safety 
Certain, and of the boys too, our last hopes ; 
'T is not a single question of mere feeling. 
Though that were much — but 't is a point of state: 
The rebels would do more to seize upon 
The offspring of their sovereign, and so crush 

Zar. Ah ! do not name it. 

Sal. Well, then, mark me : when 

They are safe beyond the Median's grasp, the rebels 
Have miss'd their chief aim — the extinction of 
The line of Nimrod. Though the present king 
Fall, his sons live for victory and vengeance. 

Zar. But could not I remain, alone ? 

Sal. What! leave 

Your children, with two parents and yet orphans — 
In a strange land — so young, so distant ? 

Zar. No — 

My heart will break. 

Sal. Now you know all — decide. 

Sar. Zarina, he hath spoken well, and we 
Must yield awhile to this necessity. 
Remaining here, you may lose all ; departing, 
You save the better part of what is left. 
To both of us, and to such loyal hearts 
As yet beat in these kingdoms. 

Sal. The time presses. 

Sar. Go, then. If e'er we meet again, perhaps 
I may be worthier of you — and, if not, 
Remember that my faults, though not atoned for, 
Are ended. Yet, I dread thy nature will 
Grieve more above the blighted name and ashes 
Which once were mightiest in Assyria — than^— 
But I grow womanish again, and must not ; 
I must learn sternness now. My sins have all 

Been of the softer order hide thy tears — 

I do not bid thee not to shed them — 't were 
Easier to stop Euphrates at its source 
Than one tear of a true and tender heart — 
But let me not behold them; they unman me 
Here when I had remann'd myself. My brother, 
Lead her away. 

Zar. Oh, God ! I never shall 

Behold him more ! 

Sal. {striving to conduct her). Nay, sister, I must 
be obey'd. 

Zar. I must remain — away ! you shall not hold me. 
What, shall he die alone ? — I live alone ? 

Sal. He shall not die alone; but lonely you 
Have lived for years. 

Zar. That 's false ! I knew^ he lived, 

And lived upon his image — let me go ! 

Sal. (conducting her off the stage). Nay, then, I 
must use some fraternal force. 
Which you will pardon. 

Zar. Never. Help me ! Oh ! 

Sardanapalus, wilt thou thus behold me 
Torn from thee ? 

Sal. Nay — then all is lost again, 

If that this moment is not gain'd. 

Zar. My brain turns— 

My eyes fail — where is he ? {She fainti. 






322 



SARDANAPALUS; 



[Act IV. 



Sar. (advancing). No — set her down — 

She 's dead — and you have slain her. g 

Sal. 'T is the mere 

Faintness of o'erwrousht passion : in the air 
She will recover. Pray, keep back.— lAside.1 I must 
Avail myself of this sole moment to 
Bear her to where her children are embark'd, 
I' ihe royal galley on the river. 

[Salemenes bears her off. 

Sar. (solus). This, too — 

And this too must I suffer— I, who never 
Inflicted purposely on hitman hearts 
A voluntary pang ! But that is false — 
She loved me, and I loved her.— Fatal passion I 
Why dost i.hou not expire al once in hearts 
Which thou hast lighied up at once ? Zarina ! 
I must pay dearly for the desolation 
Now brought upon thee. Had I never loved 
But thee, I should have been an unopposed 
Monarch of honouring nations. To what gulfs 
A single deviation from the track 
Of human duties leads even those who claim 
The homige of mankind as their born due, 
And find it, till they forfeit it themselves ! 

Eiiter Myrrha. 

Sar. You here ! Who call'd you ? 

Myr. ' No one — but I heard 

Far off a voice of wail and lamentation, 
And thought 

Sar. It forms no portion of your duties 

To enter here till sought for. 

Myr. Though I might, 

Perhaps, recall some softer words of youis 
(Although they too were chiding), which reproved me, 
Because I ever dreaded to intiude ; 
"Resisting my own wish and your injunction 
To heed no time nor presence, but approach you 
Uncall'd for : — I retire. 

Sar. Yet stay — being here. 

I pray you pardon me : events have sour'd me 
Till I waz peevish — heed it not : I shall 
Soon be myself again. 

Myr. I wait with patience. 

What I shall see with pleasure. 

Sar. Scarce a moment 

Before your entrance in this hall, Zarina, 
Queen of Assyria, departed hence. 

Myr. Ah! 

Sar. Wherefore do you start ? 

Myr. Did I do so ? 

Sar. 'T was well you enter'd by another portal, 
Else you had met. That pang at least is spared her I 

Myr. I know to feel for her. 

Sar. That is too much. 

And beyond nature — 't is nor natural 
Nor possible. You cannot pity her. 
Nor she aught but 

Myr. Despise the favourite slave ? 

Not more than I have ever scorn'd myself. 

Sar. Scorn'd I what, to be the envy of your sex. 
And lord it o'er the heart of the world's lord ? 

Myr. Were you the lord of twice ten thousand 
worlds — 
As you are like to lose the one you sway'd — 
I did abase myself as much in being 
Your paramour, as though you were a peasant — 
Nay, more, if that the peasant were a Greek. 

Sar. You talk it well 

Myr. And truly. 

Sar. In the hour 

Of man's adversity all things grow daring 
Against the falling; but as I am not 
Quite fall'n, nor now disposed to bear reproaches. 
Perhaps because I merit ihem too often, 
Let us then part while peace is still between us. 

Myr. Part! 

Sar. Have not all past human beings parted, 

And must not all the present one day part ? 

Myr. Why? 

Sar. For your safety, which I will have look'd to, 



With a strong escort to your nitive land ; 
And such gifts, as, if you had not been all 
A queen, shall make your dowry worth a kingdom. 

Myr. I pray you talk not thus. 

Sar. The queen is gone : 

You need not shame to follow. I would fall 
Alone — I seek no partners but in pleasure. 

Myr. And I no pleasure but in parting not. 
You shall not force me from you. 

Sar. Think well of it — 

It soon may be too late. 

Myr. So let it be ; 

For then you cannot separate me from you. 

Sar. And will not ; but I thought you wish'd it. 

Myr. I ! 

Sar. You spoke of your abasement. 

Myr. And I feel it 

Deeply — more deeply than all things but love. 

Sar. Then fly froni it. 

Myr. 'T will not recall the past — 

'T will not restore my honour, nor my heart. 
No — here I stand or fall. If that you conquer, 
I live to joy in your great triumph : should 
Your lot be different, 1 '11 not weep, but share it. 
You did not doubt me a few hours ago. 

Sar. Your courage never — nor your love till now ; 
And none could make me doubt it save yourself. 
Those words 

Myr. Were words. I pray you, let the proofs 

Be in the past acts you were pleased to praise 
1 his very night, and in my further bearing. 
Beside, wherever you are borne by fate. 

Sar. I am content : and, trusting in my cause, 
Think we may yet be victors and return 
To peace — the only victory I covet. 
To me war is no glory — conquest no 
Renown. To be forced thus to uphold my right 
Sits heavier on my heart than all the wrongs 
These men would bow me down with. Never, never 
Can I forget this night, even should I live 
To add it to the memory of others. 
I thought to have made mine inoffensive rule 
An era of sweet peace 'midst bloody annals, 
A green spot amidst desert centuries, 
On which the future would turn back and smile. 
And cultivate, or sigh when it could not 
Recall Sardanapalus' golden reign. 
I thought to have made my realm a paradise. 
And every moon an epoch of new pleasures. 
I took the rabble's shouts for love — the breath 
Of friends for truth — the lips of woman for 
My only guerdon — so they are, my Myrrha : 

[He kisses her. 
Kiss me. Now let them take my realm and life ! 
They shall have both, but never thee ! 

Myr. No, never ! 

Man may despoil his brother man of all 
That's great or glittering — kingdoms fall — hosts 

yield — 
Friends fail — slaves fly — and all betray — and, more 
Than all, the most indebted — but a heart 
That loves without self-love ! 'T is here— now prove it. 

Enter Salemenes. 

Sal. I sought you — How ! she here again? 

Sar. Return not 

Now to reproof: methinks your aspect speaks 
Of higher matter tlnn a woman's presence. 

Sal. The only woman whom it much imports me 
At such a moment now is safe in absence — 
The queen 's embark'd. 

Sar. And well ? say that much. 

Sal. Yes. 

Her transient weakness has pass'd o'er; at least, 
It settled into tearless silence : her 
Pale face and glittering eye, after a glance 
Upon her sleeping children, were still fix'd 
I Ui;on the palace towers as the swift galley 
I Stole down the hurrying stream beneath the starlight j 
; But she said nothing. 



Scene I.] 



A TRAGEDY. 



323 



Sar. Would I felt no more 

Than she bas said ! 

Sal. 'T is now too late to feel. 

Your feelings cannot cancel a sole pang : 
To change them, my advices bring sure tidings 
That the rebellious Medes and Chaldees, marshall'd 
By their two leaders, are already up 
In arms again ; and, serrying their ranks, 
Prepare to attack : they have apparently 
Been joiu'd by other satraps. 

Sar. What i more rebels ? 

Let us be first, then. 

Sal. That were hardly prudent 

Now, though it was our first intention. If 
By noon to-morrow we are join'd by those 
I 've sent for by sure messengers, we shall be 
In strength enough to venture an attack, 
Ay, and pursuit too ; but, till then, my voice 
Is to await the onset. 

Sar. I detest 

That waiting ; though it seems so safe to fight 
Behind high walls, and hurl down foes into 
Deep fosses, or behold them sprawl on spikes 
Strew'd to receive them, still I like it not — 
My soul seems lukewarm ; but when I set on them, 
Though they weie piled on mountains, I would have 
A pluck at them, or perish in hot blood ! — 
Let me then charge. 

Sal. You talk like a young soldier. 

Sar. I am no soldier, but a man : speak not 
Of soldiership, I loathe the word, and those 
Who pride themselves upon it j but direct me 
Where I may pour upon them. 

Sal. You must spare 

To expose your life too hastily ; 't is not 
Like mine or any other subject's breath : 
The whole war turns upon it — with it ; this 
Alone creates it, kindles, and may quench it — 
Prolong it — end it. 

Sar. Then let us end both ! 

'T were better thus, perhaps, than prolong either ; 
I 'm sick of one, perchance of both. 

Id trumpet sounds without. 

Sal. Hark! 

Sar. Let us 

Reply, not listen. 

Sal. And your wound ! 

Sar. 'T is bound — 

'T is heal'd — I had forgotten it. Away ! 
A leech's lancet would have scratch'd me deeper j 
The slave that gave it might be well ashamed 
To have struck so weakly. 

Sal. Now, may none this hour 

Strike with a better aim ! 

(Sar. Ay, if we conquer; 

But if not, they will only leave to me 
A task they might have spared their king. Upon 
them ! [Trumpet sounds again, 

Sal. I am with you. 

Sar. Ho, my arms ! again, my arms ! 

[Exeunt. 



ACT V. 

SCENE I. 

The same Hall m the Palace. 

Myrrha and Balea. 

Myr. (at a window). The day at last has broken. 
What a night ^ 

Hath usher'd it ! How beautiful in heaven ! 
Though varied with a transitory storm. 
More beautiful in that variety ! 
How hideous upon earth ! where peace and hope, 
And love and revel, in an hour were trampled 
By human passions to a human chaos. 
Not yet resolved to separate elements — 
'T is warring still ! And can the sun so rise, 



So bright, so rolling back the clouds into 

Vapours more lovely than the unclouded sky, 

With golden pinnacles, and snowy mountains, 

And billows purpler than the ocean's, making 

In heaven a glorious mockery of the earth, 

So like we almoat deem it permanent ; 

So fleeting, we can scarcely call it aught 

Beyond a vision, 'tis so transiently 

Scatter'd along the eternal vault : and yet 

It dwells upon the soul, and soothes the soul, 

And blends itself into the soul, until 

Sunrise and sunset form the haunted epoch 

Of sorrow and of love ; which they who mark not 

Know not the realms where those twin genii 

(Who chasten and who purify our hearts, 

So that we would not change their sweet rebukes 

For all the boisterous joys that ever shook 

The air with clamour) build the palaces 

Where their fond votaries repose and breathe 

Briefly ; — but in that brief cool calm inhale 

Enough of heaven to enable them to bear 

The rest of common, heavy, human hours, 

And dream them thrsugh in placid sufferance, 

Though seemingly employ'd like all the rest 

Of toiling breathers in allotted tasks 

Of pain or pleasure, two names for one feeling, 

Which our internal, restless agony 

Would vary in the sound, although the sense 

Escapes our highest efforts to be happy. 

Bal. You muse right calmly : and can you so watch 
The sunrise which may be our last ? 

Myr. It is 

Therefore that I so watch it, and reproach 
Those eyes, which never may behold it more. 
For having look'd upon it oft, too oft, 
Without the reverence and the rapture due 
To that which keeps all earth from being as fragile 
As I am in this form. Come, look upon it, 
The Chaldee's god, which, when I gaze upon 
I grow almost a convert to your Baal. 

Bal. As now he reigns in heaven, so once on earth 
He sway'd. 

Myr. He sways it now far more, then ; never 

Had earthly monarch half the power and glory 
Which centres in a single ray of his. 

Bal. Surely he is a god ! 

Myr. So we Greeks deem too j 

And yet I sometimes think that gorgeous orb - 
Must rather be the abode of gods than one 
Of the immortal sovereigns. Now he breaks 
Through all the clouds, and fills my eyes with light 
That shuts the world out. I can look no more. 

Bal. Hark ! heard you not a sound ? 

Myr. No, 't was mere fancy ; 

They battle it beyond the wall, and not 
As in late midnight conflict in the very 
Chambers : the palace has become a fortress 
Since that insidious hour; and here, within 
The very centre, girded by vast courts 
And regal halls of pyramid proportions, 
Which must be carried one by one before 
They penetrate to where they then arrived. 
We are as much shut in even from the sound 
Of peril as from glory. 

Bal. But they reach'd 

Thus far before. 

Myr. Yes, by surprise, and were 

Beat back by valour : now at once we have 
Courage and vigilance to guard us. 

Bal. May they 

Prosper ! 

Myr. That is the prayer of many, and 
The dread of more : it is an anxious hour ; 
I strive to keep it from my thoughts. Alas ! 
How vainly I 

Bal. It is said the king's demeanour 

In the late action scarcely moreappall'd 
The rebels than astonish d his true subjects. 

Myr. 'T is easy to astonish or appal 
The vulgar mass which moulds a horde of slaves; 
But he did bravely. 



324 



SARDANAPALUS 



[Act V. 



Eal. Slew he not Beleses? 

I heard the soldiers say he struck him down. 

Myx The wretch was overthrown, but rescued to 
Triumph, perhaps, o'er one who vanquished him 
In fight, as he had spared him in his peril ; 
And by that heedless pity risk'd a crown. 

Bal. Hark ! 

Myr. You are right; some steps approach, but 
slowly. 

Enter Soldiers, bearing in Salemenes wounded, with 
a broken javelin in his side : they seat him upon 
one of the couches which furnish the Apartment. 

Myr. Oh, Jove 1 

Bal. Then all is over. 

Sal. That is false ! 

Hew down the slave who says so, if a soldier. 
Myr. Spare him — he's none: a mere court but- 
terfly, 
That flutters in the pageant of a monarch. 
Sal. Let him live on, then. 
Myr. So wilt thou, I trust. 

Sal. I fain would live this hour out, and the event. 
But doubt it. Wherefore did ye bear me here. 
Sol. By the king's order. When the javelin struck 
you. 
You fell and fainted : 't was his strict command 
To bear you to this hall. 

Sal. 'T was not ill done : 

For seeming slain in that cold dizzy trance, 
The sight might shake our soldiers — but — 't is vain, 
I feel it ebbing ! 

Myr. Let me see the wound ; 

I am not quite skilless : in my native land 
'T is part of our instruction. War being constant, 
We are nerved to look on such things. 

Sol. Best extract 

The javelin. 
Myr. Hold ! no, no, it cannot be. 

Sal. I am sped, then ! 

Myr. With the blood that fast must follow 

The extracted weapon, I do fear thy life. 
Sal. And I not death. Where was the king when 
you 
Convey'd me from the spot where I was stricken ? 

Sol. Upon the same ground, and encouraging 
With voice and gesture the dispirited troops 
Who had seen you fall, and falter'd back. 

Sal. Whom heard ye 

Named next to the command ? 
Sol. I did not hear. 

Sal. Fly, then, and tell him, 't was my last request 
That Zames take my post until the junction, 
So hoped for, yet delay'd, of Ofratanes, 
Satrap of Susa. Leave me here: our troops 
Are not so numerous as to spare your absence. 

Sol. But prince 

Sal. Hence, I say ! Here 's a courtier and 

A woman, the best chamber company. 
As you would not permit me to expire 
Upon the field, I '11 have no idle soldiers 
About my sick couch. Hence ! and do my bidding I 
[Exeunt the Soldiers. 
Myr. Gallant and glorious spirit! must the earth 
So soon resign thee ? 

Sal. Gentle Myrrha, 't is 

The end I would have chosen, had I saved 
The monarch or the monarchy by this j 
As 't is, I have not outlived them. 
Myr. You wax paler. 

SclI. Your hand ; this broken weapon but prolongs 
My panes, without sustaining life enough 
To make me useful : I would draw it forth 
And my life with it, could I but hear how 
The fight goes. 

Enter Sardanapalus and Soldiers. 

Sar. My best brother ! 

Scd. And the battle 

Is lost ? 



Sar. {despondingly). You see me here. 

Sal. 1 'd rather see you thus ! 

[He draws out the weapon from the wound, 
ajid dies. 

Sar. And thus I will be seen ; unless the succour, 
The last frail reed of our beleaguer'd hopes, 
Arrive with Ofratanes. 

Myr. Did you not 

Receive a token from your dying brother. 
Appointing Zanies chief? 

Sar. I did. 

Myr. Where 's Zames ? 

-Sar. Dead. 

Myr. And Altada ? 

Sar. Dying. 

Myr. , ' Pania ? Sfero ? 

Sar. Pania yet lives ; but Sfero 's fled or captive. 
I am alone. 

Myr. And is all lost ? 

Sar. Our walls. 

Though thinly mann'd, may still hold out against 
Their present force, or aught save treachery : 
But i' the field 

Myr. I thought 't was the intent 

Of Salemenes not to risk a sally 
Till ye were strengthen'd by the expected succours. 

Sar. I over-ruled him. 

Myr. Well, the fault 's a brave one. 

Sdr. But fatal. Oh, my brother! I would give 
These realms, of which thou wert the ornament, 
The sword and shield, the sole- redeeming honour. 

To call back But I will not weep for thee; 

Thou shalt be mourn"d for as thou wouldst be mourn'd. 

It grieves me most that thou couldst quit this life 

Believing that I could survive what thou 

Hast died for — our long royalty of race. 

If I redeem it, I will give thee blood 

Of thousands, tears of millions, for atonement 

(The tears of all the good are thine already). 

If not, we meet again soon, — if the spirit 

Within us lives beyond : — thou readest mine, 

And dost me justice now. Let me once clasp 

That yet warm hand, and fold that throbless heart 

[Embraces the body. 
To this which beats so bitterly. Now, bear 
The body hence. 

Soldier. Where ? 

Sar. To my proper chamber. 

Place it beneath my canopy, as though 
The king lay there : when this is done, we will 
Speak further of the rites due to such ashes. 

[Exeunt Soldieis with the body of Salemenes. 

Enter Pania. 

Sar. Well, Pania ! have you placed the guards, and 
issued 
The orders fix'd on ? 

Pan. Sire, I have obey'd. 

Sar. And do the soldiers keep their hearts up ? 

Pan. Sire ? 

Sar. I 'm answer'd ! When a king asks twice, and 
has 
A question as an answer to his question. 
It is a portent. What ! they are disliearten'd ? 

Pan. The death of Salemenes, and the shouts 
Of the exulting rebels on his fall, 
Have made them 

Sar. Rage — not droop — it should have been. 

We '11 find the means to rouse them. 

Pa7i. Such a loss 

Might sadden even a victory. 

Sar. Alas ! 

Who can so feel it as I feel ? but yet, 
Though coop'd within these walls, they are strong, 

and we 
Have those without will break their way through hosts, 
To make their sovereign's dwelling what it was — 
A palace ; not a prison, nor a fortress. 
Enter an Officer, hastily. 

Sar. Thy face seems ominous. Speak ! 



Scene I.] 



A TRAGEDY. 



325 



Offi. I dare not. 

Sar. Dare not? 

While millions dare revolt with sword in hand ! 
That 's strange. I pray thee break thit loyal silence 
Which loathes to shock ils sovereign j we can hear 
Worse than thou hast to tell. 

Pan. Proceed, thou hearest. 

Offi. The wall which skirted near the river's brink 
Is thrown down by the sudden inundation 
Of the Euphrates, which now rolling, swola 
From ihe enormous mountains where it rises, 
By the lale rains of that tempestuous region, 
O'ertloods its banks, and hath destroy'd the bulwark. 

Pan. That 's a black augury ! it has been said 
For ages, " That the city ne'er should yield 
To man, until the river grew its foe." 

Sar. I can foigive the omen, not the ravage. 
How much is swept down of the wall ? 

Offi,. About 

Some twenty stadii. i 

Sar. And all this is left 

Pervious to the assailants ? 

Offi. For the present 

The river's fury must impede the assault ; 
But when he shrinks into his wonted channel, 
And may be cross'd by the accustom'd barks, 
The palace is their own. 

Sar. That shall be never. 

Though men, and gods, and elements, and omens, 
Have ri en up 'gainst one who ne'er provoked them, 
My fathers' house shall never be a cave 
For wolves to horde and howl in. 

Pan. With your smction, 

I will proceed to the spot, and take such measures 
For the assurance of the vacant space 
As time and means permit. 

Sar. About it straight ; 

And bring me back, as speedily as full 
And fair investigation may permit. 
Report of the true state of this irruption 
Of waters. [Exeunt Pania and the Officer. 

Myr. Thus the very waves rise up 
Against you. 

Sar. They are not my subjects, girl, 

And may be pardon'd, since they can't be punish'd. 

Myr. I joy to see thi^ portent shakes you not. 

Sar. I am past the fear of portents : they can tell me 
Nothing I have not told myself since midnight: 
Despair anticipates such things. 

Myr. Despair ! 

Sar. No ; not despair precisely. When we know 
All that can come, and how to meet it, our 
Resolves, if firm, may merit a more noble 
Word than this is to give it utterance. 
But what are words to us? we have well nigh done 
With them and all things. 

Myr. Save one deed — the last 

And greatest to all mortals ; crowning act 
Of all that was — or is — or is to be — 
The only 'hing common to all mankind, 
So difl'erent in their births, tongues, sexes, natures. 
Hues, features, climes, times, feelings, intellects, 
VVitliout one point of union save in this. 
To which we tend, for which we 're born, and thread 
The labyrinth of mystery, call'd life. 

Sar. Our clew being well nigh wound out, let 's be 
cheerful. 
They who- have nothing more to fear may well 
Indulge a smile at that which once appall'd ; 
As children at discover'd bugbears. 

Re-enter Pania. 

Pan. 'T is 

As was reported : I have order'd there 
A double guard, withdrawing from the wall 
Where it was strongest the required addition 
To watch the breach occasion d by the waters. 

Sar. You have done your duty faithfully, and as 



1 About two miles and a hair. 



My worthy Pania ! further ties between us 
Draw near a close. I pray you take this key : 

iGives a hey. 
It opens to a secret chamber, placed 
Behind the couch in my own chamber. (Now 
Press'd by a nobler weight than e'er it bore — 
Though a long line of sovereigns have lain dawn 
Along its golden frame— as bearing for 
A time what late was Salemenes.) Search 
The secret covert to which this will lead you; 
'T is full of treasure ; take it for yourself 
And your companions : there 's enough to load ye, 
Though ye be many. Let the slaves be freed, too; 
And all the inmates of the palace, of 
Whatever sex, now quit it in an hour. 
Thence launch the regal barks, once form'd for pleasure. 
And now to serve for safety, and embark. 
The river's broad and swoln, and unC')mmanded 
(More potent than a king) by these besiegers. 
Fly ! and be happy ! 

Pan, Under your protection ! 

So you accompany your faithful guard. 

Sar. No, Pania ! that must not be ; get thee hence, 
And leave me to my fate. 

Pan. 'T is the first time 
I ever disobey'd ; but now 

5a?-. So all men 

Dare beard me now, and Insolence within 
Apes Treason from without. Question no further; 
'T is my command, my last command. Wilt thou 
Oppose it? thou! 

Pan, But yet — not yet. 

Sar. Well, then, 

Swear that you will obey when I shall give 
The signal. 

Pan. With a heavy but true heart, 

I promise. 

Sar, 'T is enough. Now order here 

Faggots, pine-nu's, and wither'd leaves, and such 
Things as catch fire and blaze with one sole spark ; 
Bring cedar, too, and precious drugs, and spices. 
And mighty planks, to nourish a tall pile ; 
Bring frankincense and myrrh, too, for it is 
For a great sacrifice I build the pyre ! 
And heap them round yon throne. 

Pan, My lord ! 

Sar, I have said it, 

And you have sworn. 

Pan, And could keep my faith 

Without a vow. [Exit Pania. 

Myr, What mean you ? 

Sar, You shall know 

Anon — what the whole earth shall ne'er forget. 

Pania, returning with a Herald, 

Pan. My king, in going forth upon my duty. 
This herald has been brought before me, craving 
An audience. 

Sar. Let him speak. 

He.r. The King Arbaces 

Sar. What, crown'd already ? — But, proceed. 

Her. Beleses, 

The anointed high-priest 

Sar, Of what god or demon ? 

With new kings rise new altars. But, proceed j 
You are sent to prate your master's will, and not 
Reply to mine. 

Htr. And Satrap Ofratanes 

Sar, Why, he is ours. 

Her. {showing a ring.) Be sure that he is now 
In the camp of the conquerors ; behold 
His signet ring. 

Sar. 'T is his. A worthy triad ! 

Poor Salemenes ! thou hast died in time 
To see one treachery the less : this man 
Was thy true friend and my most trusted subject. 
Proceed. 

Her. They offer thee thy life, and freedom 
Of choice to single out a residence 



28 



326 



SARDANAPALUS. 



[Act V. 



In any of the further provinces, 
Guarded and watch'd, but not confined in person, 
Where thou shalt pass thy days in peace ; but on 
Condition that the three young princes are 
Given up as hostages. 

Sar. (ironically). The generous victors ! 

Her. I wait the answer. 

Sar. Answer, slave I How long 

Have slaves decided on the doom of kings ? 

Her. Since they were free. 

Sar. Mouthpiece of mutiny ! 

Thou at the least shalt learn the penalty 
Of treason, though its proxy only. Pania ! 
Let his head be thrown from our walls within 
The rebels' lines, his carcase down the river. 
Away with him ! 

[Pallia and the Guards seizing him. 

Pan. I never yet obey'd 

Your orders with more pleasure than the present. 
Hence with him, soldiers ! do not soil this hall 
Of royalty with treasonable gore ; 
Put him to rest without. 

Her. A single word : 

My office, king, is sacred. 

Sar. And what 's mine ? 

That thou shouldst come and dare to ask of me 
To lay it down ? 

Her. I but obey'd my orders, 

At the same peril if refused, as now 
Incurr'd by my obedience. 

Sar. So there are 

New monarchs of an hour's growth as despotic 
As sovereigns swathed in purple, and enthroned 
From birth to manhood ! 

Her. My life waifs your breath. 

Yours (I speak humbly) — but it may be — yours 
May also be in danger scarce less imminent: 
Would it then suit the last hours of a line 
Such as is that of Nimrod, to destroy 
A peaceful herald, unarm'd, in his office ; 
And violate not only all that man 
Holds sacred between man and man — but that 
More holy tie which links us with the gods ? 

Sar. He'sright.— Let him go free — My life's last 
act 
Shall not be one of wrath. Here, fellow, take 

[Gives him a golden cup from a table near. 
This golden goblet, let it hold your wine, 
And think of me ; or melt it into ingots. 
And think of nothing but their weight and value. 

Her. I thank you doubly for my life, and this 
Most gorgeous gift, which renders it more precious. 
But must I bear no answer ? 

Sar. Yes,— I ask 

An hour's truce to consider. 

Her. But an hour's ? 

Sar. An hour's : if at the expiration of 
That time your masters hear no further from me, 
They are to deem that I reject their terms. 
And act befittingly. 

Her. I shall not fail 

To be a faithful legate of your pleasure. 

Sar. And hark ! a word more. 

Her. I shall not forget it, 

Whate'er it be. 

Sar. Commend me to Beleses ; 

And tell him, ere a year expire, I summon 
Him hence to meet me. 

Her. Where? 

Sar. At Babylon. 

At least from thence he will depart to meet me. 

Her. I shall obey you to the letter. [Exit Herald. 

Sar. Pania! — 

Now, my good Pania ! — quick — with what I order'd. 

Pan, My lord, — the soldiers are already charged. 
And see ! they enter. 

[Soldiers enter, aiid form a Pile about the 
Throne, fyc. 

Sar. Higher, my good soldiers, 

And thicker yet ; and see that the foundation 



Be such as will not speedily exhaust 
Its own too subtle flame ; nor yet be quench'd 
With aught officious aid would bring to quell it. 
Let the throne form the core of it ; I would not 
Leave that, save fraught with fire unquenchable. 
To the new comers. Frame the whole as if 
'T were to enkindle the strong tower of our 
Inveterate enemies. Now it beirs an aspect ! 
How say you, Pania, will this pile suffice 
For a king's obsequies ? 

Pan. ■ Ay, for a kingdom's. 

I understand you, now. 

Sar. And blame me ? 

Pan. No — 

Let me but fire the pile, and share it with you. 

Myr. That duty 's mine. 

Pan. A woman's ! 

Myr. 'T is the soldier's 

Part to die for his sovereign, and why not 
The woman's with her lover ? 

Pan. 'T is most strange ! 

Myr. But not so rare, my Pania, as thou thiuk'st it. 
In the mean time, live thou.— Farewell ! the pile 
Is ready. 

Pan. I should shame to leave my sovereign 
With but a single female to partake 
His death. 

Sar. Too many far have heralded 
Me to the dust, already. Get thee hence ; 
Enrich thee. 

Pan. And live wretched ! 

Sar. Think upon 

Thy vow : — 't is sacred and irrevocable. 

Pan, Since it is so, farewell. 

Sar. Search well my chamber. 

Feel no remorse at bearing off the gold ; 
Remember, what you leave you leave the slaves 
Who slew me : and when you have borne away 
All safe off to your boats, blow one long blast 
Upon the trumpet as you quit the palace. 
The river's brink is too remote, its stream 
Too loud at present to permit the echo 
To reach distinctly from its banks. Then f]y, — 
And as you sail, turn back ; but still keep on 
Your way along the Euphrates : if you reach 
The land of Paphlagonia, where the queen 
Is safe with my three sons in Cotta's court, 
Say, what you saw at parting, and request 
That she remember what I said at one 
Parting more mournful still. 

Pan. That royal hand ! 

Let mc then once more press it to my lips ; 
And these poor soldiers who throng round you, and 
Would fain die with you ! 

[The Soldiers and Pania throng round Mm, 
kissing his hand and the hem of his robe. 

Sar. My best ! my last friends ! 

Let 's not unman each other : part at once : 
All farewells should be sudden, when for ever, 
Else they make ;in eternity of moments, 
And clog the last sad sands of life with tears. 
Hence, and be happy : trust me, I am not 
Now to be pitied ; or far more for what 
Is past than present ; — for the future, 't is 
In the hands of the deities, if such 
There be : I shall know soon. Farewell — Farewell. 
[Exeunt Pania and Soldiers. 

Myr. These men were honest : it is comfort still 
That our last looks should be on loving faces. 

Sar. And lovely ones, my beautiful ! — but hear me! 
If at this moment, — for we now are on 
The brink,— thou feel'st an inward shrinking from 
This leap through flame into the future, say it : 
I shall not love thee less ; nay, perhaps more, 
For yielding to thy nature : and there 's time 
Yet for thee to escape hence. 

Myr. Shall I light 

One of the torches which lie heap'd beneath 
The ever-burning lamp that burns without, 
Before Baal's shrine, in the adjoining hall ? 



n^Mkitfi 



Scene I.] 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



327 



Sar. Do so. Is that thy answer ? 

Myr. Thou shalt see. 

[Exit Myrrha. 

Sar. (solus). She 's firm. My fathers 1 whom I will 
rejoin, 
It may be, purified by death from some 
Of the gross stains of too material being, 
I would not leave your ancient first abode 
To the defilement of usurping bondmen ; 
If I have not kept your inheritance 
As ye bequeath'd it, this bright part of it, 
Your treasure, your abode, your sacred relics 
Of arms, and records, monuments, and spoils, 
In which they would have revell'd, I bear with me 
To you in that absorbing element, 
Which most personifies the soul, as leaving 
The least of matter unconsumed before 
Its fiery workings : — and the light of this 
Most royal of funeral pyres shall be 
Not a mere pillar form'd of cloud and flame, 
A beacon in the horizon for a day, 
And then a mount of ashes, but a light 
To lesson ages, rebel nations, and 
Voluptuous princes. Time shall quench full many 
A people's records, and a hero's acts ; 
Sweep empire after empire, like this first 
Of empires, into nothing; but even then 
Shall spare this deed of mine, and hold it up 
A problem few dare imitate, and none 
Despise — but, it may be, avoid the life 
Which led to such a consummation. 

Myrrha returns with a lighted Torch in one Hand, 
and a Cup in the other. 
Myr. Lo ! 

I 've lit the lamp which lights us to the stars. 
Sar. And the cup ? 

Myr. 'T is my country's custom to 

Make a libation to the gods. 

Sar. And mine 

To make libations amongst men. I 've not 
Forgot the custom ; andlilthough alone, 
Will drain one draught in memory of many 
A joyous banquet past. 

iSardanapalus takes the cup, and after drinking 
and tinkling the reversed cup, as a drop falls, 
exclaims — 

And this libation 
Is for the excellent Beleses. 

Myr. Why 

Dwells thy mind rather upon that man's name 
Than on his mate's in villany ? 

Sar. The one 

Is a mere soldier, a mere tool, a kind 
Of human sword in a fiend's hand ; the other 
Is master-mover of his warlike puppet : 



But I dismiss them from my mind. — Yet pause, 
My Myrrha ! dost thou truly follow me, 
Freely and fearlessly ? 

Myr. And dost thou think 

A Greek girl dare not do for love, that which 
An Indian widow braves for custom ? 

Sar. Then 

We but await the signal. 

Myr. It is long 

In sounding. 

Sar. Now, farewell ; one last embrace. 

Myr. Embrace, but not the last ; there is one more. 

Sar. True, the commingling fire will mix ourashes. 

Myr. And pure as is my love to thee, shall they. 
Purged from the dross of earth, and earthly passion. 
Mix pale with thine. A single thought yet irks me. 

Sar. Say it. 

Myr. It is that no kind hand will gather 

The dust of both into one urn. 

Sar. The better : 

Rather let them be borne abroad upon 
The winds of heaven, and scatier'd into air, 
Than be polluted more by human hands 
Of slaves and traitors. In this blazing palace, 
And its enormous walls of reeking ruin. 
We leave a nobler monument than Egypt 
Hath piled in her brick mountains, o'er dead kings. 
Or kine, for none know whether those proud piles 
Be for their monarch, or their ox-god Apis : 
So much for monuments that have forgotten 
Their very record ! 

Myr. Then farewell, thou earth ! 

And loveliest spot of earth ! farewell, Ionia ! 
Be thou still free and beautiful, and far 
Aloof from desolation ! My last prayer 
Was for thee, my last thoughts, save one^ were of thee ! 

Sar. And that ? 

Myr. Is yours. 

[The trumpet of Pania sounds without. 

Sar. Hark ! 

Myr. Now I 

Sar. Adieu, Assyria ! 

I loved thee well, my own, my fathers' land, 
And better as my country than my kingdom. 
I sated thee with peace and joys ; and this 
Is my reward ! and now I owe thee nothing. 
Not even a grave. [He mounts the pile, 

Now, Myrrha ! 
Myr. Art thou ready ? 

Sar. As the torch in thy grasp. 

[Myrrha fires the pile. 
Myr. 'T is fired ! I come. 

[As Myrrha springs forward to throw herself 
into the flames, the Curtain falls. 



THE TWO FOSCARI: 
AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY, 

The father softens, but the governor 's resolved.— CRITIC. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



MEN. 
Francis Foscari, Doge of Venice. 
Jacopo Foscari, Son of the Doge. 
James Loredano, a Patrician. 
Marco Memmo, a Chief of the Forty. 
Barbarigo, a Senator. 



Other Senators, The Council of Ten, Guards, 
Attendants, ^c. SfC. 



WOMAN. 
Marina, Wife of young Foscari. 

Scene — the Ducal Palace, Venice. 



328 



THE TWO FOSCARI: 



[Act I. 



THE TWO FOSCARI.i 
ACT I. 

SCENE I. 

A Hall in the Ducal Palace. 

Enter Loredano and Barbarigo, meeting. 

Lor. Where is the prisoner ? 

Bar. Reposing from 

The Question. 

Lor. The hour 's past — fix'd yesterday 

For the resumption of his trial. — Let us 
Rejoin our colleagues in the council, and 
Urge his recall. 

Bar. Nay, let him profit by 

A few brief minutes for his tortured limbs ; 
He was o'erwrought by the Question yesterday, 
And may die under it if now repeated. 

Lor. Well? 

Bar. I yield not to you in love of justice, 

Or hate of the ambitious Foscari, 
Father and son, and all their noxious race ; 
But the poor wretch has suflfer"d beyond nature's 
Most stoical endurance. 

Lor. Without owning 

His crime ? 

Bar. Perhaps without committing any. 

But he avow"d the letter to the Duke 
Of Milan, and his sufferings half atone for 
Such weakness. 

Lor. We shall see. 

Bar. You, Loredano, 

Pursue hereditary hate too far. 

Lor. How far ? 

Bar. To extermination. 

Lor. When they are 

Extinct, you may say this. — Let 's in to council. 

Bar. Yet pause — the number of our colleagues 
is not 
Complete yet ; two are wanting ere we can 
Proceed. 

Lor. And the chief judge, the Doge ? 

Bar. No — he, 

With more than Roman fortitude, is ever 
First at the board in this unhappy process 
Against his last and only son. 

Lor. True — true — 

His last. 

Bar. Will nothing move you ? 

Lor. Feels Tie, think you ? 

Bar. He shows it not. 

Lor. I have mark'd that — the wretch ! 

Bar. But yesterday, I hear, on his return 
To the ducal chambers, as he pass'd the threshold 
The old man fainted. 

Lor. It begins to work, then. 

Bar. The work is half your own. 

Lor. And should be all mine — 

My father and my uncle are no more. 

Bar. I have read their epitaph, which says they died 
By poison. 2 

Lor. When the Doge declared that he 

Should never deem himself a sovereign till 
The death of Peter Loredano, both 
The brothers sicken'd shortly : — he is sovereign. 

Bar. A wretched one. 

Lor. What should they be who make 

Orphans ? 

JBar. But did the Doge make you so ? 

Lor. Yes. 

Bar. What solid proofs ? 

Lor. When princes set themselves 

1 Composed at Ravenna, between the 11th of June and 
the 10th of July, 1621, and published with " Sardanapalus" 
in the following December.— E. 

2"Veneno sublatus." The tomb is in the church of 
Santa Elena.— E. 



To work in secret, proofs and process are 

Alike made difficult ; but I have such 

Of the first, as shall make the second needless. 

Bar. But you will move by law ? 

Lor. By all the laws 

Which he would leave us. 

Bar. They are such in this 

Our state as render retribution easier 
Than 'mongst remoter nations. Is it true 
That you have written in your books of commerce, 
(The weilthy practice of our highest nobles) 
" Doge Foscari, my debtor for the deaths 
Of Marco and Pietro Loredano, 
My sire and uncle?" 

Lor. It is written thus. 

Bar. And will you leave it unerased ? 

Lor. Till balanced. 

Bar. And how ? 

[Tico Seiiators pass over the stage, as in their 
way to " the Hall of the Cowicd of Ten.^' 

Lor. You see the number is complete. 

Follow me. [Exit Loredayio. 

Bar. (solus). Follow thee ! I have foUow'd long 
Thy path of desolation, as the wave 
S\veeps after tba' before it, alike whelming 
The wreck thai creaks to the wild winds, and wretch 
Who shrieks within its riven ribs, as gush 
The waters through them ; but this son and sire 
Might move the elements to pause, and yet 
Must I on hardily like them — Oh ! would 
I could as blindly and remorselessly ! — 
Lo, where he comes ! — Be still, my heart ! they are 
Thy foes, must be thy viciims : wilt thou beat 
For those who almost broke thee ? 

Enter Guards, with young Foscari as prisoner, 4-c. 

Guard. Let him rest. 

Signor, take time. 

Jac. Fos. I thank thee, friend, I 'm feeble ; 

But thou may'st stand reproved. 

Guard. I '11 stand the hazard. 

Jac. Fos. That's kind : — I meet some pity, but no 
mercy ; 
This is the first. 

Guard. And might be the last, did they 

Who rule behold us. 

Bar. (advancing to the Guard). There is one who 
does : 
Yet fear not ; I will neither be thy judge 
Nor thy accuser ; though the hour is past. 
Wait their last summons — I am of " the Ten," 
And wailing for that summons, sanction you 
Even by my presence: when the last call sounds, 
We '11 in together. — Look well to the prisoner ! 

Jac. Fos. What voice is that?— 'T is Barbarigo's ! 
Ah! 
Our house's foe, and one of my few judges. 

Bar. To balance such a foe, if such there be, 
Thy father sits amongst thy judges. 

Jac. Fos. True, 

He judges. 

Bar. Then deem not the laws too harsh 
Which yield so much indulgence to a sire, 
As to allow his voice in such high matter 
As the state's safety 

Jac. Fos. And his son's. I'm faint; 

Let me approach, I pray you, for a breath 
Of air, yon window which o'erlooks the waters. 

Enter an Officer, who whispers Barbarigo. 

Bar. (to the Guard). Let him approach. I must not 
speak with him 
Further than thus: 1 have fransgress'd my duty 
In this brief parley, and must now redeem it 
Within the Council Chamber. [£xjf Barbarigo. 

[Guard conducting Jacopo Fascari to the u/indow. 

Guard. There, sir, 't is 

Open — How feel you ? 

Jac. Fgs. Like a boy — Oh Venice I 

Guard, And your limbs ? 

Jac. Fos. Limbs ! how often have they borne me 



jii^ 



Scene I.] 



AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY. 



329 



Bounding o'er j-on blue tide, as I have skimm'd 

The gondola along in childish race, 

And, masqned as a young gondolier, amidst 

My gay competitors, notjle as I, 

Raced'for our pleasure, in the pride of strength; 

While the fair populace of crowding beauties, 

Plebeian as patrici in, cheer'd us on 

With dazzling smiles, and wishes audible. 

And waving kerchiefs, and applauding hands, 

Even to the goal ! — How many a time have I 

Cloven with arm still lustier, breast more daring:, 

The wave all roughen'd ; with a swimmer's stroke 

Flinging the billows back from my drenchd hair, 

And laughing from my lip the audacious brine, 

Which kiss d it like a wine-cup, rising o'er 

The waves as they arose, and prouder still 

The loftier (hey uplifted me ; .md oft, 

In wantonness of spirit, plunging down 

Into their green and glassy gulls, and making 

My way to shells and sea- weed, all unseen 

By those above, till they waxd fearful ; then 

Returning with my grasp full of buch tokens 

As show'd thai I had search'd the deep : exulting, 

Wilh a far-dashing s'roke, and drawing deep 

The long-suspended bieath, again I spurn'd 

The foam which broke around me, and pursued 

My track like a sea-bird. — I was a boy then. 

Guard. Be a man now : there never was more need 
Of manhood's strength. 

Jac. Fos. (looking from the lattice). My beautiful, 
my own. 
My only Venice — this is breath ! Thy breeze. 
Thine Adrian sea-breeze, how it fans my face ! 
Thy very winds feel mtive to my veins, 
And cool them into calmness! How unlike 
The hot gales of the horrid Cyclades, 
Which howl'd about my Candiote dungeon, and 
Made my heart sick. 

Guard. I see the colour comes 

Back to your cheek : Heaven send you strength to bear 
What more may be imposed ! — I dread to think on't. 

Jac. Fos. They will not banish me again ?— No — no. 
Let them wring on j I am strong yet. 

Guard. Confess, 

And the rack will be spared you. 

Jac. Fos. I confe^s'd 

Once — twice before : both times fhey exiled me. 

Guard. And the third time will slay you. 

Jac. Fns. Let them do so, 

So I be buried in my birth-phce : better 
Be ashes here than aught that lives elsewjiere. 

Guard, And can you so much love the soil which 
hates you ? 

Jac. Fos. The soil ! — Oh no, it is the seed of the soil 
Which persecu'es me; but my native earth 
Will take me as a mother to her arms. 
I ask no more than a Venetian grave, 
A dungeon, what they will, so it be here. 

Enter an Officer. 

Offi. Bring in the prisoner ! 

Guard. Signor, you hear the order. 

Jnc. Fos. Ay, I am used to such a summons ; 't is 
The third time they have toitured me : — then lend me 
Thine arm, [To the Guard. 

Offi. Take mine, sir ; 't is my duty to 

Be nearest to your person. 

Jac. Fos. You ! — you are he 

Who yesterday presided o'er my pangs — 
Away ! — I '11 walk alone. 

Offi. As you please, signor; 

The sentence was not of my signing, but 
I dared not disobey the Council when 
They 

Jac. Fos. Bade thee stretch me on their horrid en- 
gine. 
I pray thee touch me not — that is, just now ; 
The time will corne they will renew that order, 
But keep off from me till 't is issued. As 
I look upon thy hands my curdling limbs 
Quiver with the anticipated wrenching, 



28 



And the cold drops strain through my brow, as if — — 
But onward — I have borne it — I can bear it. — 
How looks my father ? 

Offi. With his wonted aspect. 

Jac. Fos. So does the earth, and sky, the blue of 
ocean. 
The brightness of our city, and her domes. 
The mirth of her Piazza, even now 
Its merry hum of nations pierces here, 
Even here, into these chambers of the unknown 
Who govern, and the unknown and the unnumber'd 
Judged and destroy'd iti silence, — all things wear 
The selfsame aspect, to my very sire 1 
Nothing can sympathise wi'h Foscari, 
Not even a Foscari.-- Sir, I attend you. 

[Exeunt Jacopo Foscari, Offix:er, ^c. 

Enter Memmo and another Se7iat07: 

Mem. He 's gone — we are too late : — think you 
"the Ten' 
Will sit for any length of time to-day ? 

Sen. They say the prisor)er is most obdurate, 
Persisting in his first avowal j but 
More I know not. 

Mem. And that is much ; the secrets 

Of yon terrific chamber are as hidden 
From us, the premier nobles of the state, 
As from the people. 

Sen. Save the wonted rumours. 

Which — like the tales of spectres, that are rife 
Near ruin'd buildings — never have been proved, 
Nor wholly disbelieved : men know as Utile 
Of the state's real acts as of the grave's 
Unfathom'd mysteries. 

Mem, But with length of time 

We gain a step in knowledge, and 1 look 
Forward to be one day of the decemvirs. 

Sen. Or Doge ? 

Mem. Why, no ; not if I can avoid it. 

Sen. 'T is the first station of the state, and may 
Be lawfully desired, and lawfully 
Attain"d by noble aspirants. 

Mem. To such 

I leave it ; though born noble, my ambition 
Is limited : I 'd rather be an unit 
Of an united and imperial " Ten," 
Than shine a lonely, though a gilded cipher. — 
Whom have we here? the wife of Foscari? 

Enter Marina, with a female .attendant. 
Mar. What, no one? — I am wrong, there still are 
two ; 
But they are senators. 

Mem. Most noble lady, 

Command us. 

Mar. I command ! — Alas ! my life 

Has been one long entreaty, and a vain one. 

Mem. I understand thee, but I must not answer. 
Mar. (fiercely). True — none dare answer here save 
on the rack, 

Or question sive those 

Mem. (inttrruptmg her). Hign-oorn dame ! 1 be- 
think thee 
Where thou now art. 

Mar. Where I now am ! — It was 

My husband's father's palace. 
Mem. The Duke's palace. 

Mar. And his son's prison ! — True, I have not for- 
got it ; 
And if there were no other nearer, bitterer 



1 She was a Contarini — 

" A daugtiler nf the house that now among 
Its anceslorK in monumental brass 
Numbers eight Doges."— ROGP^RS. 
On the occasion of her marriage with the younger Fos- 
cari, the Bucentiiur came out in its splendour; and a 
bridge of boats was thrown across the Canal Grande for 
the bridegroom, and his retinue of three hundred horse. 
According to Sanuio, the tournaments in the place of St. 
Mark lasted three days. — £. 



330 



THE TWO FOSCARI: 



[Act I. 



Remembrances, would thank the illustrious Memmo 
For pointing out the pleasures of the place. 

Mem. Be c ilm ! 

Mar. (looking vp towards heaven). I am j but oh, 
thou eternal God ! 
Canst thou continue so with such a world? 

Mem. Thy husband yet may be absolved. 

Mar. ' He is, 

In heaven. I pray you, signor senator, 
Speak not of that ; you are a man of office, 
So is the Doge ; he hr.s a son at stike 
Now, at this moment, and I have a husband. 
Or had ; they are there within, or were at least 
An hour since, face lo face, as judge and culprit: 
Will he condemn him ? 

Mem. I trust not. 

Mar. But if 

He does not, there are those will sentence both. 

Mem. They can. 

Mar. And with them power and will are one 

In wickedness : — my husband 's lost ! 

Mem. Not so j 

Justice is judge in Venice. 

Mar. If it were so, 

There now would be no Venice. But let it 
Live on, so the good die not, till the hour 
Of nature's summons ; but " the Ten's " is quicker, 
And we must wait on 't. Ah 1 a voice of wail ! 

[A faint cry within. 

Sen. Hark I 

Mem. 'T was a cry of— 

Mar. No, no ; not my husband's — 

Not Foscari's. 

Mem. The voice was — 

Mar. Nat his : no. 

He shriek ! No ; that should be his father's part, 
Not his — not his — he '11 die in silence. 

[.4 faint groan again within. 

Mem. What ! 

Again ? 

Mar. His voice I it seem'd so : I will not 
Believe it. Should he shrink, I cannot cease 
To love ; but — no — no — no — it must have been 
A fearful pang, which wrung a groan from him. 

Sen. And, feeling for thy husband's wrongs, wouldst 
thou 
Have him bear more than mortal pain, in silence ? 

Mar. We all must bear our tortures. I have not 
Left barren the great house of Foscari, 
Though they sweep both the Doge and son from life; 
I have endured as much in giving life 
To those who will succeed them, as they can 
In leaving it: but mine were joyful pangs : 
And yet they wrung me till I could have shriek'd, 
J?ut did not ; for my hope was to bring forth 
Heroes, and would not welcome them with tears. 

Mem. All 's silent now. 

Mar. Perhaps all 's over j but 

I will not deem it: he hath nerved himself, 
And now defies them. 

Enter an Officer hastily. 

Mem. How now, friend, what seek you? 

Offi. A leech. The prisoner has fainted. 

[Exit Officer. 

Mem. Lady, 

'T were better to retire. 

Sen. (offering to assist her). I pray thee do so. 

Mar. Off! / will tend him. 

Mem. You ! Remember, lady ! 

Ingress is given to none within those chambers, 
Except " the Ten," and their familiars. 

Mar. Well, 

I know that none who enter there return 
As they have enter'd — many never ; but 
They shall not balk my entrance. 

Mem. Alas ! this 

Is but to expose yourself to harsh repulse. 
And worse suspense. 

Mar. Who shall oppose me ? 



Mem. They 

Whose duty 't is to do so. 

Mar. 'T is their duty 

To trample on all human feelings, all 
Ties which bind mm to man. to emulate 
The fiends who will one day requite them in 
Variety of torturing ! Yet 1 '11 pass. 

Mem, It is impossible. 

Mar. That shall be tried. 

Despair defies even despotism ; there is 
That in my heart would make its way through hosts 
With leveird spears j and think you a few jailors 
Shall put me from my path ? Give me, then, way ; 
This is the Doge's palace ; I am wife 
Of the Duke's son, the innocent Duke's son, 
And they shall hear this ! 

Mem. It will only se^ ve 

More to exasperate his judges. 

Mar. What 

Are judges who give way to anger ? they 
Who do so are assassins. Give me way. 

[Exit Marina. 

Sen. Poor lady ! 

Mem. 'T is mere desperation : she 

Will not be admitted o'er the threshold. 

Sen. And 

Even if she be so, cannot save her husband. 
But, see, the officer re: urns. 
[The Officer passes over the stage with another person. 

Mem. 1 hardly 

Thought that " the Ten " had even this touch of pity, 
Or would permit assistance to this sufferer. 

Sen. Pity ! Is 't pity to recall to feeling 
The wretch too happy to escape to death 
By the compassionate tra'nce, poor nature's last 
Resource against the tyranny of pain ? 

Mem. I marvel they condemn him not at once. 

Sen. That "s not their policy : they 'd have him live, 
Because he fears not death ; and banish him, 
Because all earth, except his native land. 
To him is one wide prison, and each breath 
Of foreign air he draws seems a slow poison, 
Consuming but not killing. 

Mem. Circumstance 

Confirms his crimes, but he avows them not. 

Sen. None; save the Letter, which he says was 
written. 
Address'd to Milan's duke, in the full knowledge 
That it would fall into (he senate's hands, 
And thus he should be re-convey'd lo Venice. 

Mem. But as a culprit. 

Sen. Yes, but to his country; 

And that was all he sought.— so he avouches. 

Mem. The accusation of the bribes was proved. 

Sen. Not clearly, and the charge of homicide 
Has been annul I'd by the death-bed confession 
Of Nicolas Erizzo, who slew the late 
Chief of " the Ten." i 

Mem. Then why not clear him ? 

Sen. That 

They ought to answer ; for it is well known 
That Almoro Domto, as I said, 
Was slain by Erizzo for private vengeance. 



1 The extraordinary sentence pronounced against him, 
still existing among the archives of Venice, runs thus: 
— "Giacopo Foscari, accused of the murder of Hermolao 
Donato, has been arrested and examined; and, from the 
testimony, evidence, and documents exhibited, ii distinct, 
hj appears that he is guilty of the aforesaid crime : never- 
theless, on account of his obstinacy, and of enchantments 
and spells, in his possession, of which there are manifest 
proofs, it has not been possible to extract from him the 
truth, which is clear from parole and written evidence; 
for, while he was on the cord, he uttered neither word 
nor groan, but only murmured something to himself in- 
distinctly and under his breath ; therefore, as the honour 
of the state requires, he is condemned to a more distant 
banishment in Candia." Will it he credited, that a dis- 
tinct proof of his innocence, obtained by the discovery of 
the real assassin, wrought no change in his unjust and 
cruel sentence 7 See Venetian Slietches, vol. ii. p. 97.— E. 



^ji^^aiagumiuMg. 



Scene I.] 



AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY. 



331 



Mem. There must be more in this strange process 
than 
The apparent crimes of the accused disclose — 
But heVe come two of " the Ten ; " let us retire. 

[Exeunt Mernmo arid Senator. 

Enter Loredano and Barbarigo. 

Bar. {addressing Lor.) That were too much : be- 
lieve me, 't was not meet 
The trial should go further at this moment. 

Lor. And so the Council must break up, and Justice 
Pause in her full career, because a woman 
Breaks in on our deliberations ? 

Bar. No, 

That 's not the cause ; you savy the prisoner's state. 

Lor. And had he not recover'd ? 

Bar. To relapse 

Upon the least renewal. 

Lor. 'T was not tried. 

Bar. 'T is vain to murmur; the majority 
In council were against you. 

Lor. Thanks to you, sir, 

And the old ducal dotard, who combined 
The worthy voices which o'er-ruled my own. 

Bar. I am a judge ; but must confess that part 
Of our stern duty, which prescribes the Question, 
And bids us sit and see its sharp infliction, 
Makes me wish 

Lor. What ? 

Bar. That you would sometimes feel. 

As I do always. 

Lor. Go to, you 're a child, 

Infirm of feeling as of purpose, blown 
About by every breath, shook by a sigh. 
And melted by a tear — a precious judge 
For Venice ! and a worthy statesman to 
Be partner in my policy. 

Bar. He shed 

No tears. 

Lor, He cried out twice. 

Bar. A saint had done so, 

Even with the crown of glory in his eye, 
At such inhunum artifice of pain 
As was forced on him ; but he did not cry 
For pity ; not a word nor groan escaped him. 
And those two shrieks were not in supplication, 
But wrung from pangs, and foUow'd by no prayers. 

Lor. He mufter'd many times between his teeth, 
But inarticulately. 

Bar. That I heard not ; 

You stood more near him. 

Lor. I did so. 

Bar. Methought, 

To my surprise too, you were touch'd with mercy. 
And were the first to call out for assistance 
When he was failing. 

Lur. I believed that swoon 

His last. 

Bar. And have I not oft heard thee name 
His and his father's death your nearest wish? 

Lor. If he dies innocent, that is to say. 
With his guilt unavow'd, he'll be lamented. 

Bar. What, wouldst thou slay his memory ? 

Lor. Wouldst thou have 

His state descend to his children, as it must. 
If he die unattainted? 

Bar. War with them too ? 

Lor. With all their house, till theirs or mine are 
nothing. 

Bar. And the deep agony of his pale wife. 
And the repress'd convulsion of the high 
And princely brow of his old father, which 
Broke forth in a slight shuddering, though rarely, 
Or in some clammy drops, soon wiped away 
In stern serenity j these moved you not ? 

[Exit Loredano. 
He's silent in his hate, as Fosciri 
Was in his suffering ; and the poor wretch moved me 
More by his silence than a thousand outcries 
Could have effected. 'T was a dreadful sight 
When his distracted wife broke through into 



The hall of our tribunal, and beheld 

What we could scarcely look upon, long used 

To such sights. I mubt think no more of this. 

Lest 1 forget in this compassion for 

Our foes, their former injuries, and lose 

The hold of vengeance Loredano plans 

For him and me ; but mine would be content 

With lesser retribution than he thirsts for. 

And I would mitigate his deeper hatred 

To milder thoughts ; but for the present, Foscari 

Has a short hourly respite, granted at 

The instar ce of the elders of the Council, 

Moved doubtless by his wife's appearance in 

The hall, and his own sutierings.— Lo ! they come : 

How feeble and forlorn ! 1 cannot bear 

To look on them again in this extremity: 

I '11 hence, and try to soften Loredano. 

[£xrt Barbarigo. 



ACT XL 

SCENE I. 

.5, Hall in the Doge's Palace. 

The Doge and a Senator, 

Sen. Is it your pleasure to sign the report 
Now, or postpone it till to morrow ? 

Doge. Now ; 

I overlooked it ye?terday : it wants 
Merely the signature. Give me the pen — 

[The Doge sits down and signs the paper. 
There, signor. 

Sen. {looking at the paper). You have forgot j it is 
not sign'd. 

Doge. Not sign'd ? Ah, I perceive my eyes begin 
To wax more weak with age. I did not see 
That I had dipp'd the pen without effect. 

Sen. {di%ipii\g the pen into the ink, and placing the 
paper before the Doge). Your hand, too, shakes, 
my lord : allow me, thus — 

Doge. 'T is done, I thank you. 

Sen. Thus the act confirm'd 

By you and by " the Ten" gives peace to Venice. 

Doge. 'T is long since she enjoy'd it : may it be 
As long ere she resume her arms 1 

Seyi. 'T is almost 

Thirty-four years of nearly ceaseless warfare 
With the Turk, or the powers of Italy ; 
The state had need of some repose. 

Doge. No doubt ; 

I found her Queen of Ocean, -and I leave her 
Lady of Lombardy ; it is a comfort 
That I have added to her diadem 
The gems of Brescii and Ravenna ; Crema 
And Bergamo no less are hers ; her realm 
By land has grown by thus much in my reign. 
While her sea -sway has not shrunk. 

Sen. 'T is most true. 

And merits all our country's gratitude. 

Doge. Perhaps so. 

Stn. Which should be made manifest. 

Doge. I have not complain'd, sir. 

Sen. My good lord, forgive me. 

Doge. For what ? 

Sen. My heart bleeds for you. 

Doge. For me, signor ? 

Sen. And for your 

Doge. Stop ! 

Sen. It must have way, my lord : 

I have too many duties towards you 
And all your house, for past and present kindness. 
Not to feel deeply for your son. 

Doge. Was this 

In your commission ? 

Sen. What, my lord ? 

Doge. This prattle 

Of things you know not : but the treaty 's sign'd ; 
Return with it to them who sent you. 



332 



THE TWO FOSCARI; 



[Act II. 



Sen. I 

Obey. I had in charge, too, from the Council 
That you would fix an hour for their reunion. 

Doge. Say, when they will — now, even at this mo- 
ment, 
If it so please them : I am the state's servant. 

Sen. They would accord some time for your repose. 



The sire's destruction would not save the son ; 
They work by different means to the same end, 
And that is but they have not conquer'd yet. 

Mar. But they have crush'd. 

Doge. Nor crush'd as yet— I live. 

Mar. And your son, — how long will he live ? 

Doge. I trust, 



Doge. I have no repose, that is, none which shall For all that yet is past, as many years 



cause 
The loss of an hour's time unto the state. 
Let them meet when they will, I shall be found 
Where 1 should be, and what I have been ever. 

[Exit Senator. 
[The Doge remains in silence. 

Enter an Attendant. 
Att. Prince ! 
Doge. Say on. 

Att. The illustrious lady Foscari 

Requests an audience. 

Doge. Bid her enter. Poor 

Marina! [Exit Attendant. 

[The Doge remains in silence as befcrre. 

Enter Marina. 

Mar. I have ventured, father, on 
Your privacy. 

Doge, I have none from you, my child. 

Command my time, when not commanded' by 
The state. 

Mar. I wish'd to speak to you of him. 

Doge. Your husband ? 

Mar. And your son. 

Doge. Proceed, my daughter ! 

Mar. I had obtain'd peimission from "the Ten" 
To attend my husband for a limited number 
Of hours. 

Doge. You had so. 

Mar. 'T is revoked. 

Doge. By whom ? 

Mar. "The Ten."— When we had reach'd "the 
Bridge of Sighs," 
Which I prepared to pass with Foscari, 
The gloomy guardian of that passage first 
Demurr'd : a messenger was sent back *o 
" The Ten ;"— but as the court no longer sate, 
And no permission had been given in writing, 
I was thrust back, with the assurance that 
Until that high tribunal reassembled 
The dungeon walls must still divide us. 

Doge. True, 

The form has been omitted in the haste 
With which the court adjourn'd ; and till it meets, 
'T is dubious. 

Mar. Till it meets ! and when it meets, 

They '11 torture him again ; and he and I 
Must purchase by renewal of the rack 
The interview of husband and of wife, 
The holiest tie beneath the heavens! — Oh God! 
Dost thou see this? 

Doge. Child — child 

Mar. (abruptly). Call me not " child ! " 

You soon will have no children — you deserve none — 
You, who cm talk thus calmly of a son 
In circumstances which would ciH forth tears 
Of blood from Spartans ! Though these did not weep 
Their boys who died in battle, is it written 
That they beheld them perish piecemeal, nor 
Stretch'd forth a hand to save them ? 

Doge. You behold me : 

I cannot weep — I would I could ; but if 
Each white hair on this head were a young life, 
This ducal cap the diadem of earth, 
This ducal ring with which I wed the waves 
A talisman to still them — I 'd give all 
For him. 

Mar. With less he surely might be saved. 

Doge. That answer only shows you know not Ve- 
nice. 
Alas ! how should you ? she knows not herself. 
In all her mystery. Hear me — they who aim 
At Foscari, aim no less at his father : 



And happier than his father. The rash boy. 
With womanish impatience to return, 
Hath ruin'd all by that detected letter: 
A high crime, which 1 neither can deny 
Nor palliate, as parent or as Duke : 
Had he but borne a little, little longer 

His Candiote exile, I had hopes he has quench'd 

them — 
He must return. 

Mar. To exile ? 

Doge. I have said it. 

Mar. And can I not go with him ? 

Doge. You well know 

This prayer of yours was twice denied before 
By the assembled " Ten," and hardly now 
Will be accorded to a third request, 
Since aggravated errors on the part 
Of your lord renders them still more austere. 

Mar. Austere ? Atrocious ! The old human fiends, 
With one foot in the grave, with dim eyes, strange 
To tears save drops of dotage, with long white 
And scanty hairs, and shaking hands, and heads 
As palsied as their hearts are hard, they council. 
Cabal, and put men's lives out, as if life 
Were no more th;in the feelings long extinguish'd 
In their accursed bosoms. 

D(ge. You know not 

Mar. I do — I do — and so should you, methinks — 
That these are demons ; could it be else that 
Men, who have been of women born and suckled — 
I Who have loved, or talk'd at leist of love — have given 
' Their hands in sacred vows — have danced their babes 
Upon their knees, perhaps have mourn'd above them — 
In pain, in peril, or in death — who are. 
Or were at least in seeming, human, could 
Do as they have done by yours, and you yourself — 
You, who abet them ? 

Doge. I forgive this, for 

You know not what you say. 

Mar. You know it well. 

And feel it nothing. 

Doge. I have borne so much. 

That words have ceased to shake me. 

Mar. Oh, no doubt ! 

You have seen your son's blood flow, and your flesh 

shook not; 
And after that, what are a woman's words? 
No more than woman's tears, that they should shake 
you. 

Doge. Woman, this clamorous grief of thine, I tell 
thee. 
Is no more in the balance weigh'd with that 
Which but 1 pity thee, my poor Marina ! 

Mar. Pity my husband, or I cast it from me; 
Pity thy son ! Thou pity ! — 't is a word 
Strange to thy heart — how came it on thy lips ? 
I Doge. I must bear these reproaches, though they 
I wrong me. 

I Couldst thou but read 

I Mar. 'T is not upon thy brow, 

Nor in thine eyes, nor in thine acts, — where then 
, Should I behold this sympathy ? or shall ? 

Doge {pointing downwards). There. 

Mar. In the earth ? 

Doge. To which I am tending: when 

It lies upon this heart, far iightlier, though 
I Loaded with marble, than the thoughts which press it 
Now, you will know me better. 

Mar. Are you, then. 

Indeed, thus to be pitied ? 
I Doge. Pitied! None 

Shall ever use that base word, with which men 
Cloak their soul's hoarded triumph, as a fit one 



|- i^lT Dm UTa 



Scene I.] 



AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY. 



333 



To mingle with my name ; that name shall be, 
As far as / have borne it, what it was 
When I received it. 

Mar. But for the poor children 

Of him thou canst not, or thou wilt not save, 
You were the last to bear it. 

Doge. Would it were so ! 

Better for him he never had been born ; 
Better for me.— I have seen our house dishonour'd. 

Mar. That's false! A truer, nobler, trustier heart. 
More loving, or more loyal, never beat 
Within a human breast. I would not change 
My exiled, persecuted, mangled husband, 
Oppress'd but not disgraced, crush'd, overwhelm'd, 
Alive, or dead, for prince or paladin 
In story or in fable, with a world 
To back his suit. Dishonour'd ! — he dishonour'd ! 
I tell thee, Doge, 't is Venice is dishonour'd; 
His name shall be her foulest, worst reproach, 
For what he sufi'ers, not for what he did. 
'T is ye who are all traitors, tyrant ! — ye ! 
Did you but love your country like this victim 
Who totters b.-\ck in chains to tortures, and 
"Submits to all things rrtther than to exile. 
You'd fling yourjelves before him, and implore 
His grace for your enormous guilt. 

Doge. He was 

Indeed all you have said. I better bore ' 

The deaths of the two sons Heaven took from me. 
Than Jacopo's disgrace. 

Mar. That word again ? 

Doge. Has he not been condemn'd ? 

Mar. Is none but guilt so ? 

Doge. Time may restore his memory-— I would 
hope so. 

He was my pride, my but 't is useless now — 

I am not given to tears, but wept for joy 
When he" was born : those drops were ominous. 

Mar. I say he's innocent ! And were he not so, 
Is our own blood and kin to shrink from us 
In fatal moments? 

Doge. I shrank not from him : 

But I have other duties than a father's ; 
The state would not dispense me from those duties ; 
Twice I demanded it, but was refused : 
They must then be fulfill'd. 

Enter an Attendant. 

Att. A message from 

« The Ten." 

Doge. Who bears it ? 

Att. Noble Loredano. 

Doge. He ! — but admit him. [Exit Attendant. 

Mar. Must I then retire ? 

Doge. Perhaps it is not requisite, if this 

Concerns your husband, and if not Well, signor, 

Your pleasure ! {To Loredano entering. 

Lor. I bear that of " the Ten." 

Doge. They 

Have chosen well their envoy. 

Lor. 'T is their choice 

Which leads me here. 

Doge. It does their wisdom honour, 

And no less to their courtesy. — Proceed. 

Lor. We have decided. 

Doge. We ? 

Lor. " The Ten " in council. 

Doge. What ! have they met again, and met without 
Apprising me ? 

Lor. They wish'd to spare your feelings, 

No less than age. 

Doge. That 's new — when spared they either ? 
I thank them, notwithstanding. 

Lor. You know well 

That they have power to act at their discretion. 
With or without the presence of the Doge. 

Doge. 'T is some years since I learn'd this, long be- 
fore 
I became Doge, or dream'd of such advancement. 
You need not school me, signor ; I sate in 
That council when you were a young patrician. 



Lor. True, in my father's time j I have heard him 
and 
The admiral, his brother, say as much. 
Your highness may remember them j they both 
Died suddenly. 

Doge. And if they did so, better 

So die than live on lingeringly in pain. 

Lor. No doubt : yet most men like to live their days 
out. 

Doge. And did not they ? 

Lor. The grave knows best : they died. 

As I said, suddenly. 

Doge. Is that so strange. 

That you repeat the word emphatically ? 

Lor. So far from strange, that never was there death 
In my mind half so natural as theirs. 
Think yow not so? 

Doge. What should I think of mortals ? 

Lor. That they have mortal foes. 

Doge. I understand you ; 

Your sires were mine, and you are heir in all things. 

Lor. You best know if I should be so. 

Doge. I do. 

Your fathers were my foes, and I have heard 
Foul rumours were abroad ; I have also read 
Their epitaph, attributing their deaths 
To poison. 'T is perhaps as true as most 
Inscriptions upon tombs, and yet no less 
A fible. 

Lor. Who dares say so ? 

Doge. I ! — 'T is true 

Your fathers were mine enemies, as bitter 
As their son e'er can be, and I no less 
Was theirs ; but I was openly their foe : 
I never work'd by plot in council, nor 
Cabal in commonwealth, nor secret means 
Of practice against life by steel or drug. 
The proof is your existence. 

Lor. I fear not. 

Doge. You have no cause, being what I am; but 
were I 
That you would have me thous:ht, you long erenow 
Were past the sense of feir. Hate on ; I care not. 

Lor. I never yet knew that a noble's life 
In Venice had to dread a Doge's frown, 
That is, by open means. 

Doge. But I, good signor, 

Am, or at least was, more than a mere duke, 
In blood, in mind, in means ; and that they know 
Who dreaded to elect me, and have since 
Striven all they dare to weigh me down : be sure. 
Before or since that period, had I held you 
At so much price as to require your absence, 
A word of mine had set such spirits to work 
As would have made you nothing. But in all things 
I have observed the strictest reverence; 
Not for the laws alone, for those you have strain'd 
(I do not speak of you but as a single 
Voice of the many) somewhat beyond what 
I could enforce for my authority, 
Were I disposed to brawl ; but, as I said, 
I have observed with veneration, like 
A priest's for the high altar, even unto 
The sacrifice of my own blood and quiet. 
Safety, and all save honour, the decrees. 
The health, the pride, and welfare of the state. 
And now, sir, to your business. 

Lor. 'Tis decreed. 

That, without further repetition of 
The Question, or continuance of the trial, 
Which only tends to show how stubborn guilt is, 
(" The Ten," dispensing with the stricter law 
Which still prescribes the Question till a full 
Confession, and the prisoner partly having 
Avow'd his crime in net denying that 
The letter to the Duke of Milan 's his), 
James Foscari return to banishment, 
And sail in the same galley which convev'd him. 

Mar. Thank God ! At least they will not drag him 
more 
Before that horrible tribunal. Would he 



334 



THE TWO FOSCARI: 



[Act II. 



But think so, to my mind the happiest doom, 
Not he alone, but all who dwell here, could 
Desire, were to escape from such a land. 

Doge. That is not a Venetian thought, my daughter. 

Mar. No, 't was too human. May I share his exile ? 

Lor. Of this " the Ten " said nothing. 

Mar. So I thought ! 

That were too human, also. But it was uot 
Inhibited ? 

Lor, It was not named. 

Mar. {to the Doge). Then, father. 

Surely you can obtain or grant me thus much : 

[To Loredano. 
And you, sir, not oppose my prayer to be 
Permitted to accompany my husband. 

Doge. I will endeavour. 

Mar. And you, signor ? 

Lor. Lady ! 

'T is not for me to anticipate the pleasure 
Of (he tribunal. 

Mar. Pleasure ! what a word 
To u^e for the decrees of 

Doge. Daughter, know you 

In what a presence you pronounce these things? 

Mar. A prince's and his subject's. 

Lor. Subject ! 

Mar. Oh I 

It galls you : — well, you are his equal, as 
You think ; but that you are not, nor would be. 
Were he a peasant : — well, then, you 're a prince, 
A princely noble; and what then am I ? 

Lor. The offspring of a noble house. 

Mar. And wedded 

To one as noble. What, or whose, then, is 
The presence that should silence my free thoughts ? 

Lor. The presence of your husband's judges. 

Doge. And 

The deference due even to the lightest word 
That falls from those who rule in Venice. 

Mar. Keep 

Those maxims for your mass of scared mechanics, 
Your merchants, your Dalmatian and Greek slaves, 
Your tributaries, your dumb citizens, 
And mask"d nobility, your sbirri, and 
Your spies, your galley and your other slaves, 
To whom your midnight carryings off and drownings, 
Your dungeons next the palace roofs, or under 
The water's level ; your mysterious meetings, 
And unknown dooms, and sudden executions, 
Your "Bridge of Sighs," your strangling chamber, 

and 
Your torturing in>truments, have made ye seem 
The beings of another and worse world ! 
Keep such for them : I fear ye not. I know ye ; 
Have known and proved your worst, in the infernal 
Process of my poor husband ! Treat me as 
Ye treated him : — you did so, in so dealing 
With him. Then what have I to fear from you. 
Even if I were of fearful nature, which 
I trust I am not } 

Doge. You hear, she speaks wildly. 

Mar. Not wisely, yet not wildly. 

Lor. Lady ! words 

Utter'd within these walls I bear no further 
Than to the threshold, saving such as pass 
Between the Duke and me on the state's service. 
Doge 1 have you aught in answ er ? 

Doge. Something from 

The Doge ; it miy be also from a parent. 

Lor. My mission here is to the Doge. 

Doge. Then say 

The Doge will choose his own ambassador. 
Or statein person what is meet; and for 
The father 

Lor. I remember mine. — Farewell ! 

I kiss the hinds of the illustrious lady, 
And bow me to the Duke. [Exit Loredano. 

Mar. Are you content ? 

Doge. 1 am what you behold. 

Mar. And that 's a mystery. 



Doge. All things are so to mortals; who can read 
them 
Save he who made ? or, if they can, the tew 
And gifted spirits, who have studied long 
That loathsome volume — man, and pored upon 
I Those black and bloody leaves, his heart and brain, 
j But learn a magic which recoils upon 
The adept who pursues it : all the sins 
We find in others, nature made our own ; 
All our advantages are those of fortune ; 
Birth, weallh, health, beauty, are her accidents, 
And when we cry out agiinst Fate, 't were well 
We should remember Fortune can take nought 
Save what she gave — the rest was nakedness, 
And lusts, and appetites, and vanities. 
The universU heritage, to battle 
With as we may, and least in humblest stations. 
Where hunger swallows all in one low want. 
And the original ordinance, that man 
Must sweat for his poor pittance, keeps all passions 
Aloof, save fear of famine ! All is low. 
And false, and hollow — clay from first to last, 
The prince's urn no less than potter's vessel. 
Our fame is in men's breath, our lives up ;n 
Less than their breith ; our durance upon days. 
Our days on seasons ; our whole being on 
Something which is not us .' — So, we are slaves, 
The greatest as the meanest — nothing rests 
Upon our will; the will itself no less 
Depends upon a straw than on a storm ; 
And when we think we lead, we are most led, 
And still towards death, a thing which comes as much 
Without our act or choice as birth, so that 
Methinks we must have sinn'd in some old world. 
And this is hell : the best is, that it is not 
Eternal. 

Mar. These are things we cannot judge 
On earth. 

Doge, And how then shall we judge each other. 
Who are all earth, and I, who am call'd upon 
To judge my son ? I have administer'd 
My country faithfully — victoriously — 
I dare them to the proof, the chart of what 
She was and is : my reisn has doubled realms ; 
And, in reward, the gratiiude of Venice 
Has left, or is about to leave, me single. 

Mar. And Foscari ? I do not think of such things, 
So I be left with him. 

Doge. You shall be so ; 

Thus much they cannot well deny. 

Mar. And if 

They s-hould, I will fly with him. 

Doge. ' That can ne'er be. 

And whither would you fiy ? 

Mar. I know not, reck not — 

To Syria, Egypt, to the Ottoman — 
Any where, where we might respire unfetter'd. 
And live nor girt by spies, nor liable 
To edicts of inquisitors of state. 

Doge. What, wouldst thou have a renegade for hus- 
band. 
And turn him into traitor? 

Mar. He is none ! 

The country is the traitress, which thrusts forth 
Her best and bravest from her. Tyranny 
Is far the worst of tre^isons. Dnst thou deem 
None rebels except subjects ? The prince who 
Neglects or violates his trust is more 
A brigand than the robber-chief. 

Doge. I cannot 

Charge me with such a breach of faith. 

Mar. No ; thou 

Observ'st, obey'st, such laws as make old Draco's 
A code of mercy by comparison. 

Doge. I found the law; I did not make it. Were I 
A subject, sill I might find parts and portions 
Fit for amendment ; but as prince, I never 
Would change, for the sake of my house, the charter 
I Left by our fathers. 

I Mar. Did they make it for 

The ruin of their children? 



Scene I.] 



AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY. 



335 



Doge. Under such laws, Venice 

Has risen to what she is — a state to rival 
In deeds, and days, and sway, and, let me add, 
In glory (for we have had Roman spirits 
Amongst us), all that history has bequeath'd 
Of Rome and Carthage in their best times, when 
The people sway'd by senates. 

Mar. Rather say, 

Groan'd under the stern oligarchs. 

Doge. Perhaps so ; 

But yet subdued the world : in such a state 
An individual, be he richest of 
Such rank as is permit'ed, or the meanest, 
Without a name, is alike nothing, when 
The policy, irrevocably tending 
To one great end, must be maintained in vigour. 

Mar. This means that you are more a Doge than 
father. 

Doge. It means, I am more citizen than either. 
If we had not for many centuries 
Had thousands of such citizens, and shall, 
I trust, have still such, Venice were no city. 

Mar. Accursed be the city where the laws 
Would stifle nature's ! 

Doge. Had I as many sons 

As I have years, I would have given them all, 
Not without feeling, but I would have given them 
To the state's service, to fulfil her wishes 
On the flood, in the field, or, if it must be, 
As it, alas ! has been, to ostracism, 
Exile, or chnius, or whatsoever worse 
She might decree. 

• Mar. And this is patriotism ? 

To me it seems the worst barbarity. 
Let me seek out my husband : the sage *• Ten," 
With all its jealousy, will hardly war 
So far with a weak woman as deny me 
A moment's access to his dungeon. 

Doge. I'll 

So far take on myself, as order that 
You may be admitted. 

Mar. And what shall I say 

To Foscari from his father ? 

Doge. That he obey 

The laws. 

Mar. And nothing more ? Will you not see him 
Ere he depart ? It may be the last time. 
Doge. The last ! — my boy ! — the last time I shall 
see 
My last of children ! Tell him I will come. 

lExmnt. 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. 

The Prison of Jacopo Foscari. 
Jac. Fos. (solus). No light, save yon faint gleam 
which shows me walls 
Which never echo'd but to sorrow's sounds. 
The sigh of long imprisonment, the step 
Of feet on which the iron clank'd, the groan 
Of death, the imprecation of despair ! 
And yet for this I have return'd to Venice, 
With some faint hope, 't is true, that time, which 

wears 
The marble down, had worn away the hate 
Of men's hearts ; but I knew them not, and here 
Must I consume my own, which never beat 
For Venice but with such a yearning as 
The dove has for her distant nest, when wheeling 
High in the air on her return to greet 
Her callow brood. What letters are these which 

[Approaching the wall. 
Are scrawl'd along the inexorable wall ? 
Will the gleam let me trace them ? Ah ! the names 
Of my sad predecessors in this pi ice, 
The dates of their despair, the brief words of 
A grief too great for many. This stone page 



Holds like an epitaph their history ; 
And the poor captive's tale is graven on 
His dungeon barrier, like the lover's record 
Upon the bark of some tall tree, which bears 
His own and his beloved's name, Alas ! 
I recognise some names familiar to me, 
And blighted like to mine, which I will add, 
Fittest tor such a chronicle as this, 
Which only can be read, as writ, by wretches. 

[He engraves his name. 

Enter a Familiar of " the Te3i.^' 
Fam. I bring you food. 

Jac. Fos. I pray you set it down j 

I am past hunger : but my lips are parch'd — 
The water ! 
Fam. There, 

Jac. Fos. (after drinking). I thank you : I am 

better, 
Fam. I am commanded to inform you that 
Your further trial is postponed. 
Jac. Fos. ' Till when ? 

Fam. 1 know not. — It is also in my orders 
That your illustrious lady be admitted. 
Jac. Fos. Ah ! they relent, then — I had ceased to 
hope it J 
'T was time. 

Enter Marina. 
Mar. My best beloved ! 

Jac. Fos. (embracing her). My true wife, 
And only friend ! What happiness ! 

Mar. We '11 part 

No more. 
Jac. Fos. How ! wouldst thou share a dungeon ? 
Mar. Ay, 

The rack, the grave, all — any thing with thee, 
But the tomb last of all, for there we shall 
Be ignorant of each other, yet I will 
Share that — all things except new separation ; 
It is too much to have survived the first. 
How dost thou ? How are those worn limbs? Alas ! 

Why do I ask ? Thy paleness 

Jac. Fos. 'T is the joy 

Of seeing thee again so soon, and so 
Without expectancy, has sent the blood 
Back to my heart, and left my cheeks like thine, 
For thou art pale too, my Marina ! 

Mar. 'T is 

The gloom of this eternal cell, which never 
Knew sunbeam, and the sallow sullen glare 
Of the familiar's torch, which seems akin 
To darkness more than light, by lending to 
The dungeon vapours its bituminous smoke, 
Which cloud whate'er we gaze on, even thine eyes — 
No, not thine eyes— they sparkle— how they sparkle ! 
Jac. Fos. And thine I — but I am blinded by the 

torch. 
Mar. As I had been without it. Couldst thou see 

here ? 
Jac. Fos. Nothing at first ; but use and time had 
taught me 
Familiarity with what was darkness ; 
And the grey twilight of such glimmerings as 
Glide through the crevices made by the winds 
Was kinder to mine eyes than the full sun, 
When gorgeously o'ergilding any towers 
Save those of Venice ; but a moment ere 
Thou earnest hither I was busy writing. 
Mar. What? 

Jac. Fos. My name : look, 't is there— recorded next 
The name of him who here preceded me, 
If dungeon dates say true. 
Mar. And what of him ? 

Jac. Fos. These walls are silent of men's ends ; they 
only 
Seem to hint shrewdly of them. Such stern walls 
Were never piled on high save o'er the dead, 
Or those who soon must be so.— What of hitn ? 
Thou askest.— What of me ? may soon be ask'd, 
With the like answer — doubt and dreadful surmise — 
Unless thou tell'st my tale. 






336 



THE TWO FOSCART: 



[Act III. 



Mar. I speak of thee ! 

Jac. Fns. And wherefore not ? All then shall speak 
of me: 
The tyranny of silence is not lasting, 
And, though events be hidden, just men's groans 
Will burst all cerement, even a living grave's ! 
I do not duubt my memory, but my life; 
And neither do I fear. 

Mar. Thy life is safe. 

Jac. Fos. And libertv ? 

Mar. The mind should make its own. 

Jac. Fos. Thnt has a noble sound ; but 't is a sound, 
A music most impressive, but too transient : 
The mind is much, but is not all. The mind 
Hath nerved me to endure the risk of death, 
And torture positive, far worse than death 
(If death be a deep sleep), without a groan, 
Or with a cry which rather shamed my judges 
Than me ; but 't is not all, for there are things 
More vvoful — such as this small dungeon, where 
I may breathe many years. 

Mar. Alas ! and this 

Small dungeon is all that belongs to thee 
Of this wide realm, of which thy sire is prince. 
Jac. Fos. That thought would scarcely aid me to 
endure it. 
My doom is common ; miny are in dungeons, 
But none like mine, so near their father's palace; 
But then my heart is sometimes high, and hope 
Will stream along those mofed rays of light 
Peopled with dusty atoms, which afford 
Our only day ; for, save the gaoler's torch, 
And a strange firefly, which was quickly caught 
Last night in yon enormous spider's net, 
I ne'er saw aught here like a ray. Alas '. 
I know if mind may bear us up, or no, 
For I have such, and shown it before men; 
It sinks in solitude : my soul is social. 
Mar. I will be with thee. 
Jac. Fos. Ah ! if it were so ! 

But that they never granted — nor will grant, 
And I shall be alone : no men — no books — 
Those lying likenesses of lying men. 
I ask'd for even those outlines of their kind, 
Which they term annals, history, what you will. 
Which men bequeath as portraits, and they were 
Refused me,— so these walls have been my study, 
More faithful pictures of Venetian story. 
With all their blank, or dismal stains, than is 
The Hall not far from hence, which bears on high 
Hundreds of doges, and their deeds and dates. 
Mar. I come to tell thee the result of their 
Last council on thy doom. 
Jac. Fos. I know it —look ! 

[He points to his limbs, as referring to the Ques- 
tion which he had undergone. 
Mar. No — no — no more of that : even they relent 
From that atrocity. 
Jac. Fos. What then ? 

Mar. That you 

Return to Candia. 

Jac. Fos. Then my last hope 's gone. 

I could endure my dungeon, for t' was Venice; 
I could support the torture, there was something 
In my native air that buoy'd my spirits up 
Like a ship on the ocean toss'd by storms. 
But proudly still bestriding the high waves, 
And holding on its course ! but there, afar. 
In that accursed isle of slaves and captives, 
And unbelievers, like a stranded wreck, 
My very soul seem'd mouldering in my bosom, 
And piecemeal I shall perish, if remanded. 
Mar. And here ? 

Jac. Fos. At once — by better means, as briefer. 
What ! would they even deny me my sire's sepulchre. 
As well as home and heritage ? 

Mar. My husband ! 

I have sued to accompany thee hence, 
And not so hopelessly. This love of thine 
For an ungrateful and tyrannic soil 
Is passion, and not patriotism ; for me. 



So I could see thee with a quiet aspect, ^ 
And the sweet freedom of the earth and air, 
I would not cavil about climes or regions. 
This crowd of palaces and prisons is not 
A paradise ; its first inhabitants 
Were wretched exiles. 
Jac. Fos. Well I know how wretched ? 

Mar. And yet you see how, from their banishment 
Before the Tartar into these salt isles, 
Their antique energy of mind, all that 
Remain'd of Romefor their inheritance. 
Created by degrees an ocean Rome ; i 
And shall an evil, which so often leads 
To good, depress thee thus ? 

Jac. Fos. Had I gone forth 

From my own land, like the old patViarchs, seeking 
Another region, with their flocks and herds; 
Had I been cast out like the Jews from Zion, 
Or like our fathers, driven by Attila 
From fertile I'aly, to barren islets, 
I would have given some tears to my late country, 
And many thoughts ; but afterwaids address'd 
Myself, with those about me, to create 
A new home and fresh state : perhaps I could 
Have borne this — though I know not. 

Mar. WTierefore not ? 

It was the lot of millions, and must be 
The fate of myriads more. 

Jac. Fos. Ay — we but hear 

Of the survivors' toil in their new lands. 
Their numbers and success : but who can number 
The hearts which broke in silence at that parting, 
Or afier their departure ; of that malady 3 
Which calls up green and native fields to view 
From the rough deep, with such identity 
To the poor exile's fever'd eye, that he 
Can scarcely be restrain'd from treading them ? 
That melody,3 which out of tones and tunes 
Collects such pasture for the longing sorrow 
Of the sad mountaineer, when far away 
From his snow canopy of cliffs and clouds. 
That he feeds on the sweet, but poisonous thought. 
And dies. You call this voeakness ! It is strength, 

V,— the parent of all honest feeling. 
He who loves not his country, can love nothing. 

Mar. Obey her, then : 'tis she that puts thee forth. 

Jac. Fos. Ay, there it is ; H is like a mother's curse 
Upon my soul — the mark is set upon me. 
The exiles you speak of went forth by nations. 
Their hands upheld each other by the" way. 
Their tents were pitch'd together — I 'm alone. 

Mar. You shall be so no more — I will go with thee, 

Jac. Fos. My best Marina 1 — and our children? 

Mar. They, 

I fear, by the prevention of the state's 
Abhorrent policy, (which holds all ties 
As threads, which may be broken at her pleasure,) 
Will not be suffer'd to' proceed with us. 

Jac. Fos. And canst thou leave them ? 



1 In Lady Morgan's fearless and excellent work upon 
Italy, I perceive the expression of " Rome of the Ocean" 
applied to Venice. The same phrase occurs in the " Two 
Foscari." My publisher can vouch for me, that the 
tragedy was written and sent to England some time before 
I had seen Lady Morgan's work, which I only received on 
the 16th of August. I hasten, however, to notice the 
coincidence, and to yield the originality of the phrase to 
her who first placed it before the public." 

2 The Calenture.— [A distemper peculiar to sailors in 
hot climates — 

" So by a calenture misled 

The mariner with rapture sees 
On the smooth ocean's azure bed 

Enamel'd fields and verdant trees: 
With eager haste he longs to rove, 

In that fantastic scene, and thinks 
It must be some enchanted grove. 
And in he leaps, and down he sinks." — 

SWIFT.— E.] 

3 Alluding to the Swiss air and its effects. 



Scene I.] 



AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY. 



337 



Mar. Yes. With many a pang. 

But — I can leave (hem, children as they are, 
To teach you to be less a child. From this 
Learn you to sway your feelings, when exacted 
By duties paramount ; and 't is our first 
On earth to bear. 

Jac. Fos. Have I not borne ? 

Mar. Too much 

From tyrannous injustice, and enough 
To teach you not to shrink now from a lot, 
Which, as compared with what you have undergone 
Of late, is mercy. 

Jac. Fos. Ah 1 you never yet 

Were far away from Venice, never saw 
Her beautiful towers in the receding distance, 
While every furrow of the vessel's track 
Seena'd ploughing deep into your heart ; you never 
Saw day go down upon your native spires 
So calmly with its gold and crimson glory, 
And after dreaming a disturbed vision 
Of them and theirs, awoke and found them not. 

Mar. I will divide this with you. Let us think 
Of our departure from this much-loved city, 
(Since you must love if, as it seems,) and this 
Chamber of state, her gratitude allots you. 
Our children will be cared for by the Doge, 
And by my uncles : we must sail ere night. 

Jac. Fos. That 's sudden. Shall I not behold my 
father ? 

Mar. You will. 

Jac. Fos. Where ? 

Mar. Here, or in the ducal chamber — 

He said not which. I would that you could bear 
Your exile as he bears it. 

Jac. Fos. Blame him not. 

I sometimes murmur for a moment ; but 
He could not now act otherwise. A show 
Of feeling or compassion on his part 
Would have but drawn upon his aged head 
Suspicion from " the Ten," and upon mine 
Accumulated ills. 

Mar. Accumulated ! 

What pangs are those they have spared you ? 

Jac. Fos. That of leaving 

Venice without beholding him or you, 
Which might have been forbidden now, as 't was 
Upon my former exile. 

Mar. That is true, 

And thus far I am also the state's debtor. 
And shall be more so when I see us both 
Floating on the free waves — away — away — 
Be it to the earth's end, from this abhorr'd. 
Unjust, and 

Jac. Fos. Curse it not. If I am silent. 

Who dares accuse my country ? 

Mar. Men and angels ! 

The blood of myriads reeking up to heaven, 
The groans of slaves in chains, and men in dungeons, 
Mothers, and wives, and sons, and sires, and subjects, 
Held in the bondage of ten bald-heads j and 
Though last, not least, thy silence ! Conldsit thou say 
Aught in its favour, who would praise like thee ? 

Jac. Fos. Let us address us then, since so it must be, 
To our departure. Who comes here ? 

Enter Loredano, attended by Familiars. 

Lor, (to the Familiars). Retire, 

But leave the torch. [Exeunt the two Familiars. 

Jac. Fos. Most welcome, noble signor. 

I did not deem this poor place could have drawn 
Such presence hither. 

Lor. 'T is not the first time 

I have visited these places. 

Mar. Nor would be 

The last, were all men's merits well rewarded. 
Came you here to insult us, or remain 
As spy upon us, or as hostage for us ? 

Lor. Neither are of my office, noble lady ! 
I am sent hither to your husband, to 
Announce " the Ten's " decree. 



Mar. That tenderness 

Has been anticipated s it is known. * 

Lor. As how ? 

Mar. I have inform'd him, not so gently, 

Doubtless, as your nice feelings would prescribe. 
The indulgence of your colleagues ; but he knew it. 
If you come for our thanks, take them, and hence ! 
The dungeon gloom is deep enough without you. 
And full of reptiles, not less loathsome, though 
Their sting is honester. 

Jac. Fos. 1 pray you, calm you : 

What can avail such words ? 

Mar. To let him know 

That he is known. 

Lor. Let the fair dame preserve 

Her sex's privilege. 

Mar. I have some sons, sir, 

Will one day thank you better. 

Lor. You do well 

To nurse them wisely. Foscari — you know 
Your sentence, then ? 

Jac. Fos. Return to Candia ? 

Lor. True — 

For life. 

Jac. Fos. Not long. 

Lor. I said -- for life. 

Jac. Fos. And I 

Repeat — not long. 

Lor. A year's imprisonment 

In Canea — afterwards the freedom of 
The whole isle. 

Jac. Fos. Both the same to me : the after 

Freedom as is the first imprisonment. 
Is 't true my wife accompanies me ? 

Lor. Yes, 

If she so wills it. 

Mar. Who obtain'd that justice ? 

Lor. One who wars not with women. 

Mar. But oppresses 

Men : howsoever let him have my thanks 
For the only boon I would have ask'd or taken 
From him or such as he is. 

Lor. He receives them 

As they are oiFer'd. 

Mar. May they thrive with him 

So much ! — no more. 

Jac. Fos. Is this, sir, your whole mission ? 

Because we have brief time for preparation. 
And you perceive your presence doth disquiet 
This lady, of a house noble as yours. 

Mar. Nobler! 

Lor. How nobler? 

Mar. As more generous ! 

We say the '< generous steed " to express the purity 
Of his high blood. Thus much I 've learnt, although 
Venetian (who see few steeds save of bronze). 
From those Venetians who have skimm'd the coas's 
Of Egypt and her neighbour Araby : 
And why not say as soon the " generous man ?" 
If race IJe aught, it is in qualities 
More than in years; and mine, which is as old 
As yours, is better in its product, nay — 
Look not so stern —but get you back, and pore 
Upon your genealogic tree's most green 
Of leaves and most mature of fruits, and there 
Blush to find ancestors, who would have blush'd 
For such a son — thou cold inveterate hater! 

Jac, Fos. Again, Marina I 

Mar. Again ! still, Marina. 

See you not, he comes here to glut his hate 
With a last look upon our misery ? 
Let him partake it ! 

Jac. Fos. That were difficult. 

Mar. Nothing more easy. He partakes it now — 
Ay, he may veil beneath a marble brow 
And sneering lip the pang, but he partakes it. 
A few brief words of truth shame the devil's servants 
No less than ma>ter ; I have probed his soul 
A moment, as the eternal fire, ere long. 
Will reach it always. See how he shrinks from me! 
With death, and chains, and exile in his hand, 



29 



22 



338 



THE TWO FOSCARI: 



[Act III. 



To scatter o'er his kind as he thinks fit ; 
They are his weapons, not his armour, for 
I have pierced him to tiie core of his cold heart. 
I care nol for his frowns ! We can but die, 
And he but live, for him the very worst 
Of destinies : each day becures him more 
His tempter's. 

Jac. Fus. This is mere insanity. 

Mar. It may be so ; and who hath made us mad ? 

Lor. Let her go on ; it irks uot me. 

Mar. That 's false ! 

You cime here to enjoy a heartless triumph 
Of cold looks upon m.inifold griefs ! You came 
To be sued to in vain — to mark our teais, 
And hoard our groans — to gaze upon the wreck 
Which you have made a prince's son — my husband; 
In short, to trample on the fallen— an office 
The hangman shrinks from, as all men from him! 
How have you sped ? We are wretched, signor, as 
Your plots could make, and vengeance could desire us, 
And how feel you ? 

Lor. As rocks. 

Mar. By thunder blasted : 

They feel not, but no less are shiver'd. Come,' 
Foscari ; now let us go, and leave this felon, 
The sole fit habitant of such a cell. 
Which he nrts peopled often, but ne'er fitly 
Till he himse;f shall brood in it aloue. 

Enter the Doge. 

Jac. Fos. My father ! 

Doge {embracing him). Jacopo ! my son — my son ! 

Jac. Fos. My father still ! How long it is since I 
Have heard thee name my name — our name ! 

Doge. My boy ! 

Couldst thou but know 

Jac. Fos. I rarely, sir, have murmur'd. 

Doge. I feel too much thou hast not. 

Mar. Dige, look there ! 

[She points to Lortdano. 

Doge. I see the man — what mean'st thou ? 

Mar. Caution ! 

Lor. Being 

The virtue which this noble lady most 
May practise, she doth well to recommend it. 

Mar. Wretch! 'tis no virtue, but the policy 
Of those who fain must deal perforce with vice : 
As such I recommend it, as I would 
To one vvhoie foot was on an adder's path. 

Doge. Daughter, it is superfluous ; I have long 
Known Loredano. 

Lor. You may know him better. 

Mar. Yes ; worse he could not. 

Jac. Fos. Father, let not these 

Our parting hours be lost in listening to 
Reproaches, which boot nothing. Is it — is it, 
Indeed, our last of meetings ? 

Doge. You behold 

These white hairs ! 

Jac. Fos. And I feel, besides, that mine 

Will never be so white. Embrace me, father ! 
I loved you ever — never more than now. 
Look to my children— to your last child's children : 
Let them be all to you which he was once. 
And never be to you what I am now. 
May I not see them also ? 

Mar. No — not here. 

Jac. Fos. They might behold their parent any where. 

Mar. I would that they beheld their f tther in 
A place which would not mingle fear with love. 
To freeze their young blood in its natural current. 
They have fed well, slept soft, and knew not that 
Their sire was a mere hunted outlaw. Well, 
I know his fate may one day be their heritage, 
But let it only be their heritage, 
And not their present fee. 1 heir senses, though 
Alive to love, are yet awake to terror ; 



And these vile damps, too, and yon thick green wave 
Which floats above the place where we now stand — 
A cell so far below the water's level, 
Sending its pestilence throush every crevice, 
Might striKe them : this is not their atmosphere, 
However you — and you — and most of all, 
As worthiest — you, sir, noble Loredano ! 
May breathe it without prejudice. 

Jac. Fos. 1 have not 

Reflected upon this, but acquiesce. 
I shall depart, then, without meeting them ? 

Doge. Not so : they shall await you in my chamber. 

Jac. Fos. And must I leave them — all? 

Lor. You must. 

Jac. Fos. Not one ? 

Lor. They are the stale's. 

Mar. I thought they had been mine. 

Lm. They are, in ajl maternal things. 

Mar. That is, 

In all things painful. If they 're sick, they will 
Be left to me to tend them ; should they die. 
To me to bury and to mourn ; but if 
They live, they'll make you soldiers, senators, 
Slaves, exiles— what you will ; or if they are 
Females with portions, brides and bribes lor nobles! 
Behold the state's care for its sons and mothers ! 

Lor. The hour approaches, and the wind is fair. 

Jac. Fos. How know you that here, where the genial 
wind 
Ne'er blows in all its blustering freedom ? 

Lor. >T was so 

When I came here. The galley floats within 
A bow-shot of the'' Riva di Schiavoni." 

Jac. Fos. Father ! I pray you to precede me, and 
Prepare my children to behold their father. 

Doge. Be firm, my sou ! 

Jac. Fos. I will do my endeavou.'". 

Mar. Farewell ! at least to this detested dungeon, 
I And him to whose good offices you owe 
I In part your past imprisonment. 

Lor. And present 

Liberation. 

Doge. He speaks truth. 

Jac. Fos. No doubt ! but 't is 

Exchange of chains for heavier chains I owe him. 
He knows this, or he had not sought to change them. 
But J reproach uot. 

Lor. The time narrows, signor. 

Jac. Fos. Alas ! I little thought so lingeringly 
To leave abodes like this : but when I feel 
That every step I take, even from this cell. 
Is one away from Venice, I look back 
Even on these dull damp walls, and 

Doge. Boy ! no tears. 

Mar. Let them flow on : he wept not on the rack 
To shame him, and they cannot shame him now. 
They will relieve his heart — that too kind heart — 
And I will find an hour to wipe away 
I Those tears, or add my own. I could weep now, 
; But would not gratify yon wretch so far. 
Let us proceed. Doge, lead the way. 

Lor. {to the Familiar). The torch, there ! 

Mar. Yes, light us on, as to a funeral pyre. 
With Loredano mourning like an heir. 

Doge. My son, you are feeble j take this hand. 

Jac. Fos. Alas ! 

Must youth support itself on age, and I 
Who ought to be the prop of yours ? 

Lor. Take mine. 

Mar. Touch it not, Foscari ; 't will sting you. Signor, 
Stand ofT! be sure, that if a*grasp of yours 
Would raise us from the gulf w herein we are plunged. 
No hand of ours would sire ch itself to meet it. 
Come, Foscari, take the hand the altar gave you ; 
It could not save, but will support you ever. 

[Exeunt. 



:i 



Scene I.] 



AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY. 



339 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. 

A Hall in the Ducal Palace. 

Enter Loredano and Earbarigo. 

Bar. And have you confidence in such a project ? 

Lor. I have. 

Bar. 'T is hard upon his years. 

Lor. Say rather 

Kind to relieve him from the cares of state. 

Bar. 'T will break his heart. 

Lor. A^e has no heart to break. 

He has seen his son's half broken, and, except 
A start of feeling in his dungeon, never 
Swerved. 

Bur. In his countenance, I grant you, never; 
But I have seen him sometimes in a calm 
So desolate, that the mo>t clamorous grief 
Had nought to envy hirr within. Where is he ? 

Lor. In his own portion of the pilace, with 
His son, and the whole race of Foscaris. 

Bar. Bidding farewell. 

Lor. A last. As soon he shall 

Bid to his dukedom. 

Bar. When embarks the son ? 

Lor. Forthwith— when this long leave is taken. 'Tis 
Time to admonish them again. 

Bar. Forbear ; 

Retrench not from their moments. < 

Lor. Not I, now 

We have higher business for our own. This day 
Shall be the last of tl,e old Doge's reign, 
As the first of* his son's last banishment. 
And that is vengeance. 

Bfir. In my mind, too deep. 

Lor. 'T is moderate — not even life for life, the rule 
Denounced of retribution from all lime ; 
They owe me still my father's and my uncle's. 

Bar. Did not the Doge deny this btrongly ? 

Lor. Doubtless. 

Bar. And did not this shake your suspicion ? 

Lor. No. 

Bar. But if this deposition should take place 
By our united influence in the Council, 
It must be done with all the deference 
Due to his years, his station, and his deeds. 

Lor. As much of ceremony as you will, 
So that the thing be done. You may, for aught 
I care, depute the Council on their knees, 
(Like Rarbarossa to the Pope,) t(j beg hira 
To have the courtesy to abdicate. 

Bar. What if he will not ? 

Lor. We '11 elect another, 

And make him null. 

Bar. But will the laws uphold us? 

Lvr. What laws ? — " The Ten" are laws ; and if 
they were not, 
I will be legislator in this business. 

Bar. At your own peril ? 

Lor. There is none, I tell you, 

Our powers are such. 

Bar. But he has twice already 

Solicited permission to retire, 
And twice it was refused. 

Lor. The better reason 

To grant it the third time. 

Bar. Unask'd ? 

Lor. _ It shows 

The impression of his former instances : 
If they were from his heart, he may be thankful: 
If not, 't will punish his hypocrisy. 
Come, they are met by this time ; let us join them, 
And be thou fix'd in purpose for this once. 
I have prepared such arguments as will not 
Fail to move them, and to remove him : since 
Their thoughts, their ol)jects, have been sounded, do not 
You, with your wonted scruples, teach us pause, 
And all will prosper. 

Bar. Could I but be certain 



This is no prelude to such persecution 
Of the sire as has fallen upon the son, 
I would support you. 

Lor. He is safe, I tell you ; 

His fourscore years and five may linger on 
As long as he can drag them : 't is his throne 
Alone is aim'd at. 

Bar. But discarded princes 

Are seldom long of life. 

Lor. And men of eighty 

More seldom still. 

Bar. And why not wait these few years ? 

Lor. Because we have wailed long enough, and he 
Lived longer than enough. Hence ! in to council ! 

[Exeunt Loredano and Barlarigo. 

Enter Memmo and a Senator. 

Sen. A summons to " the Ten ! " Why so ? 

Mem. " The Ten" 

Alone can answer ; they are rarely wont 
To let their thoughts anticipate their purpose 
By previous proclamation. We are summou'd — 
That is enough. 

Sen. For them, but not for us ; 

I would know why. 

Mem. You will know why anon, 

If you obey: and, if not, you no less 
Will know why you should have obey'd. 

Sen. I mean not 

To oppose them, but 

Mem. In Venice " buV 's a traitor. 

But me no " buts,^' unless you would pass o'er 
The Bridge which few repass. 

Sen. I am silent. 

Mem. Why 

Thus hesitate ? " The Ten" have call'd in aid 
Of their deliberation five and twenty 
Patricians of the senate — you are one, 
And I another ; and it seems to me 
Both honour'd by the choice or chance which leads us 
To mingle with a body so august. 

Sen. Most true. I say no more. 

Mem. As we hope, signer, 

And all may honestly, (that is, all those 
Of noble blood may,) one day hope to be 
Decemvir, it is surely for the senate's 
Chosen delegates, a school of wisdom, to 
Be thus admitted, though as novices, 
To view the mysteries. 

Sen. Let us view them : they, 

No doubt, are worth it. 

Mem. Being worth our lives 

If we divulge them, doubtless they are worth 
Something, at least to you or me. 

Sen. I sought not 

A place within the sanctuary ; but being 
Chosen, however reluctantly so chosen, 
I shall fulfil my office. 

Mem. Let us not 

Be latest in obeying " the Ten's" summons. 

Sen. All are not met, but I am of your thought 
So far ~ let 's in. 

Mem. The earliest are most welcome 

In earnest councils — we vvill not be least so, 

[Exeunt, 

Enter the Doge, Jacopo Foscari, and Marina. 

Jac. Fos. Ah, father ! though I must and will depart. 
Yet — yet — I pray you to obtain for me 
That I once more return unto my home, 
Howe'er remote the period. Let ihere be 
A point of time, as beacon to my heart, 
With any penalty annex'd they please, 
But let me still return. 

Doge. Son Jacopo, 

Go and obey our country's will : 't is not 
For us to look beyond, 

Jac. Fos. But still I must 

Look back. I pray you think of me. 

Doge. Alas ! 

You ever were my dearest offspring, when 



I 



340 



THE TWO FOSCARl 



[Act IV. 



They were more minierous, nor can be less so 

Now you ai-e l;\sl ; but did the state demand 

The exile of the di>inteirevl a>hes 

Of vour three jc^wdly bnUhers, now in earth, 

AniH their desiiondinV shulev cune flittinj round 

To inij'ede Hie act, 1 must no less obey 

A duty, paramnunt to every duty. 

Mar. My husband I let us on : this but prolongs 
Our jsornnv. 

Jac. Fca. But we are not summon'd yet ; 
The «:.\lle\ 's sails are not unfurl'd : — who knows ? 
The Wind may ch.ui|;e. 

Mar. Atid if it do, if will not 

Chanste thtir hexrts, or your lot : the galley's o;irs 
Willquickly cle.\r the harbour. 

Jac. Fos. O, ye elements ! 

Where are your storms ? 

Mar, ' In human breasts. Alas ! 

Will nothing calm you? 

Jac, Ktf. ' Never yet did mariner 

Put up to patron saint such pniyers for prosperous 
And plexsant breezes, as 1 callupon you. 
Ye tutelar saints of my own city ! which 
Ye love not with more holy love than I, 
To lash up from the deep the Adrian waves, 
And waken Auster, sovereisfu of the tempest ! 
Till the sea dash me back on my own shore 
A broken corse ujion the biraMi Lido, 
Where 1 may mingle wiih the sands which skirt 
The land I love, and never shall see more ! 

Mar. And wish you this with i/ie beside you? 

Jac, Fc.s. No — 

j^'o — not for thee, too scood, too kind ! M.ay'st thou 
Live Ions: to be a mother to those children 
Thv fond tidelily for a tinie deprives 
Of such support"! But for myself alone, 
Mx\ all the winds of heaven howl down the Gulf, 
Am\ teir the vessel, till the mariners, 
Appall'd, turn their despairinif eyes on me, 
As the Vhenicians did on Jonah, then 
Cast me out frvun amouicst then>, as an otTering: 
To appease the waves. The billow which desTrojrs me 
Will be more njercit\il than man. and bear me, 
Dead, bui sttll bear me to a iiali\e jjrave, 
Fivm lishers" hands upon the desolate strand. 
Which, of its thousand wreck*, hath ne'er received 
One lacerattxl like the heart which then 
Will be — But when^f >re breaks it not ? why live I ? 

Mar. To mm thyself, I trust, with time, to master 
Such useh»ss passion. Until now thou wert 
A sutlVrer, but not a loud one : w hy, 
Wha' is this to the thinjfs thou hast borne in silence- 
Imprisonment and actual torture ? 

Jac. Fos. Double, 

Triple, and tenfold torture ! But you are right, 
It must be borne. Father, vour blessing. 

Di^t, Would 

It coiiid avail thee 1 but no less thou hast it. 

Jac, Fos, Forgive 

Doge, What? 

Jac. /Vvp. M;- poor mother, (br my birth, 

And me for having livevi," :,nd von vourself 
(As I forgive you), for the ^ifl of life. 
Which you bestow'd upon me as my sire. 

Mar. What last thou done? 

Jac, Fits. Nothing. I cannot charge 

My niemory with much save sormw : but 
I have been so In-vond the ctMunion lot 
ChastenM and visiter!, I needs must think 
That 1 was wickevl. If it l^e so, may 
What 1 have undergone here keep me from 
A like hereafter! 

Mar, Fear not : that "s reserved 

For vour oppressors. 

Jcic. Fos, Let me hope not. 

Mar, Hope not ? 

/nc fiw. I uuio! V .7 they have intlictevl. 

Mar. All ! the v- uls 1 A thousand fold 

May the worm wh. !i feed upon them ! 

Jac. Av». They may repent. 



Mar. And if they do, Heaven will not 

Accept the tardy penitence of demons. 

Enter an Officn and Guai-ds, 

Offi, Signor! the boat is at the shore — the wind 
Is risinsr — we are ready to rttend you. 

Jac Fis, And i to be attended. " Once more, father, 
Your h.tud I 

Doge. Take it. Alas ! how thine own trembles ! 

Jac. Fos, No — you mistake j 't is yours that sliakes, 
mv father. 
Farewell ! 

Doge. Farewell ! Is there aught else ? 

Jac. Fos. No — nothing. 

[To the Offictr. 
Lend me your arm, good signor. 

Ojffi, ^ You turn ^Kile- 

Let me svipport you — paler — ho I some aid there ! 
Some water I 

Mar, Ah, he is dying! 

Jac. Fos, ' Now, I *m ready — 

My eyes swim strangely — where 's the diwr ? 

Mar. A>vay ! 

Let me supjwrt him — my best love ! Oh, God ! 
How faintlf beats this heart — this pulse ! 

Jac. /\vj." The light I 

/* it the light ? — I am faint. 

[OJJicer prtsetits him with toattr. 

Offi, He will be better, 

Pel haps, in the air. 

Jac. Fos. I doubt not. Father — wife — 

Your hands ! 

Mar. There 's death in that damp clammy grasp. 
Oh God ! — Mv Foscari, how fare you ? 

Jac. Fos. Well ! [Ht dia. 

Offi. He 's gone ! 

Jlofc, He 's fiw. 

Ma r. No — no, he is not dead ; 

There nmst he life yet in that heart — he could not 
Thus le.\ve me. 

Doge. Daughter ! 

Mar. Hold thr peace, old man ! 

I am no daughter now — thou hast no sou. 
Oh. Foscari! 

Offi, We must remove the body. 

Star. Touch it not, duna.eon miscreants ! your base 
otlice 
Ends with his life, and g-tes not t)eyond murder, 
Even by your muriierous laws. Leave his remains 
To those who know to honour them. 

Offi, I must 

Inform the siscnory, and learn their pleasure. 

Dogf. Inforu\ the si^nory, from me, the DcAge, 
Thev have no further power ujKin those ashes : 
While he lived, he was theirs, as fits a sul\iect — 
Now he is mine — my brokeoi-he vrted bov ! 

[licil Offictr. 

Mar. And I must live ! 

Do^e. Your children live, Marina. 

Mar. My children ! true — they live, and 1 must live 
To brins them up to serve the state, and die 
As died their father. Oh ! what be>t of blessings 
Were barrenness in Venice ! Would my mother 
Had been so ! 

Dose. My unh.appy children ! 

Mar. What! 

}\nt feel it then at last — you /— Where is oon 
The stoic of the state ? 

Di^'C, (throwing himself down by the body). H^n! 

Mar, Ay, weep on ! 

I thoujrht you h,id no tears — you haariied them 
Until they' are useless; but weep on ! he never 
Shall weep more — never, never more. 

Enter Loredano and Barbarigtk 
Lor, What's here? 

Mar. Ah ! the devil come to insult the dead ! Avauntl 
Incarnate Lucifer ! 't is holy gnnind. 
A martvr's ashes ihiw lie there, w hich make it 
A thrin'e. Get thee back to thy place of torment ! 



Scene I.] 



AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY. 



341 



Bar. L.idy, we knew not of this sail event, 
But piss'd here merely on our path frouv council. 

Mar. I'ass ou. 

Lor. We sought the Doge. 

Mar. (pmnting to tfie Doge, who is still on the 
ground iy his son's Udy"). He 's busy, look, 
About the business y<Ki proviiled for him. 
Are ye content ? 

Bar. We will uot interrupt 

A parent's sorrows. 

Mar. No, ye only make them, 

Then le,vve them. 

Doge, {rising). Sirs, I am ready. 

Bar. No — notuoAv. 

Lor. Yet t was important. 

Doge. Iff was so, I can 

Only repeat— I am ready. 

Jiiir. It shall not be 

Just now, though Venice fotler'd o'er the deep 
Like a frail ve.<.<el. I respect your griefs. 

Doge^ I ilunk you. If the "tidings which you bring 
Are evil, you m..y say them; noiliing further 
Can touch' me mo're than him thou look'st on there; 
If 'hey be good, say on ; you need not fear 
That they can comjLnt me. 

Bar. I would they could ! 

Doge. I spoke not to you, but to Loredano. 
He understands me. 

Mar. Ah ! I thought it would be so. 

D^ge. What mean vou ? 

Mar. Lo ! there is the blood beginning 

To (low through the dead lips of Foscari — 
The body bleeds in presence of the assassin. 

r ro Lorcda7io. 
Thou cowardly murderer by law, behold 
How death itself beai-s wiluess to thy deeds ! 

Doge, My child ! this is a phantasy of grief. 
Bear hence'ihe body. [To his altaidanl.s.\ Signers, 

if it |ilease you, 
Within an hour I il hear you. 

[B.rcunt Doge, Marina, and attei^dants with 
the Itody. Manent Loredano and Barbarigo. 

Bar. He must not 

Be troubled now. 

Lor. He said himself that nought 

Could give him trouble farther. 

Bar. These are words ; 

But grief is lonely, and the breaking iu 
Upoii it barbarous. 

Lor. Sorrow prevs upon 

Its solitude, and nothing more diverts it 
From its sad visions of the other world. 
Than calling it at moments back to this. 
The busy have no time for tears. 

Bar. ' And therefore 

You would deprive this old man of all business? 

Lor. The thing's decreed. The Giunta and " the 
Ten" 
Have made it law — who shall oppose that law ? 

Bar. Humanity I 

Lor. Because his son is dead ? 

JS<ir. And yet unburied. 

Lor. Had we known this when 

The act was passing, it might have suspended 
Its passaare. but impedes it not — once past. 

Bar. I '11 not consent. 

Lor. You have consented to 

All that 's essenti.al — leave the rest to me. 

Bar. Why press his abdication now ? 

Lor. The feelings 

Of private passion may not interrupt 
The public beiietit ; and what the state 
Decides to-day must not give way liefore 
To-morrow for a natural acciiient. 

Bar. You have a son. 

Lor. I have — and hid a father. 

Bar. Still so inexorable ? 

Lor. Still. 

Bar. Bvit let him 

Inter his son before we press upon him 
This edict. 

29* 



Lor. Let him call up into life 

IMy sire and uncle — I consent. Men may, 
Even aged men, l)e, or appear to be, 
Sites of a hundred sons, but cannot kindle 
An atom of their ancestors from earth. 
The victims are not equal ; he has seen 
His sons expire by natural deaths, and I 
My sites by violent and mysterious maladies. 
I used no poison, bribed tio subtle master 
Of the desli uctive art of healing, to 
Shorten the path to the eternal cure. 
His sons — and he had four — are dead, without 
My dabbling in vile drugs. 

Bar. And art thou sure 

He dealt in such ? 

Lor. Most sure. 

Bar. And yet he seems 

All openness. 

Lor. And so lie seem'd not long 

Ago to Carmagnuola. 

Bar. The attainted 

And foreign traitor ? 

Lor. Even so : when Tie, 

After the very night in which " the Ten" 
(Join'd with the Doge) decided his destruction. 
Met the great Duke at da> break with a jest. 
Demanding whether he should augur hini 
"The good day or good night?" his Doge-ship an- 

swer'd, 
"That he in truth had pass'd a night of vigil, 
" In which (he added with a gracious smile), 
" There orten lias been question about you." » 
'T was true ; the question was the death resolved 
Of Carmagnuola, eight months ere he dietl ; 
And the old Doge, who knew him doom'd, smiled on 

him 
With deadly cozenage, eight long months before- 
hand — 
Eight months of such hypocrisy as is 
Learnt but in eighty yeai-s. Brave Carmagnuola 
Is de.ad ; so is young Foscari and his brethren — 
I never sjuikd on than. 

Bar, Was Carmagnuola 

Your friend ? 

Lor. He was the safeguard of the city. 

In e;»rly life its foe, but in his manhood. 
Its saviour lirst, then victim. 

Bar. Ah ! that seems 

The penalty of saving ci'ies. He 
Whom we now act against not only saved 
Our own. but added others to her sway. 

L<^r. The Romans (and we ape theni) gave a crown 
To him who took a city ; and they gave 
A crown to him who s.a\ed a citizen 
In battle: the rewards arc equal. Now, 
If we should measure forth the cities taken 
By the Doge Foscari with citizens 
Destroy 'd by him, or through him, the account 
Were fearfully against him, although narrow'd 
To private havoc, such as between him 
And my dead father. 

Bar. Are you then thus fix'd ? 

Lor. Why, what should chnitce me ? 

Bar. That which changes me: 

But you, I know, are marble to retain 
A feud. But when all is accomplish'd, when 
The old mm is de| oseil, his name degraded, 
His sons all dead, his family depress'd. 
And you and yours triumphant, shall you sleep? 

Lor. More soundlv. 

Bar. That 's an error, and you'll find it 

Ere you sleep with your (iithers. 

Lrr. ' They sleep not 

In their accelerated grives, nor will 
Till Foscari tills his.^ Each night 1 see them 
S'alk frowning round my couch, and, pointing towards 
The ducal palace, marshal me to venseince. 

Bar. Fancy's distempera'ure ! There is no passion 
More spectral or fantastical than Hate; 



I 



1 An historical fhct. See Daru, torn. il. 



r. 



342 



THE TWO FOSCARI: 



[Act V. 



Not even its opposite, J.ove, so peoples air 
With I Imtoms, as this madness of ihe heart. 

Entei an Officer. 

Lor. Where go you, sirrah ? 

Offi. By the ducal order 

To forward the preparatory rites 
For the late Foscari's interment. 

Bar. Their 

Vault has been often open'd of late years. 

Lor, 'T will be full soon, and may be closed forever. 

Offi, May 1 pass on ? 

Lor. You may. 

Bar. How bears the Doge 

This last calamity ? 

Offi, With desperate firmness. 

In presence of another he says litile. 
But I {^erceive his lips move now and then j 
And once or twice I heard him, from the adjoining 
Apartment, mutier fonh the words — "My son 1 " 
Scarce audibly. I must proceed. [Exit Officer. 

Bar. This stroke 

Will move all Venice in his favour. 

Lor. Right ! 

We must be speedy : let us call together 
The delegates appointed to convey 
The Council's resolution. 

Bar. I protest 

Against it at this moment. 

Lor. As you please — 

I'll take their voices on it nevertheless, 
And see whose most may sway them, yours or mine. 
[Exeunt Barbarigo and Loredano. 



ACT V. 

SCENE I. 

The Doge's Apartment. 

The Doge and Attendants. 

Att. My lord, the deputation is in waiting; 
But add, that if another hour would better 
Accord with your will, they will make it theirs. 

Doge, To me all hours are like. Le' them approach. 
[Exit Attendant, 

An Officer. Prince ! I have done your bidding. 

Doge. What command ? 

Offi, A melancholy one — to call the attendance 
Of 

Doge. True — true — true : I crave your pardon. I 
Begin to fail in apprehension, and 
Wax very old — old almost as my years. 
Till now I fought them off, but they begin 
To overtake me. 

Enter the Deputation, consisting of six of the Sig- 
nory, and the Chief of the Ten, 
Noble men, your pleasure! 

Chief of the Ten. la the first place, the Council 
doth condole 
With the Doge on his late and private grief. 

Doge. No more — no more of that. 

Chief of the Ten. Will not the Duke 

Accept the homage of respect ? 

Doge. I do 

Accept it as 't is given — proceed. 

Chief of the Ten. " The Ten," 

With a selected Kiunta from the senate 
Of twenty-five of the best born patricians. 
Having deliberated on the state 
Of the republic, and the o'erwhelming cares 
Which, at this moment, doubly must oppress 
Your years, so lonz devoted to your country, 
Have judged it fitting, with all reverence. 
Now to solicit from your wisdom (which 
Upon reflection must accord in this). 
The resignation of the ducal rii g. 
Which you have worn so long and venerably : 



And to prove that they are not ungrateful, nor 
Cold to your years and services, ttiey add 
An appai.age of twenty hundred golden 
Due its, to niake retirement not less splendid 
Than should become a sovereign's retreat. 

Doge. Did i hear rightly ? 

Chief of the Ten. Need 1 say again ? 

Doge. No. — Have you done ? 

Cintif of the Ten. 1 have spoken. Twenty-four 
Hours are accorded you to give an answer. 

Doge. I shall not need so many seconds. 

Chief of tht Ten. We 

Will now retire. 

Doge. Stay ! four and twenty hours 

Will alter nothing which I have to say. 

Chief of the Tm. Spek! 

Doge. When I twice before reiterated 

My wish to abdicate, it was refused me : 
And not alone refused, but ye exacted 
An oath from me that 1 would never more 
Renew this instance. 1 have sworn to die 
In full exertion of the functions, which 
My country call'd me here to exercise, 
Accoiding to my honour and my conscience — 
I cannot b;eak my oaih. 

Chief of the Ten, Reduce us not 

To the alternative of a decree, 
Instead of your compliance. 

Doge. Providence 

Prolongs my days to prove and chasten me ; 
But ye have no right to repioach my length 
Of days, since every hour has been the country's. 
I am ready to lay down my life for her, 
As 1 have laid down dearer things than life: 
But for my digri'y — I h< Id it of 
The whole republic : when the general will 
Is manifest, then you shall all be ;inswer'd. 

Chief of the Ten. We grieve for such an answer; 
but it cannot 
Avail you aught. 

Du§c. I can submit to all things, 

But nettling will advance; no, not a moment. 
What you decree — decree. 

Chi J oj the Ten. With this, then, must we 

Return to those who sent us ? 

Doge. You have heard me. 

Chief of the Ten. With all due re; erence we retire. 
[Exeunt the Deputation, <yc. 
Enter an Attendant. 

Att. My lord. 

The noble dame Marina craves an audience. 

Doge. My time is hers. 

Enter Marina. 

Mar. My lord, if I intrude — 

Perhaps you fain would be alone .' 

Doge. Alone ! 

Alone, come all the world around me, I 
Am now and evermore. Bu' we will bear it. 

Mar. We will, and for tlie sake of those who are, 
Endeivour Oh my husband ! 

Doge. Give it way; 

I canno: comfort thee. 

Mir. He might have lived, 

So form'd for gentle privacy of life, 
So loving, so beloved ; the native of 
Another land, and who so blest ..nd blessing 
As my poor Foscari ? Nothing was wanting 
Unto his happiness and mine, save not 
To be Venetian. 

Doge. Or a prince's son. 

Mar. Yes ; all things which conduce to other men'i 
Imperfect happiness or hish ambition. 
By some strange destiny, to him proved deadly. 
The count rv and the people whom he loved, 
The prince" of whom he was the elder born. 
And 

Dose. Soon may be a prince no longer. 

Mar. How ? 

Doge. They have taken my son from me, and now 



Scene I.] 



AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY 



343 



At my too long worn diadem and ring. 
Let them resume the gewgaws I 

Mar. Oh the tyrants ! 

In such an hour too I 

Doge. 'T is the fittest time ; 

An hour ago I should have felt it. 

Mar. And 

Will you not now resent it ? — Oh for vengeance ! 
But he, who, had he been enough protected, 
Might have repaid protection in this moment, 
Cannot assist his father. 

Doge. Nor should do so 

Against his country, had he a thousand lives 
Instead of that 

Mar. They tortured from him. This 

May be pure patriotism. I am a woman : 
To me my husband and my children were 
Country and home. I loved him — how I loved him ! 
I have seen him pass through such nn ordeal as 
The old martyrs would have shrunk from : he is gone, 
And I, who would have given my blood fnr him, ; 

Have naught to give but tears ! But could 1 compass j 
The retribution of his wrongs ! — Well, well ! i 

I have sons, who shall be men. | 

Doge. Your grief distracts you. 

Mar. I thought I could have borne it, when I saw 
him 
Bow'd down by such oppression ; yes, I thought 
That I would rather look upon his corse 
Than his prolongd captivity : — I am punish'd 
For that thought now. Would I were in his grave ! 

Doge.. I must look on him once more. 

Mar. Come with me ! 

Doge. Is he 

Mar. Our bridal bed is now his bier. 

Doge. And he is in his shroud ! 

Mar, Come, come, old man ! 

{Exeunt the Doge and Marina. ! 

Enter Barbarigo and Loredano. 

Bar. (to an Attendant). Where is the Doge .•» j 

Alt. This instant retired hence, 

With the illustrious lady his son's widow. 

Lor. Where ? 

Att. To the chamber where the body lies. 

Bar. Let us return, then. 

Lor. You forget, you cannot. 

We have the implicit order of the Giunfa 
To await their coming here, and join them in 
Their office : they '11 be here soon after us. 

Bar. And will they press their answer on the Doge? 

Lor. 'T was his own wish that all should be done 
promptly. 
He answer'd quickly, and must so be answer'd j 
His dignity is look'd to, his estate 
Cared for — what would he more ? 

Bar. Die in his robes: 

He could not have lived long ; but I have done 
My best to save his honours, and opposed 
This proposition to the last, though vainly. 
Why would the general vole compel me hither? 

Lor. 'T was fit that some one of such different 
thoughts 
From ours should be a witness, lest false tongues 
Should whisper that a harsh majority 
Dreaded to have its acts beheld by others. 

Bar. And not less, I must needs think, for the sake 
Of humbling me for my vain opposition. 
You are ingenious, Loredano, in 
Your modes of vengeance, nay, poetical, 
A very Ovid in the art of hating ; 
'T is thus (although a secondary object, 
Yet hate has microscopic eyes), to you 
I owe, by way of foil to tlie more yealous, 
This undesired association in 
Your Giunta's duties. 

Lor. How ! — my Giunta ! 

Bar. Ymir.1 / 

They speak your language, walch your nod, approve 
Your plans, and do your work. Are they not yours ? 



Lor. You talk unwarily. 'T were best they hear not 
This from you. 

Bar. Oh ! they "11 hear as much one day 

From louder tongues than mine; they have gone be- 
yond 
Even their exorbitance of power: and when 
This happens in the most contemn'd and abject 
States, stung humanity will rise to check it. 

Lor. You talk but idly. 

Bar. That remains for proof. 

Here come our colleagues. 

Enter the Deputation as before. 

Chief of the Ten. Is the Duke aware 

We seek his presence ? 

Att. He shall be informed. 

{Exit Attendant. 

Bar. The Duke is with his son. 

Chief of the Ten. , If it be so. 

We will remit him till the rites are over. 
Let us return. 'T is time enough to-morrow. 

Lor. (aside to Bar.) Now the rich man's hell-fire 
upon your tongue, 
Unquench'd, unquenchable ! I 'II have it torn 
From its vile babbling roots, till you shall utter 
Nothing but sobs through blood, for this ! Sage signors, 
I pray ye be not hasty. [Aloud to the others. 

Bar. But be human ! 

Lor, See, the Duke comes ! 

Enter the Doge. 

Doge. I have obey'd your summons. 

Chief of the Ten, We come once more to urge our 
past request. 

Doge. And I to answer. 

Chief of the Ten. What ? 

Doge. My only answer. 

You have heard it. 

Chief of the Ten. Hear you then the last decree. 
Definitive and absolute ! 

Doge. To the point — 

To the point ! I know of old the forms of office. 
And gentle preludes to strong acts — Go on ! 

Chief of the Ten. You are no longer Doge ; you are 
released 
Frc-m your imperial oath as sovereign; 
Your ducal robes must be put off; but for 
Your services, the state allots the appmage 
Already mention'd in our former congress. 
Three days are left you to remove from hence. 
Under the penalty to see confiscated 
All your own private fortune. 

Doge. That last clause, 

I am proud to say, would not enrich the treasury. 

Chief of the Ten. Your answer, Duke ! 

Lor. Your answer, Francis Foscari ! 

Doge. If I could have foreseen that my old age 
Was prejudicial (o the state, the chief 
Of the rei)ublic never would have shown 
Himself so far ungrateful, as to place 
His own high dignity before his country ; 
But this life having been so many years 
Not useless to that country, I would fain 
Have consecrated my last'moments to her. * 
But the decree being rendered, I obey. 

Chief of the Ten. If you would have the three 
days named extended. 
We willinsly will lengthen them to eight. 
As sign of our esteem. 

Doge. Not eight hours, signor. 

Nor even eight minutes — There 's the ducal ring, 

[Taking off hts rmg and cap. 
And there the ducal dindem. And so 
The Adriatic 's free to wed another. 

Chief of the Ten. Yet go not forth so quickly. 

Doge. I am old, sir, 

And even to move but slowly must begin 
To move betimes. Methinks I see amongst you 
A face I know not — Senator! your name. 
You, by your garb. Chief of the Forty ! 



344 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



[Act V. 



Mem. Signer, 

I am the son of Marco Memmo. 

Doge. Ah ! 

Your father was my friend. — But S07is zn^ fathers 1 — 
What, ho ! my servants there ! 

^^671. My prince ! 

Doge. No prmce — _ 

There are the princes of the prince ! ^Pointing to the , Save with their hearts and eyes. 



Chief of the Ten. Il must not be — the people will 

perceive it. 
Doge. I'he people ! — There 's no people, you well 
know it, 
Else you dare not deal thus by them or me. 
There is a populace, perhaps, whose looks [you, 

i May shame you ; but they dare not groan nor curse 



Ten^s Deputation.} — Prepare 
To part from hence upon the instant. 

Chief of the Ten. Why 

So rashly ? 'twill give scandal. 

Doge. Answer that ; [To the Ten. 

It is your province. — Sirs, bestir yourselves: 

[To the Servants. 
There is one burthen which I beg^ you bear 
With care, alihough 't is past all farther harm — 
But I will look to that myself. 

Bar. He means 

The body of his son. 

Doge. And call Marina, 

My daughter ! 

Enter Marina. 

Doge. Get thee ready, we must mourn 

Elsevtrhere. 

Mar. And every where. 

Doge. True ; but in freedom, 

Without these jealous spies upon the great. 
Signors, you may depart : what would you more ? 
We are going : do you fear that we shall bear 
The palace with us ? Its old walls, ten times 
As old as I am, and I 'm very old. 
Have served you, so have I, and I and they 
Could tell a talej but I invoke them not 
To fail upon you ! else they would, as erst 
The pillars of stone Dagon's temple on 
The Israelite and his Philistine foes. 
Such power I do believe there might exist 
In such a curse as mine, provoked by such 
As you ; but I curse not. Adieu, got d signors ! 
May the next duke be better than the present ! 

Lor. The preseiit duke is Paschal Malipiero. 

Doge. Not till I pass the thre.-hold of these doors. 

Lor. Saint Mark's great bell is soon about to toll 
For his inauguration. 

Doge. Earth and heaven ! 

Ye will reverberate this peal ; and I 
Live to hear this I — the first doge who e'er heard 
Such sound for his successor : hppier he, 
My att tinted predecessor, stern Faliero — 
This insult at the least was spared him. 

Lor. What! 

Do you regret a traitor ? 

Doge. No — I merely 

Envy the dead. 

Chief of the Ten. My lord, if you indeed 
Are bent upon this rash abandonment 
Of the state's palace, at the le\st retire 
By the private staircase, which conducts you towards 
The landing-place of the canal. 

D'^ge. No. I 

Will now descend the stairs by which I mounted 
To sovereignty — the Giants' Stairs, on whose 
Broad eminence I was invested duke. 
My services have called nie up those steps, 
Tlie malice of my foes will diive me down them. 
There live and thirty years ago was I 
Instaird, and traversed these same halls, from which 
I never thousht to be divorced except 
A corse — a corse, it mizht be, fighting for them — 
But not push'd hence by fellow citizens. 
But come ; my son and I will go together — 
He to his grave and I to pray for mine 

Chief of the Ten. What! thus in public? 

Doge. 1 was publicly 

Elected, and so will I be deposed. 
Marina ! art thou willing ? 

Mar. Here 's my arm 



Doge. And here my staff: thus piopp'd will 
forth. 



Chief of the Ten. You speak in passion. 

Else 

Doge. You have reason. I have spoken much 
More than my wont : it is a foible which 
Was not of mine, but more excuses you, 
luismuch as it shows that I approach 
, A dotage which may justify this deed 
Of yours, although the law' does not, nor will. 
Farewell, sirs ! 

Bar. You shall not depart without 

An escort fitting past and present rank. 
We will accompany, with due re>pect, 
The Doge unto his private palace. Say ! 
My brethren, will we not? 

Different voices. Ay ! — Ay ! 

D^ge. You shall cot 

Stir — in my train, at least. J enter'd here 
As sovereign — I go out as citizen 
By the sime portals, but as citizen. 
All these vain ceremonies are base insults, 
Which only ulcerate the heart the more, 
Applying poisons there as antidotes. 
Pomp is for princes — 1 am none 1 — That 's false, 
I am, but only to these gates.— Ah ! 

Lor. Hark ! 

[The great bell of St. MarVs tolls. 

Bar. The bell! 

Chief of the Ten. St. Mark's, which tolls for the 
election 
Of Malipiero. 

Dnge. Well I recognise 

The sound ! I heard it once, but once before, 
And that is five and thirty years agoj 
Even then 1 was not young. 

Bar. Sit down, my lord ! 

You tremble. 

Doge. 'T is the knell of my poor boy ! 

My heart aches bitterly. 

Bar. 1 pray you sit. 

Doge. No ; my seat here has been a throne till now. 
I Marina 1 let us go. 

Mar. Most readily. 

Doge, {walks a few steps, then stops), I feel athirst 

— will no one bring me here 
A cup of water? 

Bar. I 

Mar, And I 

Lor. And I* 

[The Doge takes a goUet from the hand 
of Loredano. 
Dnge. I take yours, Loredano, from the hand 
Most fit for such an hour as this. 
I Lor. Why so ? 

Dose. 'T is said that our Venetian crystal has 
; Such pure antipathy to poisons as 
; To burst, if aught of venim touches it. 
j You bore this goblet, and it is not broken. 

Lor. Well, sir ! 
I Dcge. Then it is false, or you are true. 

Foi my own part, I credit neither ; 't is 
An idle legend. 

! Mar. You talk wildly, and 

I Had better now be seated, nor as yet 
Depart. Ah ! now you look as lo'ok'd my husband ! 
Bar. He sinks ! — support him! — quick — a chair 

— support him ! 

I Doge. The bell tolls on ! — let 's hence — my brain 's 

on fire ! 
I J5ar. I do beseech you, lean upon us ! 
I Doge. No ! 

A sovereign should die standing. My poor boy ! — 



r. 



go Ofif with your arms ! 



- That bell ! 
The Doge drops down and dies. 



Scene I.] 



CAIN: A MYSTERY, 



345 



Mar. My God ! My God ! 

Bar. {to Lor.) Behold your work's completed ! 

C/iief of the Ten. Is there then 

No aid ? Call iu assistance ! 

jitt. 'Tis all over. 

Chief of the Ten. If it be so, at least his obsequies 
Shall be such as befits his name and nation, 
His rank and his devotion to tie duties 
Of the realm, while his age peimiited him 
To do himself and theiu lull justice. Brethren, 
Say, shall it not be so ? 

£ar. He his not had 

The misery to die a subject where 
He reigti'd : then let his funeral rites be princely.* 

C/iie/ of the Ten. We are agreed, theu ? 

^11, except Lor., aiiswer. Yes. 

Chief of the Ten. Heaven's peace be with him ! 

Mar. Signors, your pardon : this is mockery. 
Juggle no more with ihat |)oor remnant, which, 
A moment since, w hile yet it had a soul, 
(A soul by whom you have increased your empire, 
And made your power as proud as was his glory,) 
You banish'd from his palace, and tore down 
From his high place, with such relentless coldness; 
And now, when he can neither know tliese honours, 
Nor would accept them if he could, you, signors. 
Purpose, with idle and superfluous pomp, 
To make a pageant over what you trampled. 
A ptincely funeral will be your reproach, 
And not his honour. 

Chief of the Ten. Lidy, we revoke not 
Our purposes so readily. 

Mar. 1 know it. 

As fir as touches torturing the living. 
I thought the dead had been beyond even you, 
Though (some, no doubt) consign'd to powers which 

may 
Resemble that you exercise on earth. 
Leave him to me ; you would have done so for 
His dregs of life, which you have kindly shorten'd : 



IBy a decree of the Council, the trappings of supreme 
power of which the Doge had divested himself while liv- 
ing, were restored to him when dead ; and he was inter- 
red, with ducal magnificence, in the church of the Minor- 
ites, the new Doge attending as a mourner.— See DAEU. 



It is my last of duties, and may prove 
A dreary comfort in my desolation. 
Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, 
And the apparel of the grave. 

Chief of the T,n. Do you 

Pretend still lo this office ? 

Mar. I do, signor. 

Though his possessions have been all consumed 
In the state's service, I have still niy dowry. 
Which shall be consecrated to his rites, 
And tho.^e of [^he stops with agitation. 

Chief of the Ten. Bes' retain it for your children. 

Mar. Ay, they are fatherless, I thank you. 

Chief of the Ten. We 

Cannot comply with your request. His relics 
Shall be exposed wiih wonted pomp, and follow'd 
Uno tlieir home by the new Doge, not clad 
As Doge, but siniply as a senator. 

Mar. I have heard of murderers, who have interr'd 
Their victims; but neer heard, uutii this hour, 
Of so much splendour in hypocrisy 
O'er those they slew. I 've heard of widows' tears — 
Alas ! 1 have i>hed some — always thanks to you ! 
I've heard of heirs in sables — you have left none 
To the deceased, so you would act the part 
Of such. Well, sirs, your will be done ! as one day, 
I trust. Heaven's will be done too ! 

Chief of the Ten. Know you, lady. 

To whom ye speak, and perils of such speech ? 

Mar. I know the former better than yourselves; 
The latter — like yourselves ; and can face both. 
Wish you more funerals ? 

Bar. Heed not her rash words j 

Her circumstances must excuse her bearing. 

Chief of the Ten. We will not note them down. 

Bar. (turning to Lor., who is writing upon his 
tablets). What are you writing. 
With such an earnest brow, upon thy t iblets ? 

Lor. (pointing to the Doge''s body). That he has paid 
me ! 2 

Chief of the Ten. What debt did he owe you ? 

Lor. A long and just one ; Nature's debt and mine. 
[Curtain falls. 



2" L'ha pagata." An historical fact. 
nise, par P. Daru, t. ii. p. 411. 



See Hist, de Ve- 



CAIN:' 
A MYSTERY, 



' Now the Serpent was more subtil than any beast of the field which the Lord God had made."— Gen, ch. iii. v. 1. 



TO 

SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 

THIS MYSTERY OF CAIN 
IS INSCRIBED, 
BY HIS OBLIGED FRIEND, 
AND FAITHFUL SERVANT, 

THE AUTHOR. 



3 "Cain" wae begun at Ravenna, on the 16th of July, 
]821~completed on the 9th nf Scplember— and published, 
in the name volume with " Sardanapalus" and "The Two 
Foscari," iu December.— -E. 



PREFACE. 

The following scenes are entitled "A Mystery," in 
conformity with the ancient title annexed to dramas 
upon similar subjects, which were styled "Mysteries, 
or Moralities." The au'hor his by no means taken 
the same liberties with his subject which were com- 
mon formerly, as may be seen by any reader curious 
enough to refer to those very profane productions, whe- 
ther in English, French, Italian, or Spanish. The 
au;hor has endeavoured to preserve the language 
adapted to his characters ; and wliere it is (and this is 
but rarely) taken from actual Scripture, be has made 
as little alteration, even of words, as the ihythm would 
permit. The render will recllect Ihat the book of 
Genesis does not state that Eve wis tempted by a 
demon, but by " the Serpent ;"' and that only because 
he was " the most ^ubtil of all the beasts of the field." 
VVhatevor interpretation the Rabbins and the Fathers 



346 



CAIN 



[Act I. 



may have put upon Ihi-, I take the words as I find 
them, and leply, with Bishop Watson upon similar 
occasions, when the Fathers were quoted to him, as 
Moderator in the schools of Cambridge, *' Behold the 
Book!"— holding: up the Scripture, It is to be recol- 
lected, that my present subject has nothing to do with 
the New Ttstament, tn wliich no refereuce can be 
here made without anachronism. Wi h the poems 
upon similar topics I have not been recently famiiiir. 
Since I was twenty I have never read Milton; but I 
had read him so frequenily before, that this may make 
little difference. Gesner's " Death of Abel 'I have 
never read since I was eij^ht years of age, at Aberdeen. 
The general impiession of my recollection is delight ; 
but of the contents I remember only that Caiirs wife 
was called Mihala, and Abel's Thiiza : in the follow- 
ing pages I have exiled them " Adah"' and " Zillah," 
the eailiest female names which occur in Genesis; 
they were those of Limech's wives: those of Cain 
and Abel are not called by their names. Whether, 
then, a coincidence of subject may have caused the 
same in expression, I know nothing, and care as little. 

Tlie reader will ] lease to bear in mind (what few 
choose to recollect), that there is no allusion to a futuie 
state in any of the books of Moses, nor indeed in the 
Old Testament. For a reason for this extraordii.ary 
omission he may consult Warburlon's ''Di.iue Lega- 
tion ;" whether satisfactory or not, no better has yet 
been assigned. I have therefore supposed it new to 
Cain, without, I hope, any perversion of Holy Writ. 

With regard to tlie language of Lucifer, it was diffi- 
cult for me to make him talk like a clergyman upon 
the same subjects ; but I have done what 1 could to 
re>train him within the boinds of spiritual politeness. 
If he disclaims having tempted Eve in the shape of 
the Serpent, it is only because the book of Genesis has 
not the most dis'ant allusion to any thing of the kind, 
but merely to the Serpent in his serpentine capacity. 

Note. — The reader will perceive that the author has 
partly adopted in this poem the notion of Cuvier, that 
the world hid been destroyed several times before the 
creation of man. This speculation, derived from the 
different strata and the bones of enormous and un- 
known animals found in them, is not contrary to the 
Mosaic account, but lather confirms it ; as no human 
bones have yet been discovered in those strata, although 
those of many known animals are found near the 
remains of the unknown. The assertion of Lucifer, 
that the pre-Adamite world was also peopled by ra- 
tional beings much more intelligent than man, and pro- 
portionably powerful to the mammoth, &c. &c., is, of 
course, a poetical fiction to help him to make out his 
case. 

I ought to add, that there is a " tramelogedia" of 
Alfieri, called '' Abele."— I have never read that, nor 
any other of the posthumous works of the writer, 
except his Life, 

Ravenna, Sept. 20, 1821, 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE 



Spirits. 



Adam. 

Cain. 

Abel. 

- Angel of the Lord. 
Lucifer. 



Women.— Eve. 
Adah. 
Zillah. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. 

The Land without Paradise. — Time, Sunrise. 

Adam, Eve, Cain, Abel, Adah, Zillah, offering a 
Sacrifice,. 

Adam. God, the Eternal I Infinite! All-wise! — 
Who out of darkness on the deep didst make 
Light on the w. iters with a word — all hail ! 
Jehovah, with returning light, all hail ! 

Eve. God ! who didst name the d;\y, and separate 
Morning from night, till then divided never — 
Who didst divide the wave from wave, and call 
Part of thy work the firmament — all hail ! 

Abel. God ! who didst call the elements into 
Earth — ocean — air — and fire, and with the day 
And night, and worlds which these illuminate, 
Or shadow, madest beings to enjoy them, 
And love both them and ihee — all hail! all hail ! 

Adah. God, the Eternal ! Parent of all things ! 
Who didst create these best and beauteous beings, 
To be beloved, more than all, save thee — 
Let me love ihee and them : — All hail ! all hail \ 

ZiUnh. Oh, God I w ho loving, making, blessing all, 
Yet didst permit the serpent to creep in. 
And drive my father forth from Paradise, 
Keep us from further evil : — Hail ! all hail ! 

Adam. Son Cain, my first-born, wherefore art thoo 
silent ? 

Cain. Why should I speak ? 

Adam. To pray. 

Cam. Have ye not pray'd ? 

Adam. We have, most fervently. 

Cai7i. And loudly : I 

Have heard you, 

Adam. So will God, I trust. 

Abel. Amen ! 

Adam. But thou, my eldest born, art silent still. 

Cai7i. 'T is better I should be so. 

Adam. Wherefore so? 

Cam. I have nought to ask. 

Adam. Nor aught to thank for ? 

Cain. No. 

Adam. Dost thou not live ? 

Cain. Must I not die ? 

Eve. Alas ! 

The fruit of our forbidden tree begins 
To fall. 

Adam. And we must gather it again. 
Ob, God ! why didst thou plant the tree of knowledge? 

Cain. And wherefore pluck'd ye not the tree of life ? 
Ye might have then defied him, 

Adam. Oh ! my son, 

Blispheme not : these are serpents' words. 

Cain. Why not ? 

The snake spoke ^nt^ft: it loa* the tree of knowledge; 
It was the tree of life: knowledge is good. 
And life is good ; and how can both be evil ? 

Eve. My boy ! thou speakest as I spoke, in sin, 
Before thy birth : let me not see renew'd 
My misery in thine. 1 have repented. 
Let me not see my offspring fall into 
The snares beyond the walls of Paradise, 
Which e'en in Paradise destroy'd his parents. 
Content thee with what is. Had we been so, 
Thou now hadst been contened. — Oh, my son! 

Adam. Our orisons completed, let us hence, 
Each to his task of toil — not heavy, though 
Needful : the eath is young, and yields us kindly 
Her fruits with little labour. 

Eve. Cain, my son, 

Behold thy father cheerful and resign'd. 
And do as" he doth. [ExeuiH Adam and Eve. 

Zillah. Wilt thou not, my brother ? 

Abel. Why wilt thou wear this gloom upon thy brow, 
Which can avail thee nothing, save to rouse 
The Eternal anger ? 

Adah. My beloved Cain, 

Wilt thou frown even on me? 



Scene I.] 



A MYSTERY. 



347 



Cain. No, Adah ! no j 

I fain would be alone a little while. 
Abel, I 'm sick at heart ; but it will pass ; 
Precede nie, broiher— I will (VjHow shortly. 
And you, too, sisteis, tarry not behind ; 
Your gentleness must not be harshly met: 
I '11 follow you anon. 

Mah. If not, I will 

Return to seek you here. 

Abel. The peace of God 

Be on your spirit, brother ! 

lExeuiit Mel, Zillah, and Adah, 

Cain, (solus). And this is | 

Life ! — Toil ! and wherefore should I toil ? — because 
My father could not keep his place in Eden. 
What had / done in this ? — 1 was unborn : 
I sought not to be born ; nor love ihe state 
To which that birih has brought me. Why" did he 
Yield !0 the serpent aud the womnn? or, 
Yielding, why suffer? What was there in this? 
The tiee was (ilaued, and why not for him ? 
If not, why place him near it, where it grew, 
The fairest in the centre? T hey have but 
One answer to all questions, " '1' was hts will, 
And he is good." How know I that ? Because 
He is all-powerful, must all good, too, follow ? 
I judge but by the fiuits — and they are bitter — 
Which I must feed on for a fault not mine. 
Whom have we heie ? — A shape like to the angels, 
Yet of a sterner and a s dder aspect 
Of spiritual essence : why do I quake ? 
Why should 1 fear him more than other spirits, 
Whom I see daily wave their fiery swords 
Before the gates round which I linger cift, 
In twilight's hour, to catch a glimpse of those 
Gardens which are my just inheritance, 
Ere the night closes o'er the inhibited walls 
And the immortal trees which overtop 
The cherubim-defended battlements? 
If I shrink not from these, the fire-aim'd angels, 
Why should I qmil from him who now approaches? 
Yet "he seems mightier far than them, nor less 
Beauteous, and yet not all as beautiful 
As he hath been, and might be : sorrow seems 
Half of his immortality. And is it 
So ? and can aught grieve save humanity ? 
He comeih. 

Enter Lucifer. 

Lucifer. Mortal ! 

Cai7i. Spirit, who art thou ? 

Lucifer. Master of spirits. 

Cain. And being so, canst thou 

Leave them, and walk with dust ? 

Lucifer. I know the thoughts 

Of dust, and feel for it, and with you. 

Cain. How ! 

You know my thoughts? 

Lucifer. They are the thoughts of all 

Worthy of thought; — 'tis your immortal part 
Which speaks within you. 

Cain. What immortal part ? 

This has not been reveal'd: the tree of life 
Was wiihheld from us by my father's folly. 
While that of knowledge, by my mother's haste, 
Was pluck'd too i-oon ; and all the fruit is death ! 

Lucifer. They have deceived thee; thou shalt live. 

Cain. I live, 

But live to die : and, living, see nothing 
To make death hateful, sive an innate clinging, 
A loathsome, and >et all invincible 
Instinct of life, which I abhor, as I 
Despise myself, yet cannot overcome — 
And so I live. Would 1 had never lived ! 

Lucifer. Thou livest, and must live for ever: think 
not 
The earth, which is thine outward cov'ring, is 
Existence — it will cease, and thou wilt be 
No less than thou art now. 

Cain. No less ! and why 

No more ? 



Lucifer. It may be thou shalt be as we. 

C'ai7i. And ye ? 

Lucifer. Are everlasting. 

Cain. Are ye happy ? 

Lucifer. We are mighty. 

Cain. Are ye happy ? 

Lucifer. No: art thou? 

Cain. How should I be so ? Look on me ! 

Lucifer. Poor clay ! 

And thou pretendest to be wretched ! Thou ! 

Cain. I am : — and thou, with all thy might, what 
art thou ? 

Lucifer. One who aspired to be what made thee, and 
Would not have made thee what thou art. 

Cain. Ah ! 

Thou look'st almost a god ; and 

Lucifer. J am none : 

And having faiTd to be one, would be nought 
Save what I am. He conquer'd ; let him reign ! 

Cain. Who? 

Lucifer. Thy sire's Maker, and the earth's. 

Cain. And heaven's, 

And all that in them is. So I have heard 
His seraphs sing ; and so my father sailh. 

Lucifer. They say — what they must sing and say, 
on pain 
Of being that which I am — and thou art — 
Of spirits and of men, 

Cain. And what is that ? 

Lucifer. Souls who dare use their immortality — 
Souls who dare look the Omnipotent tyrant in 
His everlasting face, and tell him that 
His evil is not good ! If he has made. 
As he saith — which I know not, nor believe — 
But, if he made us — he cannot unmake : 
We are immortal ! — nay, he 'd have us so, 
That he may torture : —'let him ! He is great — 
But, in his gre itness, is no happier than 
We in our conflict ! Goodness would not make 
Evil ; and what el e hath he made? But let him 
Sit on his vast and volilary throne. 
Creating worlds, to make eternity 
Less burlhensome to his immense existence 
And unparticipated solitude; 
Let him crowd orb on orb : he is alone. 
Indefinite, indissoluble tyrant ; 
Could he but cru>h himself, 't were the best booa 
He ever granted : but let him reign on, 
And multiply himself in misery ! 
Spirits and Men, at least we sympathise — 
And, suffering in concert, make our pangs 
Innumerable, more endurable, 
Bv the unbounded svmpa'hy of all 
With all ! Bui He': ^o wretched in his height. 
So restless in his wretchedness, must still 
Create, and re-create 

Caiyi. Thou speak'=t to me of things which long 
have swung 
In visions through my thought: I never could 
Reconcile what I saw with what I heard. 
My fa! her and my mother talk to me 
Of serpents, and of fruits and frees. I see 
The gates of what they call their Paradise 
Guarded by fiery-sworded cherubim, 
Which shut them out, and me: I feel the weight 
Of daily toil, and constant thought: I look 
Around a world where I seem nothins, with 
Thoughts which arise within me, as if they 
Could master all things — but I thought alone 
This misery was mine. — My f;>ther is 
Tamed down ; my mother has forgot the mind 
Which made her thirst for knowledge at the risk 
Of an eternal curse ; my brother is 
A watching shepherd boy, who offers up 
The firstlings of the flock to him who bids 
The earth yield nothing to us without sweat; 
My sister Zillah sings an earlier hymn 
Than the birds' matins ; and my Adah, my 
Own and beloved, she, too, understands not 
The mind which overwhelms me : never till 



348 



CAIN 



[Act I. 



Now met I aught io sympathise with me. 

'T is well — I rather would consort xvilh spirits. 

Lucifer. And aadst thou not been fit by thine own 
soul 
For such comjjanionship, I would not now 
Have stood before thee as 1 am : a ^erpetit 
Had been enough to charm ye. as before. 

CaiiL. Ah I didst thou tempt my mother? 

Lucifer. 1 tempt none, 

Save wi!h the truth : was not the tree, the tiee 
Of knowledge ? was not the tree of life 
Still fruitful ? 1 Did / bid her pluck them not ? 
Did / plant thi^g^ prohibited vvjthin 
The reach of beings innocent, and curious 
By their own innocence ? 1 would have made ye 
Gods ; ind even He who thrust ye forth, so thiust ye 
Because '-ye should not eat the fruits of life, 
" And become gods as we." Were those his words ? 

Cain. They were, as I have heard from those who 
heard them, 
In thunder. 

Lucifer. Then who was the demon ? He 
Who would not let ye live, or he who would 
Have made ye live for ever in the joy 
And power of knowledge ? 

Cain. "Would they had snatch'd both 

The fruits, or neither I 

Lucifer. One is yours already, 

The other may be still. 

Cain. How so ? 

Lucifer. By being 

Yourselves, in your resistance. Nolhing can 
Quench the mind, if the mind will be itself 
And centre of surrounding things — 't is mide 
To sway. 

Cain. But didst thou tempt my parents? 

Lucifer. I ? 

Poor clay ! what should I tempt them for, or how ? 

Cain. They say the serpent was a spirit. 

Lucijer. Who 

Saith that ? It is not written so on high : 
The proud One will not so far falsify, 
Though man's vast fears and little vanity 
Would make him cast upon the spiritual nature 
His own low f liling. The snake was the snake — 
No more ; and yet not less than those he tempted. 
In nature being earth al,o — more in wisdorti, 
Since he could overcome them, and foreknew 
The knowledge fatal to their jiarrow joys. 
Think'st thou I 'd take the shape of things that die? 

Cain. But the thing had a demon ? 

Lucifer. He but woke one 

In those he spake to with his forky tongue. 
I tell thee that the serpent was no more 
Than a mere serpent : ask the cherubim 
Who guard 'he lemptins; tree. When thousand ages 
Have roU'd o'er your dead ashes, and your seed's, 
The seed of the then world may thus an ay 
Their earliest fault in fable, and attribute 
To me a shipe I scorn, as I scorn all 
Th it bows to him, who made things but to bend 
Before his sullen, sole eternity; 
But we, who see the truth, must speak it. Thy 
Fond parents lislen'd to a creejjing thing, 
And fell. For what should spirits tempt them? What 
Was there to envy in the narrow bounds 
Of Paradise, that spirits who pervade 

Space but I speak to thee of what thou know'st 

not, 
With all thy tree of knowledge. 

Cain. But thou canst not 

Speak aught of knowledge which I would not know, 
And do not thirst to know, and bear a mind 
To know. 

Lucifer. And heart to look on ? 

1 The tree of life was doubtless a material tree, pro- 
ducing material fruit, proper as such for the nourishment 
of the body; but was it not also set apart to be partaken 
of as a symbol or sacrament of that celestial principle 
whii h nourishes the soul to immortality 7 — BISHOP 
HORNE. — E. 



Cain. Be it proved. 

Lucifer. Barest thou look on Death ? 

Cain. He has not yet 

Been seen. 

Lucifer. But must be undergone. 

Cain. My father 

Says he is something dreadful, and my mother 
Weeps when he 's named ; and Abel'lifts his eyes 
To he wen, and Zillah casts hers to the earth. 
And sighs a prayer j and Adah looks on me, 
And speaks not. 

Lucijer. And thou? 

Cain. Thoughts unspeak£ble 

Crowd in my breast to burning, when I hear 
Of this almighty Death, who is, it >eems, 
Inevitable. Could I wrestle with him? 
I wiestled with the lion, when a boy. 
In play, till he ran roaring from my gripe. 

Lucifer. It has no shape ; but will absorb all things 
That bear the form of earth-born being. 

Cain. Ah ! 

I thought it was a being : who could do 
Such evil things to beings save a being? 

Lucijer, Ask the Desiroyer. 

Cain. Who? 

Lucifer. The Maker — call hi-« 

Which name thou wilt: he makes but to destroy. 

Cain. I knew not that, yet thought it, since I heard 
Of deah : although I know not what it is. 
Yet it seems horrible. 1 have look'd out 
In the vast desolate night in search of him ; 
And when I saw gigantic shadows in 
The umbrage of the walls of Eden, chequer'd 
By the f ir-tlashing of the cherubs' swords, 
I waich'd for what I hought his coming; for 
With fear rose longing in my heart to know 
What 't was which shook us all — but nothing came. 
And then I turn'd my weary eyes from oil' 
I Our la'ive and forbidden Paradise, 
i Up to the ligh's above us, in the azure, 
Which are so beautiful : shall they, too, die? 

Lucifer. Perhaps — but long outlive both thine and 
thee. 

Cain. I'm glad of that: I would not have them 
die — 
They are so lovely. What is death ? I fear, 
I fee'l, it is a dreadful thins; but what, 
1 c mnot compass : 't is denounced against us, 
Both them who sinn'd and sinn'd not, as an ill — 
What ill? 

Lucifer. To be resolved into the earth. 

Cam. But shall 1 know it ? 

Lucifer. As I know not death, 

I cannot answer. 

Cain. Were I quiet earth, 

That were no evil : would I ne'er had been 
Aught else but dust I 

Lucifer. That is a groveling wish. 

Less than thy fa'her's, for he wish"d to know. 

Cain. But not to live, or wherefore pluck'd he not 
The life-tree? 

Lucifer. He was hinder'd. 

Cain. Deadly error ! 

Not to snatch first that fruit : — but ere he pluck'd 
The knowledge, he was ignorant of death. 
Alas'. I scarcely now know what it is. 
And yef 1 feir ii — fear I know not what ! 

Luciftr. And I, who know all things, fear nothing; 
see 
What is true knowledge. 

Cain. Wilt thou teach me all ? 

Lucifer. Ay, upon one condition. 

Cain. Name it. 

Lucifer. That 

Thou dost fall down and worship me — thy Lord. 

Cain. Thou art not the Lord my father worships. 

Lucifer. No. 

Cain. His equal? 

Lucifer. No; — I have nought in common with 
him ! 
Nor would : I would be aught above — beneath — 



Scene I.] 



A MYSTERY. 



349 



Aught save a sharer or a servant of 
His'povver. I dwell apart ; but I am great : — 
Many there are who worship me, and more 
Who shall — be thou amongst the first. 

Cain. I never 

As yet have bow'd unto my father's God, 
Although my bro'her Abel oft implores 
That I would join with him in sacrifice: — 
Why should 1 bow to thee ? 

Lucifer. Hast thou ne'er bow'd 

To him? 

Cain. Have I not said it ? — need I say it ? 
Could not thy mighty knowledge teach thee that? 

Lucifer. He who bows not to him has bow'd tome! 

Cain. But I will bend to neither. 

Lucifer. Ne'er the less, 

Thou art my worshipper : not worshipping 
Him makes thee mine the same. 

Cain. And what is that ? 

Lucifer. Thou 'It know here — and hereafter. 

Cain. Let me but 

Be taught the mystery of my being. 

Lucifer. Follow- 

Where I will lead thee. 

Cain. But I must retire 
To till the earth — for I had promised 

Lucifer. What? 

Cain. To cull some first-fruits. 

Lucifer. Why ? 

Cain. To offer up 

With Abel on an altar. 

Lucifer. Saidst thou not 

Thou ne'er badst bent to him who made thee ? 

Cain. Yes — 
But Abefs earnest prayer has wrought upon me ; 
The offering is more his than mine — and Adah 

Lucifer. Why dost thou hesitate ? 

Cai7i. She is my sister, 

Born on the sime day, of the same womb ; and 
She wrung from me, with tears, this promise ; and 
Rather than see her weep, I would, methiuks, 
Bear all — and worship aught. 

Lucifer. Then follow me ! 

Cain. I will. 

Enter Adah. 

Adah. My brother, I have come for thee ; 

It is our hour of re-t and joy — and we 
Have less without thee. Thou hast labour'd not 
This morn ; but I have done thy task : the fruits 
Are ripe, and glowing as the light which ripens: 
Come away. 

Cain. See'st thou not ? 

Adah, I see an angel ; 

We have seen many : will he share our hour 
Of rest? — he is welcome. 

Cain. But he is not like 

The angels we have seen. 

Adah. Are there, then, others ? 

But he is welcome, as they were : they deign'd 
To be our guests — will he ? 

Cain (to Lucifer). Wilt thou ? 

Lucifer. I ask 

Thee to be mine. 

Cain. I must away with him. 

Adah. And leave us? 

Cain. Ay. 

Adah. And me ? 

Cain. Beloved Adah ! 

Adah. Let me go with thee. 

Lucifer. No, she must not. 

Adah. Who 

Art thou that steppest between heart and heart ? 

Cain. He is a god. 

Adah. How know'st thou ? 

Cain. He speaks like 

A god. 

Adah. So did the serpent, and it lied. 

Lucifer. Thou errest, Adah ! — was not the tree that 
Of knowledge ? 

Adah. Ay — to our eternal sorrow. 



30 



Lucifer. And yet that grief is knowledge — so he 
lied not : 
And if he did betray you, 't was with truth; 
And truth in its own essence cannot be 
But good. 

Adah. But all we know of it has gather'd 
Evil on ill : expulsion from our home, 
And dread, and toil, and sweat, and heaviness ; 
Rernorse of that which was — and hope of that 
Which comefh not. Cain ! walk not with this spirit. 
Bear with what we have borne, and love me — I 
Love thee. 

Lucifer. More than thy mother, and thy sire ? 

Adah. I do. Is that a sin, too ? 

Lucifer. No, not yet ', 

It one day will be in your children. 

Adah. What ! 

Must not my daughter love her brother Enoch ? 

Lucifer. Not as thou lovest Cain. 

Adah. Oh, my God ! 

Shall they not love and bring forth things that love 
Out of their love ? have they not drawn their milk 
Out of this bosom ? was not he, their father. 
Born of the sinie sole womb, in the same hour 
With me ? did we not love each other? and 
In multiplying our being multifjly 
Things which will bve each other as we love 
Them ? — And as I love thee, my Cain ! go not 
Forth with this spirit ; he is not of ours. 

Lucifer. The sin I speak of is not of my making, 
And cannot be a sin in you — whate'er 
It seem in those who will replace ye in 
Mortality. 

Adah, What is the sin which is not 
Sin in itself? Can circumstance make sin 
Or virtue? — if it doth, we are the slaves 
Of 

Lucifer. Higher things than ye are slaves: and 
higher 
Than them or ye would be so, did they not 
Pieter an independency of torture 
'To the smooth agonies of adulation, 
In hymns and harpings, and self-seeking prayers, 
To that which is omnipotent, because 
It is omnipotei.!, knd not from love, 
But terror and self-hope. 

Adah. Omnipotence 

Must be all goodness. 

Lucifer. Was it so in Eden ? 

Adah. Fiend ! tempt me not with beauty ; thou art 
fairer 
Than was the serpent, and as false. 

Lucifer. As true. 

Ask Eve, your mother: bears she not the knowledge 
Of good and evil ? 

Adah. Oh ! my mother ! thou 

Hast pluck'd a fruit more fatal to thine offspring 
Than ti thyself; thou at the least hast pass'd 
Thy youth in Paradise, in innocent 
And happy intercourse with happy spirits : 
But we, thy children, ignorant of Eden, 
Are girt about by demons, who assume 
The words of God, and tempt us with our own 
Dissatisfied and curious thoughts — as thou 
Wert work'd on by the snake, in thy most flush'd 
And heedless, harmless wantonness of bliss. 
I cannot answer this immortal thing 
Which stands before me ; I cannot abhor him ; 
I look upon him with a pleasing feir, 
And yet I fly not from him : in his eye 
There is a fastening attraction which 
Fixes my fluttering eyes on his ; my heart 
Beats quick ; he awes me, and yet draws me near, 
Nearer and nearer :— Cain — Cain— save me from him ! 

Cain. What dreads my Adah ? This is no ill spirit. 

./idah. He is not God — nor God's : I have beheld 
The cherubs and the seraphs ; he looks not 
Like them. 

Cain. But there are spirits loftier still— ' 
The archangels. 

Lucifer. And still loftier than the archangels. 



I 



1!| 



350 



CAIN 



[Act I. 



Adah. Ay — but not blessed. 

Lucifer. If the blessedness 

Consi-ts in slavery — no. 

Adah. I have heard it said, 

The seraphs love most — cherubim know most — 
And iliis should be a cherub — since he loves not. 

Lucifer. And if the higher knowledge quenches 
love, 
Whit must he be you c.mnot love when known ? 
Since the all-knowing cherubim love least, 
The serapjjs' love can be but ignorance: 
That they are not conipntible. ihe doom 
Of thy fond parents, for their daring, proves. 
Choose betwixt love and knowledge — since there is 
No other choice : your sire haih chosen already : 
His w.)rship is but fear. 

Adah. Oh, Cain '. choose love. 

Cain. For thee, my Adah, 1 choose not — it was 
Born with me — but 1 love nought else. 

Adah. Our parents ? 

Cain. Did they love us when they snatch'd from 
the tree 
That which hath driven us all from Paradise ? 

Adah. We were not born then — and if we had been, 
Should we no; love them and our children, Cain ? 

Cain. My little Enoch ! und his lisping siater ! 
Could I but deem ihem happy, I would half 

Forget but it can never be forgotten 

Through thrice a thousnnd generations ! never 

Shall men love the remembrnnce of the man 

Who sow'd the seed of evil and mankind 

In the same hour ! They pluck'd the iree of science 

Arid sin — and, not content with their own sorrow, 

Begot me — thee — and .ill the few that are. 

And all the unnumber'd and innumerable 

Multitudes, millions, myriads, which may be, 

To luherit agonies accumulated 

By ages ! — and I must be sire of such things ! 

Thybeauty and thy love — my love and joy, 

The rapturous moment and the placid hour. 

Ail we love in our children and each other, 

But lead them and ourselves through many years 

Of sin and pain — or few, but still of sorrow, 

Interche:k d with an instant of brief pleasure, 

To Death — the unkn;;wn ! Methinks the tree of 

knowledge 
Hath not fulfill'd its promise : — if they sinn'd, 
At least they ought to have known all things that are 
Of knowledge — and the mystery of death. 
What do they know ? — that they are miserable. 
What need of snakes and frui's to teach us that ? 

Adah. I am not wretched, Cain, and if thou 
Wert happy 

Cain. Be thou happy, then, alone — 

I will have nought to do vvi'h happiness. 
Which humbles me and mine. 

Adah. Alone I could not, 

Nor would be happy ; but with those around us 
I think I could be so, despi'e of death. 
Which, as I know it not, I dread not, though 
It seems an awful shadow — if I may 
Judge from what I have heard. 

Lucifer. And thou couldst not 

Alone, thou say'st, be happy ? 

Adah. Alone ! Oh, my God ! 

Who could be happy and alone, or good? 
To me my solitude seems sin ; unless 
When I think how soon I shall see my brother, 
His brother, and our children, and our parents. 

LuC'fer. Yet lliy God is alone j and is he happy, 
Lonely, and good? 

Adah. He is not so ; he hath 

The angels and the mortals to make happy. 
And thus becomes so in ditfu^ing joy. 
What else can joy be, but the spreading joy ? 

Lucifir. Ask of your sire, the exile fresh from 
Eden; 
Or of his first-born son : ask your own heart ', 
It is not tranquil. 

Adah. Alas ! no ! and you — 

Are you of heaven ? 



Lucifer. If I am not, enquire 

The cause of this all-spteading happiness 
(Which you proclaim) of the all-gieat and good 
MaKer of life and living things ; it is 
His secret, and he keeps it. fVe must bear, 
And some of us resist, and both in vain, 
His seraphs say : but it is worth the trial, 
Since better may not be without : there is 
A wisdom in (he spirit, which directs 
To right, as in the dim blue air tie eye 
Of you, young mortals, lights at once upon 
The star which watches, welcoming the morn. 

Adah. It is a beautiful star j I love it for 
Its beauty. 

Lucifer. And why not adore? 

Adah. Our father 

Adoies the Invisible only. 

Lucifer. But the symbols 

Of the iuvisible are the loveliest 
Of what is vi-ible ; and yon bright star 
Is lender of the host of heaven. 

Adah. Our father 

Saith that he has beheld the God himself 
Who made him and our mother. 

Luciftr. Hast thou seen him ? 

Adah. Yes — in his works. 

Lucifer. But in his being ? 

Adah. No — 

Save in my father, who is God's own image ; 
Or in his angels, who are like to thee — 
And brighter, yet less beautiful and powerful 
In seeming : as the silent sunny noon, 
Ail light, they look upon us ; but thou seem'st 
Like an ethereal night, where long white clouds 
S:reak the deep purple, and unnumber'd stars 
Spangle the wonderful mysterious vault 
With things that look as if they would be suns; 
So beautiful, unnumber'd, and endearing, 
Not dazzling, and yet drawmg us to them. 
They fill my eyes with te»rs, and so dost thou. 
Thou seem'st unhappy : do not make us so, 
And 1 will weep for thee. 

Luciftr. Alas ! those fears. 
Couldst thou but know what oceans will be shed 

Adah. By me ? 

Lucifer. By all. 

Adah. What all ? 

Lucifer. The million millions — 

The myriad myriads — the all-peopled earth — 
The unpeopled earth — and the o'er-peopled hell, 
Of which thy bosom is the germ. 

Adah. Cain 1 

This spirit curseth us. 

Cain. Let him say on ; 

Him will I follow. 

Adah. Whither ? 

Lucifer. To a place 

Whence he shall come back to thee in an hour ; 
But in that hour see things of many days. 

Adah. How can that be ? 

Lucifer. Did not your Maker make 

Out of old worlds this new one in few days ? 
And cannot I, who aided in this work. 
Show in an hour what he hath made in many, 
Or hath destroy 'd in few ? 

Cain. Lead on. 

Adah. Will he. 

In sooth, return within an hour? 

Lucifer. He shall. 

Wi h us acts are exempt from time, and we 
Can crowd eternity into an hour. 
Or stretch an hour into eternity : 
We breathe not by a n)ortal measurement — 
But that 's a mystery. Cain, come on with me. 

Adah. Will he return ? 

Lucifer. Ay, woman ! he alone 

Of mortals from that place (ihe first and last 
Who shall return, save One), shall come back to thee, 
To maki3 that silent and expectant world 
As po[)uIous as this : at present there 
Are few inhabitants. 



1 



Scene I.] 



A MYSTERY. 



351 



Adak. Where dwellest thou ? 

Lucifer. Throughout all space. Where should I 
dwell? Where are 
Thy God or Gods — there am I : all things are 
Divided with uie : life and death — and time — 
Eternity — and heaven and eaith — and that 
Which is not heaven nor eirth, but peopled with 
Those who once peopled or sh;dl people both — 
These are my realms ! So that 1 do divide 
Hu, and possess a kingdom u hich is not 
His. It 1 were not that whicii 1 have said, 
Could I stand here ? His augels are within 
Your vision. 

Adah. So they were when the fair serpent 
Spoke with our mother first. 

Lucifir. Cain ! thou hast heard. 

If thou dost long for knowledge, I cm satiate 
That thirst ; nor ask thee to partake of fruits 
Which shall deprive thee of a single good 
The conqueror has left thee Follow me. 

Cain. Spirit, I have said it. 

[Exeunt Lucifer and Cain. 

Adah (follows exclaiming). Cain 1 my brother ! 
Cain! 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. 
The Abyss of Spaa. 

Cain. I tread on air, and sink not j yet I fear 
To sink. 

Lucifer. Have faith in me, and thou shalt be 
Borne on the air, of which I am the prince. 

Cain. Can i do so without impiety ? 
Lucifer. Believe — and sink not! doubt — and pe- 
rish ! thus 
Would run the edict of the other God, 
Who names me demon to his angels ; they 
Echo the sound to miserable things, 
Which, knowing nought beyond their shallow senses. 
Worship the word which strikes their ear, and deem 
Evil or good what is proclaim'd to them 
In their abasement. I will have none such : 
Worship or worship not, thou shalt behold 
The worlds beyond thy little world, nor be 
Amerced for doubts beyond thy little life. 
With torture of my dooming. There will come 
An hour, when, toss'd upon some water-drops, 
A man shall say to a man, " Believe in me, 
And walk the waters 5" and the man shall walk 
The billows and be safe. / will not say, 
Believe in me, as a conditioml creed 
To save thee ; but fly with me o'er the gulf 
Of space an equal flight, and I will show 
What thou dar'st not deny,— the history 
Of past, and present, and of future worlds. 

Cain, Oh, god, or demon, or whate'er thou art, 
Is yon our earth ? 

Lucifer. Dost thou not recognise 

The dust which form'd your father ? 

Cain. Can it be? 

Yon small blue circlet, swinging in far ether, 
With an inferior circlet near it still. 
Which looks like that which lit our earthly night? 
Is this our Paradise ? Where are its walls. 
And they who guard them ? 

Lucifer. Point me out the site 

Of Paradise. 

Cain. How should I ? As we move 

Like sunbeams onward, it grows small and smaller, 
And as it waxes little, and then less. 
Gathers a halo round it, like the light 
Which shone the roundest of the stars, when I 
Beheld them from the skirts of Piradi.e: 
Methinks they both, as we recede from them, 
Appear to join the innumerable stars 
Which are around us ; and, as we move on, 
Increase their myriads. 

Lucifer. And if there should be 



Worlds greater than thine own, inh 'bited 

By greater things, and they themselves far more 

In number than the dust of thy dull earth. 

Though multiplied to animated atoms, 

All living, and all doom'd to death, and wretched. 

What wouldst Ihou think? 

Cain. I should be proud of thought 

Which knew such things. 

Lucifer. But if that high thought were 

Lirik'd to a servile mass of matter, and, 
Knowing such things, aspiring to such things. 
And science still beyond them, were chain"d down 
To the most gross and petty paltry wants, 
All foul and fulsome, and the very best 
Of thine enjoyments a sweet degradation, 
A most enervating and filthy cheat 
To lure thee on to the renewal of 
Fresh souls and bodies, all foredoom'd to be 

As frail, and few so happy 

Cain. Spirit ! I 

Know nought of death, save as a dreadful thing 
Of which I have lieard my parents speak, as of 
A hideous heritage I owe to them 
No le-s than life ; a heritage not happy, 
If I may judge, till now. But, spirit 1 if 
It be as thou hast said (and I wiihin 
Feel the propheiic torture of its truth), 
Here let me die : for to give birth to those 
Who cnn but sutf'er many years, and die, 
Methinks is merely propaga;ing death. 
And multiplying murder. 

Lucifer. _ Thou canst not 

All die — there is what must survive. 

Cain. The Other 

Spake not of this unto my father, when 
He shut him forth from Paradise, with death 
Written upon his forehead. But at least 
Let what is mortal of me perish, that 
I may be in the rest as angels are. 
Lucifer. 7 am angelic : wouldst thou be as I am ? 
Cain. I know not what thou art : I see thy power, 
And see thou show'st me things beyond my power, 
Beyond all power of my born faculties, 
Although inferior still to my desires 
And my conceptions. 

Lucifer. What are they which dwell 

So humbly in their pride, as to sojourn 
With worms in clay ? 

Cain. And what art thou who dwellest 

So haughtily in spirit, and canst range 
Nature and immortality — and yet 
Seem'st sorrowful ? 

Lucifer. I seem that which I am ; 

And therefore do I ask of thee, if thou 
Wouldst be immortal ? 

Cain. Thou hast said, I must be 

Immortal in despite of me. I knew not 
This until lately — but since it must be, 
Let me, or happy or unhappy, learn 
To anticipate my immortality. 
Lucifer. Thou didst before I came upon thee. 
Cain. How ? 

LxLcifer. By suffering. 

Cain. And must torture be immortal ? 

Lucifer. We and thy sons will try. But now, be- 
hold ! 
Is it not glorious ? 

Cain. Oh, thou beautiful 

And unimaginnble elher ! and 
Ye multiplying masses of increased 
And still increasing lights ! v\hal are ye? what 
Is this blue wilderness of interminable 
Air, where ye roll along, ns I have seen 
The leaves along the limpid streams of Eden ? 
Is your course measured for ye ? Or do ye 
Sweep on in your unbounded revelry 
Through an aerial universe of endless 
Expansion — at which my soul aches to think — 
Intoxicated with eternity? 
Oh God ! Oh Gods ! or whatsoe'er ye are ! 
How beautiful ye are ! how beautiful 



\ 



352 



CAIN; 



[Act II 



Tour works, or accidents, or whatsoe'er 
They may be ! Let iiie die, as atoms die, 
(If that tiiey die) or know ye in your niijht 
And knowledge 1 My thoughts are not in this hour 
Unworthy what I see, though my dust is; 
Spirit 1 let me expire, or see them nearer. 
Lucifa: Art thou not nearer ? look back to thine 

earth I 
Cain. Where is it ? I see nothing save a mass 
Of most innumerable lights. 
Lucifa: Look there ! 

Cain. I cannot see it. 
Lucifer. Yet it sparkles stiU. 

Cain. That! — yonder! 
Lucifer. Yea. 

Cain. And wilt thou tell me so ? 

Why, I have seen the fire-tlies and tire- worms 
Sprinkle the dusky groves and the green banks 
In the dim twilight, brighter than yon world 
Which bears them. 

Luciftr. Thou hast seen both worms and worlds. 
Each bright and sparkling— what dost think of them? 
Cain. That thev are beautiful in their own sphere. 
And that the ni'h', which makes both beautiful, 
The little shining tire-tly in its riight. 
And the immortal star in its great course, 
Must b-1'h be guided. 
Lucifer. But by whom or what ? 

Cain. Show me. 

Lucxfer. Dar'st thou behold ? 

Cain. How know I what 

I dare behold ? As yet, thou hast shown nought 
I dare not gaze on further. 

Lucifer. On, then, with me. 

Wouldst thou behold things mortal or immortal? 
Cain. Why, what are ihings ? 
Lucifer. Boffi partly : but what doth 

Sit next thy heart? 
Cain. The things I see. 

Lucifer. But what 

Sate nearest it ? 

Cain. The things I have not seen, 

Nor ever shall — the mysteries of death. 
Lucifer. What, if I show to .hee things which have 
died, 
As I have shown thee much which cannot die ? 
Cain. Do so. 

Lucifer. Away, then ! on our mighty wings. 
Coin. Oh ! how we cleave the blue ! 'The stars 
fade from us ! 
The earth I where is my earth ? Let me look on it, 
For I was made of it. 

Lucifer. 'T is now beyond thee. 

Less, in the universe, than thou in it; 
Yet deem not that thou canst escape it ; thou 
Shalt soon return to earth, and all its dust : 
T is part of thy eternity, and mine. 
Cain. Where dost thou le.»d me? 
Lucifer. To what was before thee ! 

The phantasm of the world ; of which thy world 
Is hut the wreck. 
Cain. What ! is it not then new ? 

Lucifer. No more than life is ; and that was ere ' 
thou 
Or T were, or the things which seem to us 
Greater than either: many things will have 
No end ; and some, whicli would pretend to have j 
Had no beginning have had one as mean i 

As thou ; and mightier things have been extinct i 

To make way for such meaner than we can 
Surmise ; for moments only and the space 
Have been and must be all unchan°:eable. 
But changes make not death, excep; to clay; 
But thou art clay — and canst but comprehend 
That which was chy, and such thou shalt behold. 
Cain. Clay, spirit ! what thou wilt, I can survey. 
Lucifer. Away then ! 

Cain. Bu* the lights fade from me fast, 

And some till now grew larger as we approach'd, 
And wore the look of worlds. 

Lucifer. And such they are. 



Cain. And Edens in them ? 

Lucifa: It may be. 

Coin. " And men? 

Luafer. Yea, or Ihings higher. 

Cain. ' Ay ? and serpents too ? 

Lucifer. Wouldst thou have men without them? 
must no reptiles 
Breathe, save the erect ones? 

Ca m. How the lights recede ! 

Where riy we? 

Luc'fer. To the world of phantoms, which 

Are bemgs past, and shadows still ;o come. 

Cain. But it grows dark, and dark — the stars are 
gone! 

Luctfer. And yet thou seest. 

Cain. 'T is a fearful light! 

No sun. no moon, no lights innumerable. 
The very blue of the empurpled night 
Fades to a dreary twilight, yet I see 
Huge dusky masses; but unlike the worlds 
We were approachiuff, which, besrirt with light, 
Seem'd full of life even when their atmosphere 
Of light gave way. and >howd them taking shapes 
Unequal, of deep valleys and vast mountains; 
And some emitting sparks, and some displaying 
Enormous liquid plains, and some begirt 
With luminous bel s. and floating moons, which took. 
Like them, the features of fair earth : — instead, 
All here seems dark and dreadful. 

Lucifer. But distinct. 

Thou seekest to behold death, and dead things? 

Cai7i. I seek it not; but as I know there are 
Such, and that my sire's sin makes him and me, 
And all thai we inherit, liable 
To such, 1 would behold at once, what I 
Must one day see perforce. 

Lucifer. Behold ! 

Cain. T is darkness. 

Lucifer. And so it shall be ever ; but we will 
Unfild its gates! 

Cain. Enormous vapours roll 

Apart — what 's this ? 

Lucifer, Enter ! 

Cain. Can I return ? 

Lucifer. Return! be sure: how else should death 
be peopled? 
Its present re >lm is thin to what it will be. 
Through thee and thine. 

Cain. The clouds still open wide 

And wider, and make widening circles round us. 

Luctfer. Advance ! 

Ca tJi. And thou ! 

Lucifer. Fea t not — without me thou 

Couldst not have gone beyond thy world. On ! on ! 
[They disappear through the clouds. 

SCENE II. 

Hades. 

Enter Lucifer and Cain. 

Cain. How silent and how vast are these din 
worlds I 
For they seem more than one, and yet more peopled 
Than the huge brilliant luminous orbs which swung 
So thickly in the up^^er air. that I 
Had deei'n'd them rather the bright populace 
Of some all unimaginable Heaven, 
Than things to be inhabited themselves. 
But that on drawing near them 1 beheld 
Their swelling into palpable immensity 
Of matter, which seemVi made for life "to dwell on. 
Rather than life irself. But here, all is 
So shadowy and so full of twilight, that 
It speaks of a day past. 

Lucifer. ' It is the realm 

Of death.— Wouldst have it present ? 

Cain. Till I know 

That which it really is, I cannot answer. 
But if it be as I have hexrd my father 
Deal out in his long homilies, 't is a thing — 



Scene II.] 



A MYSTERY. 



353 



Oh God ! I dare not think on 't ! Cursed be 
He who invented life that leads to death ! 
Or the dull mass of life, that, being life, 
Could iiot retain, but needs must forfeit it — 
Even for the innocent ! 

Lucifer. Dost thou curse thy father? 

Cahi. Cursed he not me in giving me my birth? 
Cursed he no! me before my birth, in daring" 
To pluck the fruit forbidden ? 

Lucifer. Thou say'st well : 

The curse is mutual 'twixt thy sire and thee — 
But for thy sons and broiher ? 

Cain. Let them share it 

With me, their sire and brother ! What else is 
Bequeiith'd to me ? I leave them my inheritance. 
Oh, ye interminable gloomy realms 
Of swimming shidows and enormous shapes, 
Some fully shown, some indistinct, and all 
Mighty and melancholy — what are ye? 
Live ye, or have ye lived ? 

Lucifer. Somewhat of both. 

Cain. Then what is death ? 

Lucifer, What ? Hath not he who made ye 

Said 'tis another life? 

Cain. Till now he hath 

Said nothing, save that all shall die. 

Lucijer. Perhaps 

He one day will unfold that further secret. 

Cat?!. Happy the d;iy ! 

Lucifer. Yes ; happy ! when unfolded, 

Through agonies unspeakable, and clogg'd 
With agonies eternal, to innumerable 
Yet unborn myriads of unconscious atoms, 
All to be animated for this only ! 

Cain. What are these mighty phantoms which I see 
Floating around me ? — They wear not the form 
Of the intelligences I have seen 
Round our regretted and unenter'd Eden, 
Nor wear the form of man as I have vievv'd it 
In Adam's and in Abel's, and in mine. 
Nor in my sister-bride's, nor in my children's : 
And yet they have an aspect, which, though not 
Of men nor angels, looks like something, which. 
If not the last, rose higher than the first. 
Haughty, and high, and beautiful, and full 
Of seen)ing strength, but of inexplicable 
Shape ; for I never saw such. They bear not 
The wing of seraph, nor the face ot man. 
Nor form of mightiest brute, nor aughi that is 
Now breathing; mighty yet and beaniful 
As the most beautiful and mighty which 
Live, and yet so unlike them, that I scarce 
Can call them living. 

Lucifer. Yet they lived. 

Cam. Where? 

Lucifer. Where 

Thou livest. 

Cain. When? 

Lucifer. On what thou callest earth 

They did inhabit. 

Cai?j. Adam is the first. 

Lucifer. Of thine, I grant thee — but too mean to be 
The last of these. 

Cain. And what are they ? 

Lucifer. That which 

Thou Shalt be. 

Cain. But what were they ? 

Lucifer. Living, high, 

Intelligent, good, great, and glorious things, 
As much superior unto all thy sire, 
Adam, could e'er have been in Eden, as 
The sixty-thousandth generation shall be, 
In its dull damp degeneracy, to 
Thee and thy son ; — and how weak they are, judge 
By thy own flesh. 

Cain. Ah me! and did they perish ? 

Lucifer. Yes, from their earth, as thou wilt fade from 
thine. 

Cain. But was mine theirs ? 

Lucifer. It was. 

Coin. But not as nov^. 



It is too little and too lowly to 
Sustain such creatures. 

Lucijer. True, it was more glorious. 

Cain. And wherefore did it fall ? 

Lucifer. Ask him who fells. 

Cain. But how ? 

Lucifer. By a most crushing and inexorable 

Destruction and disorder of the elements. 
Which struck a world to chaos, as a chaos 
Subsiding has struck out a world: such things, 
Though rare in time, are frequent in eternity. — 
Pass on, and gaze upon the past. 

Cain. 'T is awful ! 

Lucifer. And true. Behold these phantoms ! they 
were once 
Material as thou art. 

Cain. And must I be 

Like them ? 

Lucifer. Let He who made thee answer that. 
I show thee what thy predecessors are, 
And what they were thou feelest, in degree 
Inferior as thy petty feelings and 
Thy pettier portion of the immortal part 
Of high intelligence and earthly strength. 
What ye in conmion have with what they had 
Is life, and what ye shall have — death : the rest 
Of your poor attributes is such as suits 
Reptiles engender'd out of the subsiding 
Slime of a mighty universe, crush'd into 
A scarcely-yet sh;iped planet, peopled with 
Things whose enjoyment was to be in blindness — 
A Paradise of Ignorance, from which 
Knowledge was barr'd as poison. But behold 
What these superior beings are or were: 
Or, if it irk thee, turn thee back and till 
The earth, thy task — 1 '11 waft thee there in safety. 

Cain. No : I '11 stay here, 

Lucifer. How long? 

Cain. For ever ! Since 

I must one day return here from the earth, 
I rather would remain ; I am sick of all 
That dust has shown me — let me dwell in shadows. 

Lucifer. It cannot be : thou now beholdest as 
A vision that which is reality. 
To make thyself fit for this dwelling, thou 
Musi pass Ihiough what the things thou see'st have 

1 ass'd — 
The gates of death. 

Cain. By what gate have we enter'd 

Even now ? 

Lucifer. By mine ! But, plighted to return, 
My spirit buoys thee up to breathe in regions 
Where all is breathless save thyself. Gaze on ; 
Rut do not think to dwell here till thine hour 
Is come. 

Cain. And these, too ; can they ne'er repass 
To earth again ? 

Lucifer. Their earth is gone for ever — 

So changed by its convulsion, they would not 
Be conscious to a single present spot 
Of its new scarcely harden'd surface — 'twas — 
Oh, what a beautiful world it xvas ! 

Cain. And is. 

It is not with the earth, though I must tell it, 
I feel at war, but that I may not profit 
By what it bears of beauuful, untoiling, 
Nor gratify my thousand swelling thoughts 
With knowledge, nor allay my thousand fears 
Of death and life. 

Lucifer. What thy world is, thou see'st. 

But canst not comprehend the shadow of 
Th;»t which it was. 

Cain. And those enormous creatures, 

Phantoms inferior in intelligence 
(At least so seeming) to the things we have pass'd, 
Resembling somewhat the wild habitants 
Of the deep woods of earth, the hugest which 
Roar nightly in the forest, but ten-fold 
In magnitude and terror; taller than 
The clierub-guarded walls of Eden, with 
Eyes flashing like the fiery swords which fence them, 



30* 



23 



354 



CAIN: 



[Act II. 



And tusks projecting like the trees stripp'd of 
Their bark and branchea — what were they ? 

Lucifer. That which 

The Mammoth is in thy world ; — but these lie 
By myriads underneath its surface. 

Cain. But 

None on it? 

Lxicifcr. No : for thy frail race to war 
With them would render the curse on it useless — 
'T would be desiroy'd so early. 

Cain. But why war ? 

Lucifer. You have forgotten the denunciation 
Which drove your race from Eden — war with all 

things, 
And death to all things, and disease to most things, 
And pangs, and bitterness j these were the fruits 
Of the forbidden tree. 

Cain. But animals — 

Did they, too, eat of it, that they must die ? 

Lucifer. Your Maker told ye, they were made for 
you, 
As you for him.— You would not have their doom 
Superior to your own ? Had Adam not 
Fallen, all had stood. 

Cat?i. Alas! the hopeless wretches! 

They too must share my sire's fate, like his sonsj 
Like them, too, without having shared the apple : 
Like them, too, without the so dear-bought knowledge! 
It was a lying tree — for we know nothing. 
At least it promised knowledge at the price 
Of death — but knovAedge still : but what knows man? 

Lucifer, It may be deaih leads to the highest know- 
ledge ; 
And being of all things the sole thing certain, 
At least leads to the surest science : therefore 
The tree was true, though deadly. 

Cain. These dim realms ! 

I see them, but I know them not. 

Lucifer. Because 

Thy hour is yet afar, and matter cannot 
Comprehend spirit wholly — but 't is something 
To know there are such realms. 

Cain. We knew already 

That there was death. 

Lucifer. But not what was beyond if. 

Cain. Nor know I now. 

Lucifer. Thou knowest that there is 

A state, and many states beyond thine own — 
And this thou knewest not this morn. 

Cain. But all 

Seems dim and shadowy. 

Lucifer. Be content ; it will 

Seem clearer to thine immortality. 

Cain. And yon immeasurable liquid space 
Of glorious azure which floats on beyond us. 
Which looks like water, and which I should deem 
The river which flows out of Paradise 
Past my own dwelling, but that it is bankless 
And boundless, and of an ethereal hue — 
What is it? 

Lucifer. There is still some such on earth, 
Although inferior, and thy children shall 
Dwell near it — 'tis the phantasm of an ocean. 

Cain. 'T is like another world ; a liquid sun — 
And those inordinate creatures sporting o'er 
Its shining surface ? * 

Lucifer. Are its habitants, 

The past leviathans. 

Cain. And yon immense 

Serpent, which rears his dripping mane and vasty 
Head ten times higher than the haughtiest cedar 
Forth from the abyss, looking as he could coil 
Himself around the orbs we lately look'd on — 
Is he not of the kind which bask'd beneath 
The tree in Eden ? 

Lucifer. Eve, thy mother, best 

Can tell what shape of serpent tempted her. 

Cain. This seems too terrible. No doubt the other 
Had more of beauty. 

Lucifer. Hast thou ne'er beheld him ? 

Cain. Many of the same kind (at least so call'd), 



But never that precisely which persuaded 
The fatal fruit, nor even of the same aspect. 

Lucifer. Your father saw him not ? 

Cain. No : 't was my mother 

Who tempted him — she tempted by the serpent. 

Lucifer. Good man ! whene'er thy wife, or thy sons' 
wives, 
Tempt thee or them to aught that 's new or strange, 
Be sure thou fee'st first who hath tempted them. 

Cain. Thy precept comes too late : there is no more 
For serpents to tempt woman to. 

Lucifer. But there 

Are some things still which woman may tempt man to, 
And man tempt woman : — let thy sons look to it ! 
My counsel is a kind one ; for 't is even 
Given chiefly at my own expense ; 't is true, 
'T will not be follow'd, so there 's little lost. 

Cain. I understand not this. 

Lucifer. The happier thou ! — 

Thy world and thou are still too young! Thouthinkest 
Thyself most wicked and unhappy : is it 
Not sS? 

Cain. For crime, I know not ; but for pain, 
I have felt much. 

Lucifer. First-born of the first man ! 

Thy present state of sin — and thou art evil, 
Of sorrow — and thou sufferest, are both Eden 
In all its innocence compared to what 
j Thou shortly may'st be ; and that state again, 
! In its redoubled wretchedness, a Paradise 
: To what thy sons' sons' sons, accumulating 
In generations like to dust (which they 
In fact but add to), shall endure and do. — 
Now let us back to; earth ! 

Cain. And wherefore didst thou 

Lead me here only to inform me this ? 

Lucifer. Was not thy quest for knowledge ? 

Cain. Yes J as being 

The road to happiness. 

Lucifer. If truth be so, 

Thou hast it. 

Cain. Then my father's God did well 

When he prohibited the fatal tree. 

Luciftr. But had done better in not planting it. 
But ignorance of evil doth not save 
From evil ; it must still roll on the same, 
A part of all things. 

Cain. Not of all things. No : 

I '11 not believe it — for I thirst for good. 

Lucifer. And who and what doth not? Who covets 
evil 
For its own bitter sake ? — None — nothing ! 't is 
The leaven of all life, and lifelessness. 

Cain. Witliin those glorious orbs which we behold. 
Distant, and dazzling, and innumerable. 
Ere we came down into this phantom realm. 
Hi cannot come : they are too beautiful. 

Lucifer. Thou hast seen them from afar. 

Cam. And what of that ? 

Distance can but diminish glory — they. 
When nearer, must be more ineffable. 

Lxicifcr. Approach the things of earth most beautiful, 
And judge their beauty near. 

Cain. I have done this — 

The loveliest thing I know is loveliest nearest. 

Lucifer. Then there must be delusion.— What is 
that, 
Which being nearest to thine eyes is still 
More beautiful than beauteous things remote ? 

Cain. My sister Adah.— All the stars of heaven, 
i The deep blue noon of night, lit by an orb 
: Which looks a spirit, or a spirit's world — 
; The hues of twilight — the sun's gorgeous coming — 
' His setting indescribable, which fills 
My eves with pleasant lear=as I behold 
; Him sink, and feel my heart float softly with him 
Along that western paradise of clouds — 
The forest shade — the green bough — the bird's voice — 
. The vesper bird's, which seems to sing of love, 
j And mingles with the snug of cherubim, 
I As the day closes over Eden's walls ; — 



Scene II.] 



A MYSTERY, 



355 



All these are nothing, to my eyes and heart, 
Like Adah's face : 1 turn from earth and heaven 
To gaze on it. 

Lucifer. 'T is fair as frail mortality, 

In the first dawn and bloom of young creation, 
And earliest embraces of earth's parents, 
Can make its offspring; still it is delusion. 

Cain, You think so, being not her brother. 

Lucifer. Mortal ! 

My brotherhood 's with those who have no children. 
Cain. Then thou canst have no fellowship with us. 

Lucifer. It may be that thine own shall be for me. 
But if thou dost possess a beautiful 
Being beyond all beauty in thine eyes, 
Why art thou wretched ? 

Cain. Why do I exist ? 

Why art thou wretched ? why are all things so ? 
Ev'n he who made us must be, as the maker 
Of things unhappy ! To produce destruction 
Can surely never be the task of joy, 
And yet my sire says he 's omnipotent : 
Then w hy is evil — he being good ? I ask'd 
This question of my father ; and he said, 
Because this evil only was the path 
To good. Strange good, that must arise from out 
Its deadly opposite. I lately saw 
A lamb siung by a reptile : the poor suckling 
Lay foaming on the earth, beneath the vain 
And piteous bleating of its restless dam ; 
My father pluck'd some herbs, and laid them to 
The wound ; and by degrees the helpless wretch 
Resumed its careless life, and rose to drain 
The mother's milk, who o'er it tremulous 
Stood licking its reviving limbs with joy. 
Behold, my son ! said Adam, how from evil 
Springs good ! 

Lucifer. W^hat didst thou answer ? 

Cain. Nothing; for 

He is my father : but I thought, that 't were 
A better portion for the animal 
Never to have been stung at all, than to 
Purchase renewal of its little life 
With agonies unutterable, though 
Dispell'd by antidotes. 

Lucifer. But as thou saidst, 

Of all beloved things thou lovest her 
Who shared thy mother s milk, and giveth hers 
Unto thy children 

Cain. Most assuredly : 

What should I be without her ? 

Lucifer. What am I ? 

Cain, Dost thou love nothing ? 

Lu£ifer. What does thy God love ? 

Cain. All things, my father siys ; but I confess 
I see it not in their allotment here. 

Lucifer. And, therefore, thou canst not see if /love 
Or no, except some vast and general purpose. 
To which particular things must melt like snows. 

Cain, Snows ! what are they ? 

Lucifer. Be happier in not knowing 

What thy remoter offspring must encounter; 
But bask beneath the clime which knows no winter. 

Cain. But dost thou not love something like thyself? 

Lucifer, And dost thou love thyself? 

Cain, Yes, but love more 

What makes my feelings more endurable, 
And is more than myself, because I love it. 

Lucifer, Thou lovest it, because 't is beautiful 
As was the apple in thy mother's eye ; 
And when it ceases to be so, thy love 
Will cease, like any other appetite. 

Cain. Cease to be beautiful ! how can that be ? 

Lucifer, With time. 

Cain, But time has past, and hitherto 

Even Adam and my mother both are fair : 
Not fair like Adah and the seraphim — 
But very fair. 

Lucifer. All that must pass away 
In them and her. 

Cain. I 'm sorry for it ; but 

Cannot conceive my love for her the less : 



And when her beauty disappears, methinks 
He who creates all beriuty will lose more 
Than me in seeing perish such a work. 

Lucifer. I pity thee who lovest what must perish. 

Cain, And I thee who lov'st nothing. 

Lucifer. And thy brother — 

Sits he not near thy heart? 

Cain. Why should he not ? 

Lucifer. Thy father loves him well — so does thy 
God. 

Cain, And so do I. 

Lucifer. 'T is well and meekly done. 

Cain. Meekly ! 

Lucifer. He is the second born of fiesh, 

And is his mother's favourite. 

Cain. Let him keep 

Her favour, since the serpent was the first 
To win it. 

Lucifer. And his father's ? 

Cain. What is that 

To me ? should I not love that which all love ? 

Lucifer. And the Jehovah — the indulgent Lord, 
And bounteous planter of barr'd Paradise — 
He, too, looks smilingly on Abel. 

Cain. I 

Ne'er saw him, and I know not if he smiles. 

Lucifer. But you have seen his angels. 

Cain. ' Rarely. 

Lucifer. But 

Sufficiently to see they love your brother : 
His sacrifices are acceptable. 

Cain. So be they ! wherefore speak to me of this? 

Lucifer. Because thou hast thought of this ere now. 

Cain. And if 

I have thought, why recall a thought that (he pauses, 

as agitated) — Spirit ! 
Here we are in thy world ; speak not of mine. 
Thou hast shown me wonders : thou hast shown me 

those 
Mighty pre-Adamites who walk'd the earth 
Of which ours is the wreck : thou hast pointed out 
Myriads of starry worlds, of which our own 
Is the dim and remote companion, in 
Infinity of life : thou hast shown me shadows 
Of that existence with the dreaded name 
Which my sire brought us — Deaih ; thou hast shown 

me much — 
But not all : show me where Jehovah dwells, 
In his especial Paradise— or thine: 
Where is it ? 

Lucifer, Here, and o'er all space. 

Cain. But ye 

Have some nllotted dwelling — as all things; 
Clay has its earth, and other worlds their tenants; 
All temporary breathing creatures their 
Peculiar element ; and things which have 
Long ceased to breathe our breath, have theirs, thou 

say'st ; 
And the Jehovah and thyself have thine — 
Ye do not dwell together ? 

Lucifer. No, we reign 

Together ; but our dwellings are asunder. 

Cain. Would there were only one of ye ! perchance 
An unity of purpose might make union " 
In elements which seem now jarr'd in storms. 
How came ye, being spirits, wise and infinite. 
To separate? Are ye not as brethren in 
Your essence, and your nature, and your glory ? 

Lucifer. Art thou not Abel's brother ? 

Cain. We are brethren, 

And so we shall remain ; but were it not so. 
Is spirit like to flesh ? can it fall out ? 
Infinity with Immortality? 
Jarring and turning space to misery — 
For what ? 

Lucifer. To reign. 

Cai7i. Did ye not tell me that 

Ye are both eternal ? 

Lucifer. Yea ! 

Cain. And what I have seen, 

Yon blue immensity, is boundless ? 



356 



CAIN; 



[Act III. 



Lvjcifer. Ay- 

Cain. And cannot ye both reign then ? — is there not 
Enough ? — why should ye differ ? 

Luofer. ' We both reign. 

Cain. But one of you makes evil. 

Lucifer. Which ? 

Cain, Thou: for 

If thou canst do man good, why dost thou not ? 

Lucifer. And why not he who made ? /made ye not; 
Ye are his creatures, and not mine. 

Cain. Then leave us 

His creatures, as thou say'st we are, or show me 
Thy dwelling, or his dwelling. 

Luciftr. I could show thee 

Both ; but the time will come thou shalt see one 
Of them for evermore. 

Cain. And why not now ? 

Lucifer. Thy human mind hath scarcely grasp to 
gather 
The little I have shown thee into calm 
And clear thought ; and thou wouldst go on aspiring 
To the great double Mysteries ! the two Principles ! 
And gaze upon them on their secret thrones ! 
Dust ! limit thy ambition ; for to see 
Either of these would be for thee to perish ! 

Cain. And let me perish, so 1 see them ! 

Lucifer. There 

The son of her who snatch'd the apple spake ! 
But thou wouldst only perish, and not see them ; 
That sight is for the other state. 

Cain. Of death ? 

Lucifer. That is the prelude. 

Cain. Then I dread it less, 

Now that I know it leads to someihing definite. 

Lucifer. And now I will convey thee to thy world, 
Where thou shalt multiply the race of Adam, 
Eat, drink, toil, tremble, laugh, weep, sleep, and die. 

Cain. And to what end have I beheld these things 
Which thou hast shown me ? 

Lucifer. Didst thou not require 

Knowledge ? And have I not, in what I show'd, 
Taught thee to know thyself? 

Cain. Alas ! I seem 

Nothing. 

Lucifer. And this should be the human sum 
Of knowledge, to know mortal nature's nothingness j 
Bequeath that science to thy children, and 
'T will spare them many tortures. 

Cain. Haughty spirit ! 

Thou speak'st it proudly j but thyself, though proud, 
Hast a superior. 

Lucifer. No ! By heaven, which He 

Holds, and the abyss, and the immensity 
Of worlds and life, which I hold with him — No ! 
I have a victor — true ; but no superior. 
Homage he has from all — but none from me : 
I battle it against him, as I battled 
In highest heiven. Through all eternity, 
And the unfathomable gulfs of Hades, 
And the interminable realms of space, 
And the infinity of endless ages, 
AH, all, will I dispute ! And world by world, 
And star by star, and universe by universe, 
Shall tremble in the balance, till the great 
Conflict shall cease, if ever it sh^ll cease. 
Which it ne'er shall, till he or I be quench'd ! 
And what can quench our immortality, 
Or mutual and irrevocable hate ? 
He as a conqueror will call the conquer'd 
Evil ; but what will be the good he gives ? 
Were I the victor, his works would be deem'd 
The only evil ones. And you, ye new 
And scarce born mortals, what have been his gifts 
To you already, in your little world ? 

Cain. But few ; and some of those but bitter. 

Lucifer. Back 

With me, then, to thine earth, and try the rest 
Of his celestial boons to you and yours. 
Evil and good are things in their own essence, 
And not made good or evil by the giver ; 
But if he gives you good — so call him j if 



Evil springs from him, do not name it wme, 
Till ye know belter its true fount ; and judge 
Not by words, though of spirits, but the fruits 
Of your exisence, such as it must be. 
One good gift has the fatal apple given — 
Your reason : — let it n' t be over-sway'd 
By tyrannous threats to force you itjto faith 
'Gain-t all external sense and inward feeling: 
Think and endure,— and form an inner world 
In your own bosom — where the outward fails; 
So shall you nearer be the spiritual 
Nature, and war triumphant with your own. 

iThey disappear. 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. 

The Earth, near Eden, as in Act L 

Enter Cain and Mah. 

Adah. Hush ! tread softly, Cain, 

Cain. ' I will : but wherefore ? 

Adah. Our little Enoch sleeps upon yon bed 
Of leaves, beneath the cypress. 

Cain. Cypress ! 't is 

A gloomy tree, which looks as if ft mourn'd 
O'er what it shadows; wherefore didst thou choose it 
For our child's canopy ? 

Adah. Because its branches 

Shut out the sun like night, and therefore seem'd 
Fitting to shadow slumber. 

Cain. Ay, the last — 

And longest ; but no matter — lead me to him. 

[They go up to the child. 
How lovely he appears ! his little cheeks, 
In their pure incarnation, vying with 
The rose-leaves strewn beneath them. 

Adah. And his lips, too, 

How beautifully parted ! No; you shall not 
Kiss him, at least not now : he will awake soon — 
His hour of mid-day rest is nearly over ; 
But it were pity to disturb him till 
'T is closed. 

Cain. You have said well ; I will contain 

My heart till then. He smiles, and sleeps '.—Sleep on, 
And smile, thou little, young inheritor 
Of a world scarce less young : sleep on, and smile ! 
Thine are the hours and days when both are cheering 
And innocent ! thou hast not pluck'd the fruit — 
Thou know'st not thou art naked ! Must the time 
Come thou shalt be amerced for sins unknown, 
Which were not mine nor thine ? But now sleep on ! 
His cheeks are reddening into deeper smiles, 
And shining lids are trembling o'er his long 
Lashes, dark as the cypress which waves o'er them ; 
Half open, from beneath 'hem the clear blue 
Laughs out, alihough in slumber. He must dream — 
Of what ? Of Paradise '. — Ay ! dream of it, 
My disinherited boy ! 'T is but a dream ; 
For never more thyself, thy sous, nor fathers, 
Shall walk in that forbidden place of joy ! 

Adah. Dear Cain ! Nay, do not whisper o'er our son 
Such melancholy yearnings o'er the past : 
Why wilt thou always mourn for Paradise? 
Can we not make another ? 

Cain. Where ? 

Adah. Here, or 

Where'er thou wilt : vrhere'er thou art, I feel not 
The want of this so much regretted Eden. 
Have I not thee, our boy, our sire, and brother. 
And Zillah — our sweet sister, and our Eye, 
To whom we owe so much besides our birth ? 

Cain. Yes — death, too, is amongst the debts we 
owe her. 

Adah. Cain ! that prcud spirit, who withdrew thee 
hence. 
Hath sadden "d thine still deeper. I had hoped 
The promised wonders which thou hast beheld, 



I 



Scene I.] 



A MYSTERY. 



357 



Visions, thou sny'sf, of past and present worlds, 

Would have composed thy mind into the calm 

Of a contented knowledjie ; but 1 see 

Thy guide liatli done thee evil : still 1 thank him, 

And can forgive him ;i|], that he so sooa 

Hath given thee back to us. 

Cain. So soon ? 

Mah. 'T is scarcely 

Two hours since ye departed ; two long hours 
To me, but only huurs upon the sun. i 

Cain. And yet I h.ive approach'd that sun, and seen 
Worlds which he once shone on, and never more 
Shall light ; and worlds he never lit: melhought 
Years had roU'd o'ei' my absence. 
Adah. Hardly hours. 

Cain. The mind then hath capacity of time, 
And measure- it by ihit which it beholds, 
Pleasing or painful ; liifle or almighty. 
I h^d beheld the immemoriil woiks 
Of endle.-s beings j skirr'd extinguish'd worlds; 
And, gazing on eiemi y, methought 
I had borrow 'd more by a few drops of ages 
From its immensity ; but now 1 feel 
My littleness agiin. Well said the spirit, 
That I was nothing ! 

Adah. Wherefore said he so ? 

Jehovah said not that. 

Cain. No : he contents him 

With making us the nothing which we are; 
And after flattering du>t with glimpses of 
Eden and Immortali y, resrlves 
It back to dust again — for what ? 

Adah. Thou know 'st — 

Even for our parents' error. 

Cain. What is that 

To us ? they sinn'd, then let them die ! 

Adah. Thou hast not spoken well, nor is that thought 
Thy own, but of the spiiit who was with thee. 
Would / could die for them, so they might live ! 

Cam. Why, so say I — provided that one victim 
Might satiate the insaiable of life, 
And that our little rosy sleeper there 
Might never taste of death nor human sorrow, 
Nor hand i' down to those who spring from him. 
Adah. How, know we that some such atonement one 
day 
May not redeem our race ? 

Cain. By sacrificing 

The harmless for the guilty ? what atonement 
Were there ? why, we are innocent ; what have we 
Done, that we must be victims for a deed 
Before our birth, or need have victims to 
Atone for this mysterious, nameless sin — 
If it be such a sin lo seek for knowledsje ? 

Adah. Alas ! th^u sinnest now, my Cain : thy words 
Sound impious in mine ears. 

Caiii. Then leave me ! 

Adih. Never, 

Though thy God left thee. 

Cain. Say, what have we here ? 

Adah. Two altars, which our brother Abel made 
During thine absence, whereupon to offer 
A snci ifice to God on thy return. 

Cain. And how knew he, tha' /would be so ready 
With the burnt offerings, which he daily brings 
With a meek brow, whose base humility 
Shows more of fear than worship, as a bribe 
To the Creator? 

Adah. Surely, 'I is well done. 

Cai72. One altar may suffice ; / have no offering. 
Adah. The fruits of the earth, the early, beautiful 
Blossom and bud, and bloom of flowers, and fruits j 
'J'hese are a g odiy offering to the Lord, 
Given vvith a gentle and a contrite spirit. 

Cain. I have toii'd, and till'd, and sweaten in the 
pun. 
According to the curse : — must I do more ? 
For what should I be gentle? for a war 
With all the elements ^re hey will yield 
The bread we eat ? For what must I be grateful ? 
For being dust, and groveling in the dust, 



Till I return to dust ? If I am nothing — 

For nothing shall I be an hypocrite. 

And seem well-pleased with pain ? For what should I 

Be contrite ? for my father's sin, already 

Expiate with what we all have undergone, 

And to be more than expiated by 

The ages prophesied, upon our seed. 

Liitle deems our young blooming sleeper, there, 

The germs of an eternal misery 

To myriads is within him ! better 't were 

I snatch'd him in his sleep, and da-h'd him 'gainst 

The rocks, than let him live to 

Adah. Oh, my God ! 

Touch not the child — my child ! thy child ! Oh Cain ! 

Cuin. Fear not ! for all the stars, and all the power 
Which sways them, I would not accost yon infant 
With ruder"gree ing than a father's kiss. 

Adah. Then, why so awful in thy speech ? 

Cam. I said, 

'T were better that he ceased to live, than give 
Life to so much of sorrow as he must 
Endure, and, harder still, bequeath ; but since 
That saying jars you, let us only say — 
'T were better that he never had been bom. 

Adah. Oh, do not say so ! Where were then the 
joys, 
The mother s joys of watching, nourishing, 
And loving him ? Soft ! he awakes. Sweet Enoch ! 
iShe goes to the child. 
Oh Cain ! look on him ; see how full of life, 
Of strength, of bloom, of beauty, and of joy. 
How like to me — how like to thee, when gentle, 
For then we are all alike; is 't not so, Cain? 
Mother, and sire, and son, our featuies are 
Reflected in each other ; as they are 
In the clear waters, when they are gentle, and 
Wtsen thou art gtntle. Love us, then, my Cain! 
And love thyself for our sakes, ff)r we lovt thee. 
Look ! hou' he laughs and stretches out his urms. 
And opens u ide his blue eyes up'm thine. 
To hail his father ; while his little form 
Flutters as wing'd with joy. 'I'alk not of pain ! 
The childless cherubs well might envy thev^ 
The pleasures of a parent ! Bless him, Caih ! 
As yet he hath no words to thatik thee, but 
His heart will, and thine own too. 

Ca in. Bless thee, boy .' 

If that a mortal blessing may avail thee, 
To save thee from the serpent's curse I 

Adah. It shall. 

Suiely a father's blessing may avert 
A reptile's subtlety. 

Cam. Of that I doubt ; 

But b!ess him ne'er the less. 
Adah. Our brother comes. 

Cam. Thy brother Abel. 

Enter Abel. 

Abel. Welcome, Cain ! My brother, 

The peace of God be on thee ! 

Cain. Abel, hail ! 

Abel. Our sister tells me that thou hast been wan- 
dering. 
In high communion with a spirit, far 
Beyond our wonted range. Was he of those 
We have seen and spoken vvith, like to our father? 

Cain. No, 

At el Why then commune with him ? he may be 
A foe to the Most High. 

Cain. And friend to man. 

Has the Most High been so — if so you term him ? 

Abel. Term him .' your words are strange to-day, 
my brother. 
My sister Adah, leave us for awhile — 
We mean to sacrifice. 

Adah. Farewell, my Cain ; 

But first embrace thy son. May his soft spirit. 
And Abel'- pious ministry, recall fhte 
To peace and holiness ! 

[Exit Adah, with her child. 

Abel. Where hast thou been? 



358 



CAIN: 



[Act III. 



Cam. I know uot. 

Abel. Nor what thou hast seen ? 

Cain. The dead, 

The immortal, the unbounded, the omnipotent, 
The overpowering mys eries of space — 
The innumerable worlds that were and are — 
A whirlwind of such overwhelming things, 
Suns, moons, and earths, upon their loud-voiced spheres 
Singing in thunder round me, as have made me 
Unfit for mortal converse: leave me, Abel. 

Mel. Thine eyes are flashing with unnatural light— 
Thy cheek is fiubh'd with an unnatuml hue — 
Thy words are frvusjht with an unnatural sound — 
What may this mean ? 

Cai7i. It means I pray thee, leave me. 

Abel. Not till we have pray'd and sicrificed together. 

Cain. Abel, I pray thee, sacrifice alone — 
Jehovah loves thee well. 

Abel. Both well, I hope. 

Cain. But thee the better : I care not for that ; 
Thou art fitter for his worship than I am ; 
Revere him, then — but let it be alone — 
At least, without me. 

Abel. Brother, I should ill 

Deserve the name of our great father's son. 
If, as my elder, I revered thee not, 
And in the worship of our God Cill'd not 
On thee to join me, and precede me in 
Our priesthood — 't is thy place. 

Cain. But I have ne'er 

Asserted it. 

Abel. The more my grief; I pray thee 
To do so now : thy soul seems labouring in 
Some strong delusion ; it will calm thee. 

Cain. No ; 

Nothing can calm me more. Calm ! say I ? Never 
Knew I what calm was in the soul, although 
I have seen the elements still'd. My AbBl, leave me ! 
Or let me leave thee to thy pious purpose. 

Abel. Neither; we must perform our task together. 
Spurn me not. 

Cain. If it must be so — — well, then. 

What shall I do ? 

Abel. Choose one of those two altars. 

Cain, Choose for me : they to me are so much turf 
And stone. 

Abel. Choose thou ! 

Cain. I have chosen. 

Mel. n is the highest, 

And suits thee, as the elder. Now prepare 
Thine offerings. 

Cain. Where are thine ? 

Abel. Behold them here — 

The firstlings of the flock, and fat thereof — 
A shepherd's humble offering. 

Cain. I have no flocks J 

I am a tiller of the ground, and must 
Yield what it yieldeth to my toil— its fruit : 

[He gathers fruits. 
Behold them in their various bloom ai/l ripeness. 

[They dress their altars, and kindle a flame 
upon them. 

Abel. My brother, as the elder, offer first 
Thy prayer and thanksgiving with sacrifice. 

Cain. No — I am new to this; lead thou the way, 
And I will follow — as I may. 

Abel (hneeliiig). Oh God ! 

Who made us, and who breathed the breath of life 
Within our nostrils, who hith blessed us. 
And spared, despite our father's sin. to make 
His children all lost, as they might have been, 
Had not thy justice been so temper'd with 
The mercy which is thy delight, as to 
Accord a pardon like a Paradise, 
Compared with our great crimes : — Sole Lord of light. 
Of good, atid glory, and eternity ! 
Without whom all were evil, and with whom 
Nothing can err, except to some good end 
Of thine omnipotent benevolence — 
Inscrutable, but still to be fulfiU'd — 
Accept from out thy humble first of shepherd's 



First of the first-born flocks — an offering. 
In itself nothing — as what offering can be 
Aught unto thee ? — but yet accept it for 
The thanksgiving of him who spreads it in 
The face of thy high heaven, bowing his own 
Even to the dust, of which he is, in honour 
Of thee, and of thy name, for evermore ! 

Cai7i (standing erect during this speech). Spirit ! 
whate'er or whosoe'er thou art. 
Omnipotent, it may be — and, if good, 
Shown in the exemption of thy deeds from evil : 
Jehovah upon earth ! and God in heaven ! 
And it may be with other names, because 
Thine attributes seem many, as thy works : — 
If thou must be propitiated with prayers, 
Take them ! If thou must be induced with altars, 
And soften'd with a sacrifice, receive them ! 
Two beings here erect them unto thee. 
If thou lov'st blood, the shepherd's shrine, which 

smokes 
On my right hand, hath shed it for thy service 
In the first of his flock, whose limbs now reek 
In sanguinary incense to thy skies ; 
Or if the sweet and blooming fruits of earth, 
And milder seasons, which the uns'ain'd turf 
I spread them nn now offe s in the face 
Of the broad sun which ripen'd them, may seem 
Good to thee, inasmuch as they have not 
Suffer'd in limb or life, and rather form 
A sample of thy works, than supplication 
To look on ours ! If a shrine without victim, 
And altar without gore, may win thy favour. 
Look on it ! and far him who dresseth it. 
He is — such as thou mad'st him ; and seeks nothing 
Which must be won by kneeling : if he 's evil. 
Strike him ! thou art omnipotent, and may'st- 
For what can he oppose ? If he be gond. 
Strike him, or spare him, as thou wilt ! since all 
Rests upon thee ; and good and evil seem 
To have no power themselves, save in thy will • 
And whether that be good or ill I know not, 
Not being omnipotent, nor fit to judge 
Omnipotence, but merely to endure 
Its mandate ; which thus far I have endured. 

[The fire upon the altar of Abel kindles into a 
column of the brightest flame, and ascends 
to heaven ; while a whirlwind throws down 
the altar of Cain, and scatters the fruits 
abroad upon the earth. 
Abel {kneeling). Oh, brother, pray! Jehovah's 

wroth with thee. 
Cain. Why so ? 

Abel. Thy fruits are scatter'd on the earth. 

Cain. From earth they came, to earth let them 
return ; 
Their seed will bear fresh fruit there ere the summer : 
Thy burnt flesh-off'ring prospers better; see 
How heav'n licks up the flames, when thick with 
blood ! 
Abel. Think not upon my offering's acceptance, 
But make another of thine own before 
It is too late. 

Cain. I will build no more altars, 

Nor suffer any. — 
Abel {rising). Cain ! what meanest thou ? 
Cain. To cast down yon vile flatfrer of the clouds. 
The smoky harbinger of thy dull pray'rs — 
Thine altar, with its blood of Iambs and kids. 
Which fed on milk, to be destroy'd in blood. . 
Abel {opposing him). Thou shalt not: — add not 
impious works to impious 
Words ! let that altar stand — t is hallow'd now 
By the immortal pleasure of Jehovah, 
In his acceptance of the victims. 

Cain. His ! 

Hts pleaswe ! whnt was his high pleasure in 
The fumes of scorching fiesh and smoking blood, 
To the pain of the bleating mothers, which 
Still yearn for their dead offs^pring .' or the pangs 
Of the sad ignorant victims underneath 



Scene I.] 



A MYSTERY. 



\59 



Thy pious knife ? Give way ! this bloody record 
Shall not stand in the sun, to shame creation ! 

Mel. Brother, give back ! thou shalt not touch my 
altar 
With violence ; if that thou wi'.t adopt it, 
To try anoiher sacrifice, 't is thine. 

Cain. Anoiher sacrifice ! Give way, or else 
That sacrifice may be 

Meh What mean'st thou ? 

Cain, Give — 

Give way ! — thy God loves blood ! — then look to 

it: — 
Give way, ere he hath more ! 

Abel. In his great name, 

I stand between thee and the shrine which hath 
Had his acceptance. 

Cain. If thou lov'st thyself, 
Stand back till I have strew'd this turf along 
Its native soil : — else 

Jlbel (^opposing him). I love God far more 
Than life. 

Cain {striking him with a brand, on the temples, 
which he snatches from the altar). Then take 
(hy life unto Ihy God, 
Since he loves lives. 

Abel (falls). What hast thou done, my brother ? 

Cain. Brother! 

Abel. Oh, God ! receive thy servant, and 

Forgive his slayer, for he knew not what 
He did — Cain, give me — give me thy hand ; and tell 
Poor Zillah — 

Cain {after a momenVs stupefaction). My hand ! 

't is all red, and with 

What? 

[A long pause. — Looking slowly round. 
Where nm I ? alone ! Where 's Abel ? where 
Cain ? Can it be that I am he ? My brother, 
Awake ! — why liest thou so on the "green earth ? 
'T is not the hour of slumber : — why so pale ? 

What, hast thou ! thou wert full of life this morn ! 

Abel ! I pray thee, mock me not ! I smote 
Too fiercely, but not fatally. Ah, why 
Wonldst thou oppose me ? This is mockery ; 
And only done to daunt me : — 't vvas a blow — 
And but a blow. Stir — stir — nay, only stir ! 
Why, so — that's well! — thou breaih'st ! breathe 

upon me ! 
Oh, God ! Oh, God ! 

Abel {very faintly). What 's he who speaks of God ? 

Cain. Thy murderer. 

Abel. Then may God forgive him ! Cain, 

Comfort poor Zillah : — she has but one brother 
Now. lAbel dies. 

Cain. And I none ! — Who makes me brotherless ? 
His eyes are open ! then he is not dead ! 
Death is like sleep ; and sleep shuts down our lids. 
His lips, too, are apart ; why then he breathes ; 
And yet I feel it not. — His he:>rt ! — his heart ! — 

Let me see, doth ii beat ? methinks No ! — no ! 

This is a vision, else I am become 
The native of another and worse world. 
The earth swims round me: — what is this? — 'tis 
wet ; 
[Puts his hand to Jiis brow, and then looks at it. 
And yet there are no dews ! 'T is blnod — my blood — 
My brother's and my own ! and shed by me ! 
Then what have I further to do with life. 
Since I have taken life from my own fie-h ? 
But he can not be dead ! — Is silence death ? 
No ; he will wake ; then let me watch by him. 
Life cannot be so slight, as to be quench'd 
Thus quickly ! — he hath spoken to me since — 
What shall I say to him ? — My brother ! — No : 
He will not answer to that namt ; for brethren 
Smite not each other. Yet — yet — speak to me. 
Oh ! for a word more of that gentle voice, 
That I may bear to hear my own again ! 

Enter Zillah. 
Zillah. I heard a heavy sound ; what can it be ? 
'T is Cain ; and watching by my husband. What 



Dost thou there, brother ? Doth he sleep ? Oh, heav'n ! 
What means this paleness, and yon stream ? — No, no ! 
It is not blood ; for who would shed his blood ? 
Abel ! what 's this ? — who hath done this ? He moves 

not; 
He breathes not : and bis hands drop down from mine 
With stony lifelessness ! Ah ! cruel Cain ! 
Why cam'st thou not in time to save him from 
This violence? Whatever hath assaiPd him, 
Thou wert the stronger, and shouldst have stepp'd in 
Between him and aggression ! Father ! — Eve ! — 
Adah ! — come hither ! Death is in the world ! 

[Exit Zillah oilling on her Parents, SrC. 
Cain {solus). And who hath brought him there ? — 

I — who abhor 
The name of Death so deeply, that the thought 
Empoison'd all my life, before I knew 
His aspect — I have led him here, and glv'n 
My brother to his cold and still embrace, 
As if he would not have asserted his 
Inexorable claim without my aid. 
I am awake at last — a dreary dream 
Had madden'd me ; — but he shall ne'er awake ! 

Enter Adam, Eve, Adah, and Zillah. 

Adam. A voice of woe from Zillah brings me 
here. — 
What do I see ?— 'T is true ! — My son ! — my son ! 
Woman, behold the serpent's work, and thine ! 

[To Eve. 

Eve. Oh ! speak not of it now : the serpent's fangs 
Are in my heart. My best beloved, Abel ! 
Jehovah ! this is punishment beyond 
A mother's sin, to take him from me ! 

Adam. Who, 

Or what hath done this deed ?— speak, Cain, since thou 
Wert present; was it some more hostile angel, 
Who walks not with Jehovah ? or some wild 
Brute of the forest? 

Eve. Ah ! a livid light 
Breaks through, as from a thunder-cloud ! yon brand, 
Massy and bloody ! snatch'd from oflf the altar, 
And black with smoke, and red with- 

Adam. Speak, liiy son ! 

Speak, and assure us, wretched as we are. 
That we are not more miserable still. 

Adah. Speak, Cain ! and say it was not thou ! 

Eve. It was. 

I see it now — he hangs his guilty head, 
And covers his ferocious eye with hands 
Incarnadine. 

Adah. Mother, thou dost him wrong — 

Cain ! clear thee from this horrible accusal. 
Which grief wrings from our parent. 

Eve. Hear, Jehovah ! 
May the eternal serpent's curse be on him '. 
For he was fitter for his seed than ours. 
Mav all his days be desolate ! May 

Adah. Hold ! 

Curse him not, mother, for he is thy son — 
Curse him not, mother, for he is my brother, 
And my betroth'd. 

Eve. He hath left thee no brother — 

Zillah no husband — me no son ! — for thus 
I curse him from my sight for evermore ! 
All bonds I break between us, as he broke 

That of his nnture, in yon Oh death ! death ! 

Why didst 'hou not take me, who first incurr'd thee? 
Why dost thou not so now ? 

Adam. Eve ! let not this, 

Thy natural grief, lead to impiety ! 
A heavy doom vvas long forespoken to us ; 
And now that it begins, let it be borne 
In such sort as may show our God, that we 
Are faithful servants to his holy will. 

Eve {pointing to Cain). His will .' ! the will of yon 
incarnate spirit 
Of death, whom I have brousht upon the earth 
To strew it with the dead. May all the curses 
Of life be on him ! and his agonies 
Drive him forth o'er the wilderness, like us 



360 



CAIN. 



[Act III. 



From Eden, till his children do by him 
As he did by his brother ! May the swords 
And wings of fiery cherubim pursue him 
By day and night — snalies spring up in his path — 
Earth's fruits be ashes in his mouih — the leaves 
On which he lays his head to sleep be strew'd 
With scorpions ! May his dreams be of his victim ! 
His waking a continual dread of death ! 
May the clear rivers turn to blood as he 
Stoops down to st>in them with his raging lip! 
May every element shun or change to him ! 
May he live in the pangs which others die with ! 
And death itself wax something worse than death 
To him who first acquainted him with man ! 
Hence, fratricide! henceforth that word is Cain, 
Through all the coming myriads of mankind, 
Who shall abhor thee, i hough thou wert their sire ! 
May the grass wither from thy feet ! the woods 
Deny thee shelter ! eanh a h me ! the dust 
A grave ! the sun his light ! and heaven her God ! 

[Exit Eve. 
Adam. Cain '. get thee forth : we dwell no more 
together. 
Depart ! "and leave the dead to me — I am 
Henceforth alone — we never must meet more. 



I Angel. Thou hast slain thy brother, 

1 And who shall warrant thee against thy son ? 

Adah. Angel of Light 1 be merciful, nor say 
I That this poor aching breast now nourishes 
A murderer in my boy, and of his father. 

Angel. Then he would but be what his father is. 
Did not the milk of Eve give nutriment 
To him thou now seest so besmear'd with blood? 
The fratricide might well engender parricides. — 
But it shall not be so — the Lord thy God 
And mine commandelh me to set his seal 
On Cain, so that he may go for:h in safety. 
i Who slayeth Cain, a sevenfold vengeance shall 
Be taken on his head. Come hither I 

Cain. What 

Wouldst thou with me. 

Angel. To mark upon thy brow 

Exemption from such deeds as thou hast done. 
Cain. No, let me die ! 
Angel. It must not be. 

[The Angd sets the mark on Cainh brow. 
Cain. It burns 

My brow, but nought to that which is within it. 
Is there more ? let me meet it as I may. 

Angd. Stern hast thou been and stubborn from the 
womb. 



Adah. Oh, part not with him thus, my father : do . ., , ., ,, , .u .n u 4,. 

jjQj ' ^ ' I As the ground thou must henceforth till ; but he 



Add thy deep curse to Eve's upon his head ! 

Adam. I curse him not : his spirit be his curse. 
Come, Zillah ! 

Zillah. I must watch my husband's corse. 

Adam. We will return again, when he is gone 
Who hath provided for us this dread office. 
Come, Zillah ! 

Zillah. Yet one kiss on yon pale clay, 

And those lips once so warm — my heart ! my heart ! 
[Exeunt Adam and Zillah., weeping. 

Adah. Cain ! thou hast heard, we must go forth. I 
am ready, 
So shall our children be. I will bear Enoch, 
And you his sister. Ere the sun declines 
Let us depart, nor walk the wilderness 
Under the cloud of night. — Nay, speak to me, 
To me — thine own. 

Cain. Leave me. 

Adah. Why, all have left thee. 

Cain. And wherefore lingerest thou ? Dost thou 
not fear 
To dwell with one who hath done this ? 

Adah. I fear 

Nothing except to leave thee, much as I 
Shrink from the deed which leaves thee brotherless. 
I must not speak of this — it is between thee 
And the great God. 

A Voice from within exdaims, Cain ! Cain ! 

Adah. Hear'st thou that voice ? 

The Voice within. Cain ! Cain ! 

Adah. It soundeih like an angel's tone. 

Enter the. Angd of the Lord. 

Angel. Where is thy broiher Abel ? 

Cain. Am I then 

My brother's keeper ? 

Angel. Cain ! what hast thou done? 

The voice of thy 



un brother's blond cries out. 



Thou slew'st was gentle as the tiocks he tended. 

Cain. After the fall too soon was I begotten ; 
Ere yet my mother's mind subsided from 
The serpent, and my sire still mourn'd for Eden. 
That which I am, I am ; I did not. seek 
For life, nor did I make myself; but could I 
With my own death redeem hiin from the dust — 
And why not so ? let him return to day, 
And I lie ghastly ! so shall be restored 
By God the life to him he loved ; and taken 
From me a being I ne'er loved to bear. 

Angel. Who shall heal murder? what is done, is 
done; 
Go forth ! fulfil thy days ! and be thy deeds 
Unlike the last I [The Angel disappears. 

Adah. He 's gone, let us go forth ; 

I hear our little Enoch cry within 
Our bower. 

Cain. Ah ! little knows he what he weeps for ! 
And I who have shed blood cannot shed tears ! 
But the four rivers i would not cleanse my soul. 
Thinkst thou my boy will bear to look on me ? 

Adah. If 1 thought that he would not, I would — 

Cain {interrupting htr). No, 

No more of threats : we have had too many of them : 
Go to our children ; I will follow thee. 

Adah. I will not leave thee lonely with the dead ; 
Let us depart together. 

Cain. Oh ! thou dead 

And everlasting witness I whose unsinking 
Blood darkens earth and heaven ! what thou now art 
I know not ! but if thou see'st what / am, 
i I think thnu wilt forgive hirn, whom his God 
Can ne'er forgive, nor his own soul. — Farewell ! 
I I must not, dare not touch what 1 have made thee. 
I I, who sprung from the same womb with thee, drain'd 
I The same breast, chsp'd thee often to my own, 
' In fondness brotherly and boyish, 



! Can never meet thee more, nor even dare 
Even from the ground, unto the Lord !— Now art thou To do that for thee, which thou shouldst have done 
Cursed from the earth, which opened late her mouth ; For me — compose thy limbs into their grave — 
To drink thy brother's blond from thy ra-h hand. i The first grave yet dug for mortality. 

Henceforth, vvhen thnu shall till the ground, it shall not But who hath dug that grave ? Oh, earth ! Oh, earth ! 
Yield thee her strength ; a fugiiive shall thou j For all the fruits thou hast render'd to me, I 

Be from this day, and vagabond on earth ! Give thee back this.— Now for the wilderness. 

Adah. This punishment is more than he can bear. [Adah stoops down and kisses the body of Abel. 



Behold, thou drivest him from the face of earth. 
And from the face of Gnd shsU he be hid. 
A fugitive and vagabond on earth, 
'T will come to pass, that whoso findeth him 
Shall slay him. 

Cain. Would they could ! but who are they 

Shall slay me ? Where are these on the lone earth 
As yet unpeopled ? 



Adah. A dreary, and an early doom, my brother. 
Has been thy lot ! Of all who'mourn for'thee, 
I alone must not weep. My office is 
Henceforth to dry up tears, and not to shed them ', 

1 The " four rivers" which flowed round Eden, and con- 
sequently the only waters with which Cain was acquainted 
upon earth. 



Scene I.] 



WERNER. 



361 



But yet of all who mourn, none mourn like me, 
Not only for thy-elf, but him who slew fhee. 
Now, Cain ! 1 will divide thy burden with thee. | 

Cai7i. Eastward from Eden will we take our 
way ; , 

'T is the most desolate, and suits my s'eps. ( 

Adah. Lead ! thou shalt be my guide, and may our \ 
God 
Be thine ! Now let us carry forth our children. | 



Cain. And he who lieth there was childless. I 
Have dried the founiain of a gentle race, 
Which might have graced his recent marriage couch, 
And might have temper'd this stern blood of mine, 
Uniting with our children Abel's offspring ! 
Abel ! 

Adah. Feace be with him ! 

Cain. But with me / 

[Exeunt. 



WERNER; OR, THE INHERITANCE; 
A TRAGEDY.^ 



PREFACE. 

The following drama is taken entirely from the 
*' German^s Tale, Kruitzner," published mnny years 
ago in £ee'* Canterbuiy Tales; writ:en (I believe) by 
two sister^, of whom one furnished only this story and 
another, both of which are considered superior to the 
remainder of the collection.^ I have adopted the 
ch ir cters, pi m, atul even the language, of many parts j 
of this story. Some of the characters are modified or 
altered, a few of the names chaniied, and one charac- 
ter (Ida of Straleuheini) added by myself : but in the 
rest the original is chiefly followed. When I was 
young (about fourteen, I think,) I first read this tale, 
which made a deep impression upon me; and may, 
indeed, be said ;o contain the germ of much that I 
have since written. I am not sure that it ever was 
very popular; or, at any rate, its popularity has since 
been eclipsed by that of other great writers in the 
same department. But I have generally found that 
those who had read it, ag-reed with me in their esti- 
mate of the singular power of mi^ d and conception 
which it developes. I should also add conception, 
rather than execution ; for the story might, perhaps, 
have been developed with greater advantage. Amongst 
those whose opinions agreed with mine upon this 
story, I could mention some very hish names : but it 
is not necessary, nor indeed of any u-e ; for every one 
must judge according to his own feelings. 1 merely 
refer the reader to the original story, that he may see 
to what extent I have borrowed from it ; and ani not 
unwilling that he should find much greater pleasure in 
perusing it than the drama which is founded upon its 
contents. 

I had begun a drama upon this tale so far back as 
1815, (the first I ever attempted, except one at thirteen 
years old, called " Ulric and Ilviiin,'^ which I had 
sense enough to burn.) and had neaily completed an 
act, when l was interrupted by circumstances. This 
is somewhere amongst my paper? in England; but as 
it has not been found, I have re-written the first, and 
added the subsequent acts. 

The whole is neither intended, nor in any shape 
adapted, for the stage. s 

Pisa, February, 1822. 



1 The trHgedy of " Werner" waa begun at Piea, De- ' 
cember 18th, lb21, completed January 20th, 1822, and pub- I 
lished in London in the Nnvember following. | 

2 This is not correct. " The Young Lady's Tale, or the ' 
Two Kmilys," and "the Clereynian's Tale, or Pembroke," ; 
were contributed by Sophia Lee, the author of "The 
RecesH," the comedy of "The Chapter of Accidents," 
and "Almoyda, a Tragedy." who died in lb24. The 
"German's Tale," and all the others in the Canterbury] 
Collection, Were written by Harriet, the younger of the 
Bisters. — E. 

3 Werner is, however, the only one of Lord Byron's 
dramas that proved successful in representation. It is 
still (1836) in possession of the stage. — E. 



TO 

THE ILLUSTRIOUS GOETHE, 

BY ONE OF HIS HUMBLEST ADMIRERS, 

THIS TRAGEDY 

IS DEDICATED. 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 



Men.— 



Werner. 

Ulric. 

Stralenheim. 

Idenstein. 

Gabor. 

Fritz. 

Henrick. 

Eric. 

Arnheim. 

Meister. 

Rodolph. 

Ludwig. 

Women.— Josephine. 

Ida Stralenheim. 



Scene • 



■ Partly on the Frontier of Silesia, and partly 
in Siegendorf Castle, near Prague. 



Time— the Close of the Thirty Years^ War. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. 

The Hall of a decayed Palace near a small Town on 
the Northern Frunlier of Silesia — the Night tem- 
pestuous, 

Wei-ner and Josephine his wife. 

Jos. My love, be calmer ! 

Wer. I am calm. 

Jos. To me — 

Yes, but not to thyself: thy pace is hurried, 
And no one walks a chamber like to ours 
With steps like thine when his heart is at rest. 
Were it a garden, I should deem thee happy. 
And stepping with the bee from flower to flower; 
But here! 

Wtr. 'T is chill ; the tapestry lets through 
The wind to which it waves : my blood is frozen. 

Jos. Ah, no ! 



31 



J 



362 



WERNER: 



[Act I. 



Wer. {smiling). Why ! wouldsl thou have it so ? 

Jos. ' I would 

Have it a healthful current. 

Wer. Let it flow 

Until 't is spilt or check'd — how soon, I care not. 

Jos. And am I nothing in thy heart ? 

Wer. All — all. 

Jos. Then canst thou wish for that which must break 
mine ? 

Wer. [approaching her slowly). But for thee I had 
been — no matter what, 
But much of good and evil ; what I am, 
Thou knowestj what 1 might or should have been, 
Thou knowest not : but still I love thee, nor 
Shall aught divide us. 

[^Werner walks on abruptly, and then ap- 
proaches Josephine. 

The storm of the night, 
Perhaps affects me ; I "m a thing of feelings. 
And have of hie been sickly, as, alas ! 
Thou know'at by sufferings more than mine, my love ! 
In watching me. 

Jos. To see thee well is much — 
To see thee happy 

Wer. Where hast thou seen such ? 

Let me be wretched with the rest ! 

Jos. But think 

How many in this hour of tempest shiver 
Beneath the biting wind and heavy rain. 
Whose every drop bows them down nearer earth, 
Which hath no chamber for them save beneath 
Her surface. 

Wer. And that 's not the worst : who cares 
For chambers ? rest is all. The wretches whom 
Thou namest — ay, the wind howls round them, and 
The dull and dropping rain saps in their bones 
The creeping marrow. I have been a soldier, 
A hunter, and a traveller, and am 
A beggar, and should know the thing thou talk'st of. 

Jos. And art thou not now shelter'd from them all ? 

Wer. Yes. And from these alone. 

Jos. And that is something. 

Wer. True — to a peasant. 

Jos. Should the nobly born 

Be thankless for that refuge which Iheir habits 
Of early delicacy render niore 
Needful than to the peasant, when the ebb 
Of fortune leaves them on the shoals of life? 

Wer. It is not that, thou knou'st it is not: we 
Have borne all this, I "11 not say patiently. 
Except in thee — but we have'borne it. 

Jos. Well ? 

Wer. Something beyond our outward sufferings 
(though 
These were enough to gnaw into our souls) 
Hath stung me oft, and, more than ever, vow. 
When, but for this untoward sickness, which 
Seized me upon this desolate frontier, and 
Hath wasted, not alone my strength, but means. 
And leaves us — no 1 this is beyond me ! — but 
For this I had been happy — ihou been happy — 
The splendour of my rank sustaiti'd — my name — 
My father's name — been still upheld ; ahd, more 
Than those 

Jos. (abruptly). My son — our son — our Ulric, 
Been clasp'd agun in these long-empty arms. 
And all a mother's hunger satisfied. 
Twelve years ! he was but eight then : — beautiful 
He was, and beautiful he must be now, 
My Ulric ! my adored ! 

Wer. I have been full oft 

The chase of Fortune; now she hath o'ertaken 
My spirit where it cannot turn at bay, — 
Sick, poor, and lonely. 

Jos. Lonely ! my dear husband ? 

Wer. Or worse — involving all I love, in this 
Far worse than solitude. Alone, I had died, 
And all been over in a nameless grave. 

Jos. And I had not outlived thee ; but pray take 
Comfort ! We have struggled long j and they who 
strive 



! With Fortune win or weary her at last, 
, So that they find the goal or cease to feel 
Further. Take comfort, — we shall find our boy, 

Wer. We were in sight of him, of every ihing 
Which could bring compensation for past sorrow — 
And to be baffled thus ! 

Jos. We are not baffled. 

Wer. Are we not penniless ? 

Jos. We ne'er were wealthy, 

Wer. But I was born to wealth, and lank, and 
power ; 
Enjoy'd them, loved them, and, alas ! abused them, 
And forfei'.ed them by my father's wrath. 
In my o'ei-fervent youth": but for the abuse 
Long suti'erings have atoned. My father's death 
Left the path open, yet not with ut snares. 
This cold and creeping kinsman, who so long 
Kept his tye on me, as the snake upon 
The fluttering bird, hath ere this time outstept me, 
Become the master of my rights, and lord 
Of that which lifts him up to princes in 
Dominion and domain. 

Jos. Who knows ? our son 

May have return'd back to his grandsire, and 
Even now uphold thy rights for thee? 

fTtr. 'T is hopeless. 

Since his strange disappearance from my father's, 
Entailing, as it were, my sins upon 
Himself, no tidings have reveal'd his course. 
I parted with him to his grandsire, on 
The promise that his anger would stop short 
Of the third generation ; but Heaven seems 
To claim her stern prerogative, and visit 
Upon my boy his father's' faults and follies. 

Jos. I must hope better still, — at least we have yet 
Baffled the long pursuit of Stralenheim. 

Wer. We should have done, but for this fatal sick- 
ness ; 
More fital than a mortal malady, 
Because it takes not life, but life's sole solace : 
Even now I feel my spirit girt about 
By the snares of this avaricious fiend : — 
How do I know he hath not track'd us here? 

Jos. He does not know thy person ; and his spies, 
Who so long watch'd thee, have been left at Ham- 
burgh. 
Our unexpected journey, and this change 
Of name, leave all discovery fir behind : 
None hold us here for aught save what we seem. 

Wer. Save what we seem ! save what we are — sick 
beggars. 
Even to our very hopes.— Ha ! ha ! 

Jos. Alas ! 

That bitter laugh ! 

Wer. Who would read in this form 

The high soul of the son of a long line? 
Who, in this garb, the heir of princely lands? 
Who, in this sunken, sickly eye, the pride 
Of rank and ancestry ? In this worn cheek 
And famine-holiovv'd brow, the lord of halls 
Which daily feast a thousand vassals ? 

Jos. You 

Ponder'd not thus upon these worldly things, 
My Werner ! when you deign'd to choose for bride 
The foreign daugher of a wanderii g exile. 

Wer. An exile's daugher whh an outcast son 
Were a fit marriage: but I still had hopes 
To lift thee to ihe"state we both were born for. 
Your father's house was noble, though decay'd ; 
And worthy by its birth to match with ours. 

Jos. Your father did not think so, though 'twas 
noble ; 
But had my birth been all my claim to match 
\ With thee, I should have deem'd it what it is. 
I Wer. And what is that in thine eyes ? 
I Jos. All which it 

: Has done in our behalf^— nothing. 
I Wer. How,— nothing ? 

I Jos. Or worse ; for it has been a canker in 
Thy heart from the beginning : but for this, 
We had not felt our poverty but as 



Scene I.] 



A TRAGEDY. 



363 



Millions of myriads feel it, cheerfully ; 

But for these phantoms of thy feudal fathers, 

Thou mighl'st have earn'd thy bread, as thousands 

earn it; 
Or, if that seem too humble, tried by commerce, 
Or other civic means, to amend thy fortunes. 

JVer. (ironically) And been an Hanseatic burgher ? 

Excellent ! 
Jos. Whate'er thou might'st have been, to me thou art 
What no state high or low can ever change, 
My heart's first choice; — which chose thee, knowing 

neither 
Thy birth, thy hopes, thy pride ; nought, save thy 

sorrows : 
While they last, let me comfort or divide them: 
When they end, let mine end with them, or thee ! 
Wer. My better angel ! Such I have ever found 
thee; 
This rashness, or this weakness of my temper. 
Ne'er raised a thought to injure thee or thine. 
Thou didst not mar my fortunes : my own nature 
In youth was such as to unmake an empire, 
Had such been my inheritance ; but now, 
Chasten'd, subdued, out-worn, and taught to know 
Myself,— to lose this for our son and thee ! 
Trust me, when, in my two-and-twentielh spring, 
My father barr'd me from my father's house, 
The last sole scion of a thousand sires 
(For I was then the last), it huri me less 
Than to behold my boy and my boy's mother 
Excluded in their innocence from what 
My faults deserved — exclusion ; although then 
My passions were all living serpents, and 
Twined like the gorgon's round me. 

lA loud knocking is heard. 
Jos. Hark ! 

TVer. A knocking ! 

Jos. Who can it be at this lone hour.' We have 
Few visiters. 

Wer. And poverty halh none, 

Save those who come to make it poorer still. 
Well, I am prepared. 

iWerner puts his hand into his hosom, as if to 

search for some weapon. 

Jos. Oh ! do not look so. I 

Will to the door. It cannot be of import 

In this lone spot of wintry desolation : — 

The very desert saves man from mankind. 

[She goes to the door. 

Enter Idenstein. 

Iden. A fair good evening to my fairer hostess 
And worthy What 's your name, my friend ? 

Wer. Are you 

Not afraid to demand it ? 

Iden. Not afraid ? 

Egad ! I am afraid. You look as if 
I ask'd for something better than your name, 
By the face you put on it. 

Wer. Better, sir ! 

Iden. Better or wor?e, like matrimony : what 
Shall I say more? You have been a guest this month 
Here in the prince's palace — (to be sure. 
His highness had resign'd it to the ghosts 
And rats these twelve years — but 't is still a palace) — 
I say you have been our lodger, and as yet 
We do not know your name. 

Wer. My name is Werner. 

Iden. A goodly name, a very worthy name. 
As e'er was gilt upon a trader's board : 
I have a cousin in the lazaretto 
Of Hamburgh, who has got a wife who bore 
The same. He is an officer of trust, 
Surs:eon's assistant (hoping to be surgeon). 
And has done miracles i' the way of business. 
Perhaps you are related to my relative ? 

Wer, To yours ? 

Jos. Oh, yes ; we are, but distantly. 

(Aside to Werner.) Cannot you humour the dull gos- 
sip till 
We learn his purpose ? 



I Iden. Well, I 'm glad of that ; 

I thought so all along, such natural yearnings 
Play'd round my heart ; — blood is not water, cousin ; 
And so let 's have some wine, and drink unto 
Our better acquaintance : relatives should be 
Fiiends. 

Wtr. You appear to have drunk enough already ; 
And if you have not, 1 've no wine to otter. 
Else it were yours ; but this you know, or should 

know : 
You see I am poor, and sick, and will not see 
That I would be alone; but lo your business ! 
What brings you here? 
I Iden. Why, what should bring me here ? 

I Wer. I know not, though I think that I could guess 
1 That which will send you hence. 

Jos. (aiide). Patience, dear Werner ! 

Iden. You don't know what has happen'd, ihen? 
Jos. How should we ? 

Iden. The river has o'erfiow'd. 
Jos. Alas ! we have known 

That to our sorrow for these five days ; since 
It keeps us here. 

Men. But what you don't know is, 

That a great personage, who fain would cross 
Against the stream and three postilions' wishes, 
Is drown'd below the ford, with five post-horses, 
A monkey, and a mastiff, and a valet. 
Jos. Poor creatures ! are you sure ? 
Iden. Yes, of the monkey, 

And the valet, and the cattle ; but as yet 
We know not if his excellency 's dead 
Or no : you noblemen are hard to drown, 
' As it is fit that men in office should be; 
But what is certain is, that he has swallow'd 
Enough of the Oder to have burst two peasants j 
And now a Saxon and Hungari m traveller, 
; Who, at their proper peril, snatch'd him from 
I The whirling river, have sent on to ciave 
I A lodging, or a grave, according as 
I It may turn out with the live or'dead body. 
! Jos. And where will you receive him ? here,I hope. 
If we can be of service — say the word. 
j Iden. Here? no; but in the prince's own apartment, 
I As fits a noble gues' : — 't is damp, no doubt, 
1 Not having been inhabited these twelve years ; 
j But then he conies from a much damper place, 
i So scarcely will catch cold in 't, if he be 
Still liable to cold — and if not, why 
He 'U be worse lodged to-morrow : ne'ertheless, 
I I have order'd fire and all appliances 
i To be got ready for the worst — that is, 
j In case he should survive. 
' Jos. Poor gentleman, 

j I hope he will, with all my heart. 

Wer. Intendant, 

Have you not learn 'd his name ? (Aside to his wife) My 

Josephine, 
Retire : I '11 sift this fool. [Exit Josephine. 

Iden. His name ? oh Lord ! 

I Who knows if he h.ith now a name or no ? 
'T is time enough to ask it when he 's able 
I To give an answer ; or if not, to put 
I His heir's upon his epitaph. Methought 
, Just now you chid me for demanding names? 

Wer. True, true, I did so : you say well and wisely. 

Enter Oabor. 

Gab. If I intrude, I crave 

/de/i. Oh, no intrusion ! 

This is the palace ; this a stranger like 
Yourself; I pray you make yourself at home : 
But where 's his excellency ? and how fires he? 

Gab. Wetly and wearily, but out of peril : 
He paused to change his garments in a cottage, _ 
(Where I dofi'd mine for these, and came on hither) 
And has almost recover 'd from his drenching. 
He will be here anon. 

Iden. What ho, there ! bustle ! 

Without there, Herman, Weilburg, Peter, Conrad ! 
[Gives directions to different servants who enter. 



J 



364 



WERNER: 



[Act I. 



A nobleman sleeps here to-nis:ht — see that 

All is in order in the damask chamber — 

Keep up the stove — I w ill niyselt to the cellar — 

And Madame Idenstein (my cnnbort, stran5er,) 

Sh;ill furnish forth the bed apparel ; for, 

To say the truth, they are marvellous scant of this 

Within the palace precincts, since his highness 

Left it some dozen yeais ago. And then 

His excellency will sup, doubtless? 

Gab. Faith ! 

I cannot tell ; but I should think the pillow- 
Would please him belter than the table, after 
His soaking in your river : but for fer.r 
Your viands should be thrown asvay, I mean 
To sup myself, and have a friend without 
Who will do honour to your good cheer with 
A traveller's appetite. 

Men. But are you sure 

His excellency But his name : what is it ? 

Gab. 1 do not know. 

Idtn. And yet you saved his life. 

Gab. I help'd my friend to do so. 

Ideti. Well, that 's strange, 

To save a man's life whom you do not know. 

Gab. Not so ; for there are some I know so well, 
I scarce should give myself the trouble. 

Iden, Pray, 

Good friend, and who may you be ? 

Gab. By my family, 

Hungarian. 

Iden. Which is call'd ? 

Gab. It matters litlle. 

Iden. (aside). I think that all the world are grown 
anonymous. 
Since no one cares to tell me what he 's call'd ! 
Prav, has his excellency a large suite ? 

Gab. Sufficient. 

Iden. How many ? 

Gab. I did not count (hem. 

We came up by mere accident, and just 
In time to drag him through his carriage window. 

Iden. Well, what would I give to save a great man ! 
No doubt you 'II have a swingeing sum as rccompen-e. 

Gab. Perhaps. 

Iden. Now, how much do you reckon on? 

Gab. I have not yet put up myself to sale : 
In the mean time, my best reward would be 
A glass of your Hockcheimer — a green gbss, 
Wreath'd with rich grapes and Bacchanal devices. 
O'erflowing with the oldest of your vintage : 
For which I promise you, in case you e'er 
Run hazard of being drown'd, (alt'hough I own 
It seems, of all deaths, the least likely for you,) 
I '11 pull you out for nothing. Quick, mv friend, 
And think, for every bumper I shall quaff, 
A wave the less may roll above your head. 

Iden. {anide). I don't much like this fellow — close 
and dry 
He seems,— two things which suit me not ; however, 
Wine he shall have ;"if that unlocks him not, 
I shall not sleep to-night for curiosity. 

[Exit Idenstein. 

Gab. (to Werner). This master of the ceremonies is 
The intendant of the palace, I presume : 
'T is a fine building, but decay'd. 

Wer, The ap-irtment 

Design'd for him you rescued will be found 
In fitter order for a sickly guest. 

Gab. I wonder then you occupied it not, 
For you seem delicate in healih. 
WfV. (quickly). Sir ! 

Gab. Pray 

Excuse me : have I said aught to offend you ? 

IVer. Nothing: but we are strangers lo each other. 
Gab. And th it 's the reason I would have us less so : 
I thought our bustling host without had said 
You were a chance and pa-sing guest, the counterpart 
Of me and my companions. 

JVtr. Very true. 

Gab. Then, as we never met before, and never, 
It may be, may again encounter, why, 



I thought to cheer up this old dungeon here 
(At least to me) by asking you to share 
The fare of my companions and myself. 

fVtr. Pray, pardon mej my health 

Gab. ' Even as you please. 

I have been a soldier, and perhaps am blunt 
In bearing. 

Wer. I have also served, and can 

Requite a soldier's greeting. 

Gab. In what service ? 

The Imperial ? 

Wer. (quickly, and then interrupting himself). I 
commanded — no — I mean 
I served ; but it is many years ago. 
When first Bohemia raised her banner 'gainst 
The Austrian. 

Gab. Well, that 's over now, and peace 

Has turn'd some thousand gallmt hearts adrift 
To live as they best may : and, to say truth, 
Some take the' shortest. 

Wer. What is that ? 

Gab. Whate'er 

They lay their hands on. All Silesia and 
Lusalia's woods are tenanted by bands 
Of the late troops, who levy on the country 
Their maintenance: the Chatelains must keep 
Their castle walls — beyond them 't is but doubtful 
Travel for your rich count or full-blown baron. 
My comfort is that, wander where I may, 
I 've little left to lose now. 

Wer. And I — nothing. 

Gab. That 's harder still. You say you were a 
soldier. 

Wer. I was. 

Gab. You look one still. All soldiers are 

Or should be comrades, even though enemies. 
Our swords when draw n must cross, our engines aim 
(While levell'd) at each other's hearts; but when 
A truce, a peace, or what you will, remits 
The steel into its scabbard, and lets sleep 
The spark which lights the matchlock,we are brethren. 
You are poor and sickly — lam not rich but healthy ; 
I want for nothing which I cannot want; 
You seem devoid of this — wilt share it ? 

[Gabor pulls out his purse. 

Wer. Who 

Told you I was a beggar ? 

Gab. You yourself, 

In saying you were a soldier durin? peace time. 

Wer. ~{looki7ig at him with suspicion). You know 
me not ? 

Gab. I know no man, not even 

Myself: how should I then know one 1 ne'er 
Beheld till half an hour since ? 

Wer. Sir, I thank you. 

Your offer 's noble were it lo a fiiend. 
And not unkind as to an unknown stranger, 
Though scarcely prudent ; but no less I thank you. 
I am a beggar in all save his trade ; 
And when I beg of any one, it shall be 
Of him who was the first to offer what 
Few can obtain by askin?. Pirdon me. [Exit Wer. 

Gab. (solus). A goodly fellow by his looks, though 
worn. 
As most good fellows are, by pain or pleasure, 
Which tear life out of us before our time ; 
I scarce know which most quickly : but he seems 
To have seen better d 'ys, as who has not 
Who has seen yesterday? — But here approaches 
Our sage intendant. with the wine: however, 
For the cup's sake I '11 bear the cupbearer. 

Enter Idenstein. 
Iden. 'T is here ! the supernaculum ! twenty years 
Of age, if 't is a day. 

Gab. Which epoch makes 

Young women and old wine ; and 'I is great pity, 
Of two such excellent things, increase of years. 
Which still improves the one, should spoil the other. 
Fill full — Here 's to our hostess ! — your fair wife ! 
[Takes the glass. 



Scene I.] 



A TRAGEDY. 



365 



/dm. Fair!— Well, I trust your taste in wine is 
equal 
To that you show for beauty ; but I pledge you 
Nev'jnheless. 

Gab. Is not the lovely woman 

I met in the adjacent hall, who, with 
An air, :ind port, and eye, which would have better 
Beseem'd ihis palace in its brightest days 
(Though in a garb adapted to i's present 
Abandonment), re'urn'd my salutation — 
Is not the same your spouse ? 

Men. I would she were ! 

But you're mistaken: — that 's the stranger's wife. 

Gab. And by her aspect she might be a prince's j 
Though time hath touch'd her too, she still retains 
Much beauty, and more majesty. 

Iden. And that 

Is more than I can say for Madame Idenstein, 
At least in beauty : as for majesty, 
She has some of its properties which might 
Be spared — but never mind ! 

Gab. I don't. But who 

Miy be this stranger ? He too hath a bearing 
Above his outward fortunes. 

Iden. There I differ. 

He 's poor as Job, and not so patient; but 
Who he may be, or what, or aught of him, 
Except his name (and that I only learn 'd 
To-night), I know not. 

Gnb. But how came he here ? 

Ide7i. In a most miserable old c:ilcche. 
About a month since, and immediately 
Fell sick, almost to death. He should have died. 

Gab. Tender and true ! — but why ? 

Iden. Why, what is life 

Without a living? He has not a stiver. 

Gab. In that case, I much wonder that a person 
Of your apparent prudence should admit 
Guests so forlorn into Ihis noble mansion. 

Iden. That 's true : but pity, as you know, does make 
One's heart commit these follies; and besides, 
They had some valuables left at that time. 
Which paid their way up to the present hour ; 
And so 1 thought they might as well be lodged 
Here as at the small tavern, and I gave them 
The run of some of the oldest palace rooms. 
They served to air them, at the least as long 
As they could pay for firewood. 

Gab. Poor souls ! 

Iden. Ay, 

Exceeding poor. 

Gab. And yet unused to poverty, 

If I mistake not. Whither were they going ? 

Iden. Oh ! Heaven knows where, unless to heaven 
itself. 
Some days ago that look'd the likeliest journey 
For Werner. 

Gab. Werner ! I have heard the name : 

But it may be a feign'd one. 

Iden. Like enough ! 

But hark ! a noise of wheels and voices, and 
A bljze of torches from without. As sure 
As destiny, his excellency 's come. 
I must be at my post ; will you not join me. 
To help him from his carriage, and present 
Your humble duty at the door ? 

Gab. I dragg'd him 

From out that carriage when he would have given 
His barony or county to repel 
The rushing river from his gurgling throat. 
He has valets now enough : they stood aloof then, 
Shaking their dripping ears upon the shore. 
All roaring " Help ! " but ofTering none ; and as 
For duty (as you call it) — I did mine thcji, 
Now do yours. Hence, and bow and cringe him 
here ! 

Iden. I cringe ! — but I shall lose the opportunity — 
Plague lake it ! he '11 be here, and I not there ! 

[Exit Idenstein hastily. 

31* 



Re-enter Werner. 

Wer. (to himself). I heard a noise of wheels and 
voices. How 
All sounds now jar me ! 

Still here ! Is he not [Perceiving Gabor. 

A spy of my pursuer's ? His frank offer 
So suddenly, and lo a stranger, wore 
The aspect of a secret enemy j 
For friends are slow at such. 

Gab. Sir, you seem rapt ; 

And yet the time is not akin lo thought. 
These old walls will be noisy soon. The baron, 
Or count (or whatsoe'er this half-drown'd noble 
May be), for whom this desolaie village and 
Its lone inhabitants show more re.-pect 
Than did the elements, is come. 

Iden. (without). This way — 

This way, your excellency : — have a care. 
The staircase is a little gloomy, and 
Somewhat decay'd ; but if we had expected 
So high a guest — Pray take my arm, my lord ! 

Enter Stralenheim, Idenstein, and Attendants — 
partly his own, and partly Retainers of the Do- 
main of which Idenstein is Intendant. 

Stral. I '11 rest me here a moment. 



Ho ! a chair ! 
[Stralenheim sits down. 

I 'm better now. 

Please you, my good lord. 



Iden. {to the servants). 
Instantly, knaves ! 

Wer. {aside). 'Tishe 

Stral. 
Who are these strangers? 

Iden. 
One says he is no stranger. 

Wer. {aloud and hastily). Who says that? 

[They look at him with surprise. 

Iden. Why, no one spoke of you, or to you !— but 
Here 's one his excellency may be pleased 
To recognise. [Pointing to Gabor. 

Gab. I seek not to disturb 

His noble memory. 

Stral. I apprehend 

This is one of the strangers to whose aid 
I owe my rescue. Is not that the other ? 

[Pointing to Werner. 
My state when I was succour'd must excuse 
My uncertainty to whom I owe so much. 

Iden. He !— no, my lord ! he rather wants for rescue 
Than can afford it. 'T is a poor sick man. 
Travel-tired, and lately risen from a bed 
From whence he never dream'd to rise. 

Stral. Methought 

That there were two. 

Gab. There were, in company; 

But, in the service render'd to your lordship, 
I needs must say but one, and he is absent. 
The chief part of whatever aid was render'd 
Was his : it was his fortune to be first. 
My will was not inferior, but his strength 
And youth outstripp'd me; therefore do not waste 
Your thanks on me. I was but a glad second 
Unto a nobler principal. 

Stral. Where is he ? 

An Atten. My lord, he tarried in the cottage where 
Your excellency rested for an hour, 
And said he would be here lo-morrow. 

Stral. Till 

That hour arrives, I can but offer thanks, 
And then 

Gab. I seek no more, and scarce deserve 
So much. My comrade may spe^k for himself. 

Stral. (fixiti g his eyes upon Werner : then aside). 
It cannot be ! and yet he must be look'd to, 
'T is twenty years since I beheld him w ith 
These eyes ; and, though my agents still have kept 
Theirs on him, policy has held aloof 
My own from his, not to alarm him into 
Suspicion of my plan. Why did I leave 
At Hamburgh those who would have made assurance 
If this be he or no ? I thought, ere now, 
To have been lord of Siegendorf, and parted 



J 



366 



WERNER: 



[Act I. 



In haste, though even the elements appear 
To fight against me, and this sudden tiood 

May keep me prisoner here till 

[He pauses and looks at fVtrner ; then resumes. 
This man must 
Be watch'd. If it is he, he is so changed, 
His father, rising from his grave again, 
Would pass him by unknown. I must be wary : 
An error would spoil all. 

Men. Your lordship seems 

Pensive. Will it not please you to pass on ? 

Stral. 'T is past fatigue which gives my weigh'd- 
down spirit 
An outward show of thought. I will to rest. 

/de?i. The prince's chamber is prepared, with all 
The very furniture the prince used when 
Last here, in its full splendour. 

(Aside). Somewhat tatter 'd 
And devilish damp, but fine enough by torch-light ; 
And that 's enough for your right noble blood 
Of twenty quarlerings upon a hatchnient ; 
So let thei;- bearer sleep 'neath something like one 
Now, as he one day will for ever lie. 

Stral. (risbig a?id turning to Gabor.) Good night, 
good people ! Sir, I trust to-morrow 
Will find me apter to requite your service. 
In the meantime I crave your company 
A moment in my chamber. 

Gab. I attend you. 

Stral. (after a few steps, pauses, and calls Werner), 
Friend ! 

Wer. Sir ! 

Men. Sir ! Lord — oh Lord ! Why don't you say 
His lordship, or his excellency ? Piay, 
My lord, excuse this poor man's want of breeding : 
He hath not been accustom'd to admission 
To such a presence. 

Stral. (to Menstein). Peace, intendant ! 

Men. Oh! 

I am dumb. 

Stral. (to Werner). Have you been long here ? 

Wer. Long ? 

Stral. I sought 

An answer, not an echo. 

Wer. You may seek 

Both from the walls. I am not used to answer 
Those whom I know not. 

Siral. Indeed ! Ne'er the less, 

You might reply with courtesy to what 
Is ask'd in kindness. 

Wtr. When I know it such, 

I will requite — that is, reply — in unison. 

Stral. The intendant said, you had been detain'd by 
sickness — 
If I could aid you — journeying the same way ? 

Wer. (quickly). I am not journeying the same way ! 

Stral. How know ye 

That, ere you know my route ? 

Wer. Because there is 

But one way that the rich and poor must tread 
Together. You diverged from that dread path 
Some hours ago, and I some days : henceforth 
Our roads must lie asunder, though they tend 
All to one home. 

Stral. Your language is above 

Your station. 

Wer. (bitterly.) Is it ? 

Stral. Or, at least, beyond 

Your garb. 

Wer. 'T is well that it is not beneath it, 
As sometimes happens to the better clad. 
But, in a word, what would you with me? 

Stral. (startled). I ? 

Wer. Yes— you ! You know me not, and question me, 
And wonder that I answer not — not knowing 
My inquisitor. Explain what you would have. 
And then I '11 satisfy yourself, or me. 

Stral. I knew not that you had reasons for reserve. 

Wer. Many have such : — Have you none ? 

Stral. None which can 

Interest a mere stranger. 



Wer. Then forgive 

The same unknown and humble stranger, if 
He wishes to remain so to the man 
Who can have nought in common with him. 

Stral. Sir, 

I will not balk your humour, though untoward : 
I only meant you service — but good night ! 
Intendant, show the way ! (to Gabor). Sir, you will 
with me ? 
[Exeunt Stralenheim and attendants ; Menstein 
and Gabor. 

Wer. (solus). 'T is he ! I am taken in the toils. Before 
I quitted Hamburgh, Giulio, his late steward, 
Inform'd me, that he had obtain'd an order 
From Brandenburg's elector, for the arrest 
Of Kruitzner (such the name 1 then bore) when 
I came upon the frontier ; the free city 
Alone preserved my freedom — till 1 left 
Its walls — fool that I was to quit them ! But 
I deem'd this humble garb, and route obscure. 
Had bafHed the slow hounds in their pursuit. 
What 's to be done ? He knows me not by person ; 
Nor could aught, save the eye of apprehension, 
Have recognised him, after twenty years, 
We met so rarely and so coldly in 
Our youth. But those about hmi ! Now I can 
Divine the frankness of the Hungarian, who 
No doubt is a mere tool and spy of Stralenbeim's, 
To sound and to secure me. Without means ! 
Sick, poor — begirt too with the flooding rivers. 
Impassable even to the wealthy, with 
All the appliances which purchase modes 
Of overpowering perils with men's lives, — 
How can I hope ! An hour ago methought 
My state beyond despair j and now, 't is such, 
The past seems paradise. Another day. 
And 1 'm detected, — on the very eve 
Of honours, rights, and my inheritance, 
When a few drops of gold might save me still 
In favouring an escape. 

Enter Menstein and Fritz in conversation. 

Fritz. Immediately. 

Men. I tell you, 't is impossible. 

Fritz. It must 

Be tried, however ; and if one express 
Fail, you must send on others, till the answer 
Arrives from Frankfort, from the commandant. 

Men. I will do what I can. 

Fritz. And recollect 

To spare no trouble : you will be repaid 
Tenfold. 

Men. The baron is retired to rest ? 

Fritz. He hath thrown himself into an easy chair 
Beside the fire, and slumbers ; and has order'd 
He may not be disturb'd until eleven. 
When he will take himself to bed. 

Men. Before 

An hour is past, I '11 do my best to serve him. 

Fritz. Remember ! [Exit Fritz. 

Men. The devil take these great men ! they 

Think all things made for them. Now here must I 
Rouse up some half a dozen shivering vassals 
From their scant pallets, and, at peril of 
Their lives, despaich them o'er the river towards 
Frankfort. Methinks the baron's own experience 
Some hours ago might teach him fellow-feeling : 
But no, " it must," and there 's an end. How now ? 
Are you there, Mynheer Werner ? 

Wer. You have left 

Your noble guest right quickly. 

Iden. Yes — he 's dozing, 

And seems to like that none should sleep besides. 
Here is a packet for the commandant 
Of Frankfort, at all risks and all expenses ; 
But I must not lose time : Good night ! [Exit Men. 
Wer. " To Frankfort ! " 

So, so, it thickens! Ay, "the commandant." 
This tallies well with all the prior steps 
Of this cool, calculating fiend, who walks 
Between me and my father's house. No doubt 



Scene I.J 



A TRAGEDY. 



367 



He writes for a detachment to convey me 
Into some secret fortress. — Sooner than 

This 

■ iWerner looks around, and snatches up a knife 
lying on a table in a recess. 

Now I am master of myself at least. 
Hark,— footsteps ! How do I know that Stralenheim 
Will wait for even the show of that authority 
Which is to overshadow usurpation ? ^ 

That he suspects me 's certain. I 'm alone ; 
He with a numerous train. I weak; he strong 
In gold, in numbers, rank, authority. 
I nameless, or involving in my name 
Destruction, till I reach my own domain; 
He full-blown with his titles, which impose 
Still further on these obscure petty burghers 
Than they could do elsewhere. Hark ! nearer still ! 
I'll to the secret passage, which communicates 

With the No ! all is silent — 't was my fancy ! — 

Still as the breathless interval between 

The flash and thunder : — I must hush my soul 

Amidst its perils. Yet I will re! ire. 

To see if still be unexplored the passage 

I wot of; it will serve me as a den 

Of secresy for some hours, at ttie worst. 

[IVerner draws a panel, and exit, closing it 
after him. 

Enter Gabor and Josephine. 

Gab. Where is your husband ? 

Jos. Here, I thought : I left him 

Not long since in his chamber. But these rooms 
Have many outlets, and he may be gone 
To accompany the intendant. 

Gab. Baron Stralenheim 

Put many questions to the intendant on 
The subject of your lord, and, to be plain, 
I have my doubts if he means well. 

Jos. Alas ! 

What can there be in common with the proud 
And wealthy baron, and the unknown Werner ? 

Gab. That you know best. 

Jos. Or, if it were so, how 

Come you to stir yourself in his behalf, 
Rather than that of him whose life you saved ? 

Gab. I help'd to save him, as in peril ; but 
I did not pledge myself to serve him in 
Oppression, I know well these nobles, and 
Their thousand modes of trampling on the poor. 
I have proved them ; and my spirit boils up when 
I find them practising against the weak : — 
This is my only motive. 

Jos. It would be 

Not easy to persuade my consort of 
Your good intentions. 

Gab. Is he so suspicious ? 

Jos. He was not once ; but time and troubles have 
Made him what you beheld. 

Gab. I 'm sorry for it. 

Suspicion is a heavy armour, and 
With its own weight impedes more than protects. 
Good night ! I trust to meet with him al daybreak. 

{Exit Gabor. 

Re-enter Idenstein and some Peasants. Josephine 
retires up the Hall. 

First Peasant. But if I'm drown'd ? 

Iden. Why, you will be well paid for 't. 
And have risk'd more than drowning for as much, 
I doubt not. 

Second Peasant. But our wives and families? 

Iden. Cannot be worse oft" than they are, and may 
Be better. 

Third Peasant. I have neither, and will venture. 

Iden. That 's right. A gallant carle, and fit to be 
A soldier. I '11 promote you to the ranks 
In the prince's body guard — if you succeed : 
And you shall have besides, in sp irkliug coin, 
Two thalers. 

Third Peasant. No more ! 

Iden. Out upon your avarice ! 



Can that low vice alloy so much ambition? 
I tell thee, fellow, that two thalers in 
Small change will subdivide into a treasure. 
Do not five hundred thousand heroes daily 
Risk lives and souls for the tithe of one thaler? 
When had you half the sum ? 

Th ird Peasan t. Never — but ne'er 

The less I must have three. 

Iden. Have you forgot 

Whose vassal you were born, knave? 

Third Peasant. No — the prince's, 

And not the stranger's. 

Ide7i. Sirrah ! in the prince's 

Absence, I 'm sovereign ; and the baron is 
My intimate connexion ; — "Cousin Idenstein ! 
(Quoth he) you '11 order out a dozen villains." 
And so, you villains I troop — march — march, I say ; 
And if a single dog's-ear of this packet 
Be sprinkled by the Oder — look to it ! 
For every page of paper, shall a hide 
Of yours be stretch "d as parchment on a drum, 
Like Ziska's skin, to beat alarm to all 
Refractory vassals, who can not effect 
Impossibilities — Away, ye earth-worms ! 

[Exit, driving them out. 

Jos. {coming forward). I fain would shun these 
scenes, too oft repeated, 
Of feudal tyranny o'er petty victims ; 
I cannot aid, and will not witness such. 
Even here, in this remote, unnamed, dull spot. 
The dimmest in the district's map, exist 
The insolence of wealth in poverty 
O'er something poorer still — the pride of rank 
In servitude, o'er something slill more servile; 
And vice in misery affect ing still 
A tattei'd splendour. What a state of being ! 
In Tuscany, my own dear sunny land. 
Our nobles were but citizens and merchants, 
Like Cosmo. We had evils, but not such 
As these ; and our all-ripe and gushing valleys 
Made poverty more cheerful, where each herb 
Was in itself a meal, and every vine 
Rain'd, as it were, the beverage which makes glad 
The heart of man ; and the ne'er unf'elt sun 
(But rarely clouded, and when clouded, leaving 
His warmth behind in memory of his lieams) 
Makes the worn mantle, and thcj thin robe, less 
Oppressive than an emperor's jewell"d purple. 
But, here ! the despots of the north appear 
To imitate the ice-wind of their clime, 
Searching the shivering vassal through his rags, 
To wr ing his soul — as the bleak elements 
His form. And 't is to be amongst these sovereigns 
My husband pants ! and such his pride of birth — 
That twenty years of usage, such as no 
Father born in a humblestate could nerve 
His soul to persecute a son withal, 
Hath changed no atom of his early nature; 
But I, born nobly also, from my father's 
Kindness was ta-ught a different lesson. Father ! 
May Ihy long-tried and now rewarded spirit 
Look down on us and our so long desired 
Ulric". I love my son, as thou didst me I 
What 's that ? Thou, Werner 1 can it be ? and thus ? 

Enter Werner hastily, with the knife in ?iis hand, by 

the secret panel, which he closes hurriedly after him. 

Wer. (not at first recognising her). Discover'd ! then 

I '11 stab {recognising her.) 

Ah ! Josephine, 
Why art thou not at rest ? 

Jos. What rest? My God I 

What doth this mean ? 

Wer. {showing a rouleau). Here's gold — gold, 
Jose|;hine, 
Will rescue us from this detested dungeon. 
Jos. And how obtain'd ?— that knife ! 
Wer. 'T is bloodless— 1/e^ 

Away —we must to our chamber. 
Jos. But whence comest thou ? 

M'cr. Ask not ! but let us think where we shall go — 



M^lMM 



Ml^ 



368 



WERNER: 



[Act II. 



This — this will make us way — {showing the gold) From steward to scullion, save in the fair way 



I '11 fit them now. 

Jns. I d ire not think thee guilty of dishonour. 

IVer. Dishonour! 

Jos, I have said it. 

Wer. Let us hence : 

'T is the last night, I trust, that we need pass here. 

Jos. And not the worst, I hope. 

Wer. Hope ! I make sure. 

But let us to our chamber. 

Jos. Yet one question — 

What hast thou done ? 



Wer. {fiercely). 



Of I ecul ition ; such as in accompts, 
Weighis, measures, larder, cellar, buttery, 
Where ail men take their prey ; as also in 
Postage of letters, gathering of rents, 
Purveying feasts, and understanding with 
The honesi trades who furnish noble masters: 
But for your petty, picking, downright thievery, 
We scorn it as we do board-wages. Then 
Had one of our folks done it, he would not 
Have been so poor a spirit as to hazard 
His neck for one rouleau, but have swoop'd all ; 



Left one thing undone, which Also the cabinet, if portable. 



Had made all well : let me not think of it 
Away ! 
Jos. Alas, that I should doubt of thee I lExeunt. 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. 
A Hall in the same Palace. 
Enter Idenstein and Others. 



Iden. Fine doings! goodly doings! honest doings ! 
A baron pillaged in a prince's palace ! 
Where, till this hour, such a sin ne'er was heard of. 

Fritz. It hardly could, unless the rats despoil'd 
The mice of a few shreds of tapestry. 

Iden. Oh ! that I e er should live to see this day ! 
The honour of our city 's gone forever. 

Fritz. Well, but now to discover the delinquent: 
The baron is determined not to lose 
This sum without a seaich. 

Iden. And so am L 

Fritz. But whom do you suspect ? 

Iden. Suspect ! all people The ghost of this rouleau, 



Iden. There is some sense in that 

! Fritz. No, sir, be sure 

'T was none of our corps ; but some petty, trivial 
I Picker and stealer, without art or genius. 
The only question is— Who else could have 
Access, save the Hungarian and yourself? 
Idtn. You don't mean me ? 
Fritz. No, sir ; I honour more 

Your talents 

Iden. And my principles, I hope. 

Fritz. Of course. But to the point : What 's to be 

done? 
Iden. Nothing — but there 's a good deal to be said. 
I We '11 ofifer a reward ; move heaven and earth, 
I And the police (though there's none nearer than 

■ Frankfort) ; post notices in manuscript 

■ (For we 've no printer) ; and set by my clerk 
i To read them (for few can, save he and I). 
I We 'II send out villains to strip beggars, and 
j Search empty pockets ; also, to arrest 

All gipsies, and ill clothed and sallow people. 
Prisoners we'll have at least, if not the culprit; 
And for the baron's gold — if 't is not found. 
At least he shall have the full satisfaction 
! Of melting twice its substance in the raising 
Here's alchemy 



He hath found a better. 



Without— within — above — below— Heaven help me ! For your lord's losses ! 

Fj-itz. Is there no other entrance to the chamber ? Fritz. 

Iden. None whatsoever. Ide7i. Where? 

Fritz. Are you sure of that ? Fritz. In a most immense inheritance. 

Ide7i. Certain. I have lived and served here since The late Count Siegendorf, his distant kinsman, 



my birth. 

And if there were such, must have heard of such, 
Or seen it. 

Fritz. Then it must be some one who 
Had access to the antechamber. 

Iden. Doubtless. 

Fritz. The man call'd Werner 's poor ! 

Iden. Poor as a miser. 

But lodged so far off, in the other wing, 
By which there's no communication with 
The baron's chamber, that it can't be he. 
Besides, I bade him "good night" in the hall. 
Almost a mile off, and which only leads 
To his own apartment, about the same time 
When this burglarious, larcenous felony 
Appears to have been committed. 

Fritz. There 's another, 

The stranger 

Wen. The Hungarian ? 

Fritz. He who help'd 

To fish the baron from the Oder. 

Iden. Not 

Unlikely. But, hold — might it not have been 
One of the suite ? 

Fritz. How ? We, sir ! 

Iden. No — not you, 

But some of the inferior knaves. You say 
The baron was asleep in the great chair — 
The velvet chair — in his embroider'd night-gown ; 
His toilet spread belbre him, and upon it 
A cabinet wih letters, papers, and 
Several rouleaux of gold ; of which one only 
Has disappear'd : — the door unbolted, with 
No difficult access to any. 

Fritz. Good sir, 

Be not so quick ; the honour of the corps 
Which forms the baron's household 's unimpeach'd 



Is dead near Prague, in his castle, and my lord 
Is on his way to take possession. 

Iden. Was there 

No heir? 

Fritz. Oh, yes ; but he has disappear'd 
Long from tlie world's eye, and perhaps the world. 
A prodigal son, beneath his father's ban 
For the last twenty years ; for whom his sire 
Refused to kill the fatted calf; and, therefore, 
If living, he must chew the husks still. But 
The baron would find means to silence him, 
Were he to re-appear : he 's politic, 
And has much influence with a certain court. 

Iden. He 's fortunate. 

Fritz. 'T is true, there is a grandson, 

Whom the late count reclaim'd from bis son's bands, 
And educated as his heir; but then 
His birth is doubtful. 

Iden. How so ? 

Fritz. His sire made 

A left-hand, love, imprudent sort of marriage, 
With an Italian exile's dark-eyed daughter : 
Noble, they say, too ; but no match for such 
A house as Siegendorfs. The grandsire ill 
Could brook the alliance ; and could ne'er be brought 
To see the parents, though he took the son. 

Iden. If he 'sa lad of mettle, he may yet 
Dispute your cbim, and weave a web that may 
Puzzle your baron to unravel. 

Fritz. Why, 

For mettle, he has quite enough : they say, 
He forms a happy mixture of his sire 
And grandsire's qualities, — impetuous as 
The former, and deep as the latter ; but 
The strangest is, that he too disappear'd 
Some months ago. 

Iden. The devil he did ! 



Scene I.] 



A TRAGEDY. 



369 



Fritz. Why, yes : - 

It must have been at his suggestion, at 
An hour so critical as was the eve 
Of the old man's death, whose heart was broken by it. 

Iden. Was there no cause assign'd ? 

Fritz. Plenty, no doubt, 

And none perhaps the true one. Some averr'd 
It was to seek his parents ; some because 
The old man held his spirit in so strictly 
(But that could scarce be, for he doted on him)j 
A third believed he wish'd to serve in war. 
But peace being made soon after his departure. 
He might have since return'd, were that the motive; 
A fourth set charitably have surmised. 
As there was something strange and mystic in him. 
That in the wild exuberance of his naluie 
He had join'd the black bands, who lay waste Lusatia, 
The mountains of Bohemia and Silesia, 
Since the last years of war had dwindled into 
A kind of general condottiero system 
Of bandit warfare ; each troop with its chief, 
And all against mankind. 

Iden. That cannot be. 

A young heir, bred to wealih and luxury. 
To risk his life and honours with disbanded 
Soldiers and desperadoes. 

Fritz. Heaven best knows ! 

But there are human natures so allied 
Unto the savage love of enterprise. 
That they will seek for peril as a pleasure. 
I 've heard that nothing can reclaim your Indian, 
Or tame the tiger, though their infancy 
Were fed on milk and honey. After all. 
Your Wallenstein, your 'I'illy and Gustavus, 
Your Bannier, and your Torstenson and Weimar, 
Were but the same thing upon a grand scale j 
And now that they are gone, and peace proclaim'd, 
They who would follow the same pastime must 
Pursue it on their own account. Here comes 
The baron, and the Saxon stranger, who 
Was his chief aid in yesterday's escape. 
But did not leave the cottage by the Oder 
Until this morning. 

Enter StraUnheim and Ulric. 

Stral. Since you have refused 
All compensation, gentle stranger, save 
Inadequate thanks, you almost check even them, 
Making me feel the worthlessness of words. 
And blush at my o«n barren gratitude, 
They seem so niggardly, compared with what 
Your courteous courage did in my behalf 

Ulr. I pray you press the theme no further. 

Stral. But 

Can I not serve you ? You are young, and of 
That mould which throws out heroes ; fair in favour 
Brave, I know, by my living now to say so ; 
And doubtlessly, with such a form and heart, 
Would look into the fiery eyes of war, 
As ardently for glory as you dared 
An obscure death to save an unknown stranger, 
In an as perilous, but opposite, element. 
You are made for the service : I have served ; 
Have rank by birlh and soldiership, and friends. 
Who shall be yours. 'T is true this pause of peace 
Favours such views at present scantily ; 
But 't will not last, men's spirits are too stirring; 
And, after thirty years of conflict, peace 
Is but a petty war, as thp times show us 
In every forest, or a mere arm'd truce. 
War will reclaim his own ; and, in the meantime, 
You might obtain a post, which would ensure 
A higher soon, and, by my influence, fail not 
To rise. I speak of Brandenburgh, wherein 
I stand well with the elector ; in Bohemia, 
Like you, I am a stranger, and we are now 
Upon its frontier. 

Ulr. You perceive my garb 

Is Saxon, and of course my service due 
To my own sovereign. If I must decline 

24 



Your ofier, 't is with the same feeling which 
Induced it, 

Stral. Why, this is mere usury ! 
I owe my life to you, and you refuse 
The acquittance of the interest of the debt, 
To heap more obligations on me, till 
I bow beneath them. 

Ulr. You shall say so when 

I claim the payment. 

Stral. Well, sir, since you will not — 

You are nobly born ? 

Ulr. I have heard my kinsmen say so. 

Stral. Your actions show it. Might I ask your 
name ? 

Ulr. Ulric. 

Stral. Your house's ? 

Ulr. When I 'm worthy of it, 

I '11 answer you. 

Stral. (aside). Most probably an Austrian, 
Whom these unsealed times forbid to boast 
His lineage on these wild and dangerous fiontiers, 
Where the name of his country is abhorr'd. 

[Aloud to Fritz and Idenstein. 
So, sirs ! how have ye sped in your researches ? 

Idm. Indifferent well, your excellency. 

Stral. Then 

I am to deem the plunderer is caught ? 

Iden. Humph ! — not exactly. 

Stral. Or at least suspected ? 

Iden. Oh ! for that matter, very much suspected. 

Stral. Who may he be ? 

Iden. Why, don't you know, my lord ? 

Stral. How should I ? I was fast asleep. 

Men. And so 

Was I, and that 's the cause I know no more 
Than does your excellency. 

Stral. Dolt ! 

Ideii. Why, if 

Your lordship, being robb'd, don't recognise 
The rogue ; how should I, not being robb'd, identify 
The thief among so many ? In the crowd. 
May it please your excellency, your thief looks 
Exactly like the rest, or rather better: 
'T is only at the bar and in the dungeon. 
That wise men know your felon by his features; 
But I '11 engage, that if seen there but once, 
Whether he be found criminal or no, 
His face shall be so. 

Stral. (to Fritz). Prythee, Fritz, inform me 
What hath been done to trace the fellow ? 

Fritz. Faith, 

My lord, not much as yet, except conjecture. 

Stral. Besides the loss (which, I must own, affects 
me 
Just now materially), I needs would find 
The villain out of public motives; for 
So dexterous a spoiler, who could creep 
Through my attendants, and so many peopled 
And lighted chambers, on my rest, and snatch 
The gold before my scarce-closed eyes, would soon 
Leave bare your borough. Sir Intendant ! 

Iden. True ; 

If there were aught to carry off, my lord. 

Ulr. What is all this? 

Stral. You join'd us but this morning, 

And have not heard that I was robb'd last night. 
Ulr. Some rumour of it reach'd me as I pass'd 
The outer chambers of the palace, but 
I know no further. 

Stral. It is a strange business ; 

The intendant can inform you of the facts. 

Iden. Most willingly. You see 

Stral. (impatiently). Defer your tale, 

Till certain of the hearer's patience. 

Iden. That 

Can only be approved by proofs. You see 

Stral. (again interrupting him, and addressing 
Ulric). 
In short, I was asleep upon a chair. 
My cabinet before me, with some gold 
Upon it (more than I much like to lose, 



MikMMiMM 



370 



WERNER 



[Act II. 



Though in part only) : some ingenious person 

Contrived to glide through all my own attendants, 

Besides those of the place, and bore away 

A hundred golden ducats, which to find 

I would be fain, and there 's an end. Perhaps 

You ( IS I still am rather faint) would add 

To yesterday's great obligation, this, 

Though slighter, yet not slight, to aid these men 

(Who seem but lukewarm) m recovering it ? 

Ulr. Most willingly, and without loss of time — 
{To Idenstein.) Come hither, mynheer! 

Iden. But so much haste bodes 

Right little speed, and 

Ulr. Standing motionless 

None ; so let 's march : we '11 talk as we go on. 

Iden. But 

Ulr. Show the spot, and then I '11 answer you. 

Fritz. I will, sir, with his excellency's leave. 

Stral. Do so, and take yon old ass with you. 

Fritz. Hence ! 

Ulr. Come on, old oracle, expound thy riddle ! 

[Exit with Idenstein and Fritz. 

Stral. (solus). A stalwart, active, soldier-looking 
stripling, 
Handsome as Hercules ere his first labour, 
And with a brow of thought beyond his years 
When in repose, till his eye kindles up 
In answering yours. I wish I could engage him : 
I have need of some such spirits near me now. 
For this inheritance is worth a struggle. 
And though I am not the man to yield without one, 
Neither are they who now rise up between me 
And my desire. The boy, they say, 's a bold one ; 
But he hath play'd the truant in some hour 
Of freakish folly, leaving fortune to 
Champion his claims. That 'swell. The father, whom 
For years I 've track'd, as does the blood-hound, never 
In sight, but constantly in scent, had put me 
To fault ; but here I have him, and that 's better. 
It must be he 1 All circumstance proclaims it ; 
And careless voices, knowing not the cause 
Of my enquiries, still confirm it. — Yes ! 
The man, his bearing, and the mystery 
Of his arrival, and the time ; the account, too, 
The intendant gave (for I have not beheld her) 
Of his wife's dignified but foreign aspect ; 
Besides the antipathy with which we met. 
As snakes and lions shrink back from each other 
By secret instinct that bpth must be foes 
Deadly, without being natural prey to either ; 
All — all — confirm it to my mind. However, 
We '11 grapple, ne'ertheless. In a few hours 
The order comes from Frankfort, if these waters 
Rise not the higher (and the weather favours 
Their quick abatement), and I '11 have him safe 
Within a dungeon, where he may avouch 
His real estate and name ; and there 's no harm done. 
Should he prove other than I deem. This robbery 
(Save for the actual loss) is lucky also : 
He 's poor, and that 's suspicious — he 's unknown, 
And that 's defenceless. — True, we have no proofs 
Of guilt,— but what hath he of innocence? 
Were he a man indifferent to my prospects, 
In other bearings, I should rather lay 
The inculpation on the Hungarian, who 
Hath something which I like not; and alone 
Of all around, except the intendant, and 
The prince's household and my own, had ingress 
Familiar to the chamber. 

Enter Gabor. 

Friend, how fare you ? 

Gab. As those who fare well everywhere, when they 
Have supp'd and slumber'd, no great matter how — 
And you, my lord ? 

Stral. Better in rest than purse : 

Mine inn is like to cost me dear. 

Gab. 1 heard 

Of your late loss ; but 't is a trifle to 
One of your order. 



Stral. You would hardly think so, 

Were the loss yours. 

Gab. I never had so much 

(At once) in my whole life, and therefore am not 
Fit to decide. But I came here to seek you. 
Your couriers are turn'd back — I have ou'.stripp'd them, 
In my return. 

Stral. You ! — Why ? 

Gab. I went at daybreak, 

To watch for the abatement of the river, 
As being anxious to resume my journey. 
Your mes-engers were all checkd like myself; 
And, seeing tlae case hopeless, I await 
The current's pleasure. 

Stral. Would the dogs were in it : 

Why did they not, at least, attempt the passage } 
I order'd this at all risks. 

Gab. Could you order 

The Oder to divide, as Moses did 
The Red Sea (scarcely redder than the flood 
Of the swoln stream), and be obey'd, perhaps 
They might have ventured. 

Stral. I must see to it : 

The knaves ! the slaves '.—but they shall smart for this. 
[Exit Stralenheim. 

Gab. (solus.) There goes my noble, feudal, self-wiil'd 
baron ! 
Epitome of what brave chivalry 
The preux chevaliers of the good old times 
Have left us. Yesterday he would have given 
His lands (if he hath any), and, still dearer. 
His sixteen quarterings, for as much fresh air 
As would have fiU'd a bladder, while he lay 
Gurgling and foaming half way through the window 
Of his o'erset and water-logg'd conveyance ; 
And now he storms at half a d07en wretches 
Because they love their lives too ! Yet, he's right : 
'T is strange they should, when such as he may put 

them 
To hazard at his pleasure. Oh ! thou world ! 
Thou art indeed a melancholy jest ! [Exit Gabor. 

SCENE II. 

The apartment of Werner, in the Palace. 

Enter Josephine and Ulric. 

Jos. Stand back, and let me look on thee again ! 
My Ulric ! — my beloved ! — can it be — 
After twelve years ? 

Ulr. My dearest mother ! 

Jos. Yes ! j 

My dream is realised — how beiutiful ! — 
How more than all I sigh'd for ! Heaven receive 
A mother's thanks — a mother's tears of joy ! 
This is indeed thy work ! — At such an hour, too, 
He comes not only as a son, but saviour. 

Ulr. If such a joy await me, it must double 
What I now feel, and lighten from my heart 
A part of the long debt of duty, not 
Of love (for that was ne"er withheld) — forgive me ! 
This long delay was not my fault. 

Jos. I know it, 

But cannot think of sorrow now, and doubt 
If I e'er felt it, 't is so dazzled from 
My memory by this oblivious transport ! — 
My son ! 

Enter Werner. 

Wer. What have we here,— more strangers ? 

Jos. No ! 

Look upon him ! What do you see ? 

War. A stripling, 

For the first time — 

Ulr. (kneeling). For twelve long years, my father! 

Wer. Oh, God ! 

Jos. He faints ! 

Wer. No — I am better now — 

Ulric! (Embraces him.) 

Ulric. My father, Siegendorf ! 

Wer. (starting). Hush ! boy — 

The walls may hear that name ! 



Scene II.] 



A TRAGEDY. 



371 



Ulr. What then ? 

Wer. Why, then — 

But we will talk of that anon. Remember, 
I must be known here but as Werner. Come ! 
Come to my arms again ! Why, thou look'st all 
I should have been, and was not. Josephine ! 
Sure 't is no father's fondness dazzles me; 
But, had I seen that form amid ten thousand 
Youth of the choicest, my heart would have chosen 
This for my son ! 

Ulr. And yet you knew me not I 

Wer. Alas ! I have had that upon my soul 
Which makes me look on all men with an eye 
That only knows the evil at first glance. 

Ulr. My memory served me far more fondly : I 
Have not forgotten aught; and oft-times in 
The proud and princely halls of — (I '11 not name them, 
As you say that 't is perilous) — but i' the pomp 
Of your sire's feudal mansion, I look'd back 
To the Bohemian mountains many a sunset, 
And wept to see another day go down 
O'er thee and me, with those huge hills between us. 
They shall not part us more. 

Wer. I know not that. 

Are you aware my father is no more ? 

Ulr. Oh, heavens ! I left him in a green old age. 
And looking like the oak, worn, but still steady 
Amidst the elements, whilst younger trees 
Fell fast around him. 'T was scarce three months since. 

Wer. Why did you leave him ? 

Jos. {embracing Ulric). Can you ask that question ? 
Is he not here ? 

Wer. True ; he hath sought his parents. 

And found them ; but, oh ! how, and in what state ! 

Ulr. All shall be better'd. What we have to do 
Is to proceed, and to assert our rights, 
Or rather yours ; for I waive all, unless 
Your father has disposed in such a sort 
Of his broad lands as to make mine the foremost, 
So that I must prefer my claim for form ; 
But I trust better, and that ail is yours. 

Wer. Have you not heard of Stralenheim ? 

Ulr. I saved 

His life but yesterday : he 's here. 

Wer. You saved 

The serpent who will sting us all ! 

Ulr. You speak 

Riddles : what is this Stralenheim to us ? 

Wer. Every thing. One who claims our father's 
lands : 
Our distant kinsman, and our nearest foe. 

Ulr. I never heard his name till now. The count, 
Indeed, spoke sometimes of a kinsman, who, 
If his own line should fail, might be remotely 
Involved in the succession ; but his titles 
Were never named before me — and what then ? 
His right must yield to ours. 

Wer. Ay, if at Prague j 

But here he is all-powerful ; and has spread 
Snares for thy father, which, if hitherto 
He hath escaped them, is by fortune, not 
By favour. 

Ulr. Doth he personally know you ? 

Wer. No ; but he guesses shrewdly at my person, 
As he betray'd last night ; and I, perhaps. 
But owe my temporary liberty 
To his uncertainly. 

Ulr. I think you wrong him 

(Excuse me for the phrase) ; but Stralenheim 
Is not what you prejudge him, or, if so. 
He owes me something both for past and present. 
I saved bis life, he therefore trusts in me. 
He hath been plunder'd too, since he came hither ; 
Is sick ; a stranger ; and as such not now 
Able to trace the villain who hath robb'd him : 
I have pledged myself to do so ; and the business 
Which brought me here was chiefly that : but I 
Have found, in searching for another's dross, 
My own whole treasure — you, my parents ! 

Wer. {agitatedly). Who 

Taught you to mouth that name of ** villain ? " 



Ulr. What 

More noble name belongs to common thieves ? 

Wer. Who taught you thus to brand an unknown 
being 
With an infernal stigma ? 

Ulr. My own feelings 

Taught me to name a ruffian from his deeds. 

Wer. Who taught you, long-sought and ill-found 
boy ! that 
It would be safe for my own son to insult me ? 

Ub: I named a villain. What is there in common 
With such a being and my father ? 

Wer. Every thing ! 

That ruffian is thy father ! 

Jos. Oh, my son ! 
Believe him not — and yet 1 {her voice falters.) 

Ulr. {starts, looks earnestly at Werner, and then 
says slowly,) And you avow it ? 

Wer. Ulric, before you dare despise your father, 
Learn to divine and judge his actions. Young, 
Rash, new to life, and rear'd in luxury's lap. 
Is it for you to measure passion's force. 
Or misery's temptation ? Wait — (not long, 
It Cometh like the night, and quickly) — Wait ! — 
Wait till, like me, your hopes are blighted — till 
Sorrow and shame are handmaids of your cabin ; 
Famine and poverty your guests at table ; 
Despair your bed-fellow — then rise, but not 
From sleep, and judge! Should that day e'er arrive — 
Should you see then the serpent, who hath coil'd 
Himself around all that is dear and noble 
Of you and yours, lie slumbering in your path. 
With but his folds between your stejjs and happiness. 
When he, who lives but to tear from you name. 
Lands, life itself, lies at your mercy, with 
Chance your conductor ; midnight for your mantle ; 
The bare knife in your hand, and earth asleep, 
Even to your deadliest foe ; and he as 't were 
Inviting death, by looking like it, while 
His death alone can save you : — Thank your God ! 
If then, like me, content with petty plunder,. 
I'ou turn aside 1 did so. 

Ulr. But 

Wer. {abruptly). Hear me I 

I will not brook a huinan voice — scarce dare 
Listen to my own (if that be human still) — 
Hear me ! you do not know this man — I do. 
He 's mean, deceitful, avaricious. You 
Deem yourself safe, as young and brave ; but learn 
None are secure from desperation, few 
From subtilty. My worst foe, Stralenheim, 
Housed in a prince's palace, couch'd within 
A prince's chamber, lay below my knife ! 
An instant — a mere motion — the least impulse — 
Had swept him and all fears of mine from earth. 
He was within my power — my knife was raised — 
Withdrawn — and I 'm in his : — are you not so ? 
Who tells you that he knows you 7iot ? Who says 
He hath not lured you here to end you ? or 
To plunge you, with your parents, in a dungeon ? 

\He pauses. 

Ulr. Proceed — proceed! 

Wer. Me he hath ever known, 

And hunted through each change of time -^ name — 

fortune — 
And why not you ? Are you more versed in men ? 
He wound snares round me ; flung along my path 
Reptiles, whom, in my youth, I would have spurn'd 
Even from my presence ; but, in spurning now, 
Fill only with fresh venom. Will you be 
More patient ? Ulric ! — Ulric ! — there are crimes 
Made venial by the occasion, and temptations 
Which nature cannot master or forbear. 

Ulr. {looks first at him, and then at Josephine). My 
mother! 

Wer. Ah ! I thought so ; you have now 
Only one parent. I have lost alike 
Father and son, and stand alone. 

Ulr. But say ! 

[Weryier rushes out of the chamber. 



372 



WERNER: 



[Act II. 



Jos. {to Ulric). Follow him not, until this storm of 
passion 
Abates. Think'st thou, that were it well for him, 
I had not folio w'd ? 

Ulr. I obey you, mother, 

Although reluctantly. My first act shall not 
Be one of disobedience. 

Jos. Oh ! he is good ! 

Condemn him not from his own mouth, but trust 
To me, who have borne so much with him, and for 

him. 
That this is but the surface of his soul. 
And that the depth is rich in better things. 

Ulr. These then are but my father's principles? 
My mother thinks not with him ? 

Jos. Nor doth he 

Think as he speaks. Alas ! long years of grief 
Have made him sometimes thus. I 

Ulr. Explain to me 

More clearly, then, these claims of Stralenheim, 
That, when I see the subject in its bearings, 
I may prepare to face him, or at least 
To extricate you from your present perils. 
I pledge myself to accomplish this— but would 
I had arrived a few hours sooner! 

Jos. Ay ! 

Hadst thou but done so ! 

Enter Gabor and Idenstein, with Attendants. 

Gab. (to Ulric). I have sought you, comrade. 

So this is my reward ! 

Ulr, What do you mean ? 

Gab. 'Sdeath ! have I lived to these years, and for 
this! 
{To Idenstein). But for your age and folly, I would 

Iden. Help ! 

Hands off ! Touch an intendant ! 

Gab. Do not think 

I '11 honour you so much as save your throat 
From the Ravenstone i by choking you myself. 

Iden. I thank you for the respite: but there are 
Those who have greater need of it than me. 

Ulr. Unriddle this vile wrangling, or 

Gab. At once, then, 

The baron has been robb'd, and upon me 
This worthy personage has deign'd to fix 
His kind suspicions — me ! whom he ne'er saw 
Till yester' evening. 

Iden. Wouldst have me suspect 

My own acquaintances ? You have to learu 
That I keep better company. 

Gab. You shall 

Keep the best shortly, and the last for all men, 
The worms ! you hound of malice ! 

[Gabor seizes on him. 

Ulr. (interfering). Nay, no violence : 

He 's old, unarm'd — be temperate, Gabor ! 

Gab. (letting go Idenstein). True: 

I am a fool to lose myself because 
Fools deem me knave : it is their homage. 

Ulr. (to Idenstein). How 

Fare you ? 

Idm. Help ! 

Ulr. I have help'd you. 

Iden. Kill him ! then 

I '11 say so. 

Gab. I am calm — live on ! 

Iden. That 's more 

Than you shall do, if there be judge or judgment 
In Germany. The baron shall decide ! 

Gab. D les he abet you in your accusation ? 

Iden. Does he not ? 

Gab. Then next time let him go sink 

Ere I go hang for snatching him from drowning. 
But here he comes ! 

Enter Stralenheim. 
Gab. (goes up to him). My noble lord, I 'm here ! 



1 The Ravenstone, " Rabenstein," is the stone gibbet 
of Germany, and so called from the ravens perching on it. 



Stral. Well, sir ! 

Gab. Have you aught with me ? 

Siral. What should I 

Have with you ? 

Gab. You know best, if yesterday's 

Flood lias not wash'd away your memory j 
But that 's a trifle. 1 stand here accused, 
In phra-es not equivocal, by yon 
Intendant, of the pillage of your person 
Or chamber : — is the charge your own or his ? 

Sn-al. I accuse no man. 

Gab. Then you acquit me, baron ? 

Stral. I know not whom to accuse, or to acquit, 
Or scarcely to suspect. 

Gab. But you at least 

Should know whom not to suspect. I am insulted — 
Oppress'd here by these menials, and I look 
To you for remedy — teach them their duty ! 
To look for thieves at home were part of it, 
If duly taught ; but, in one word, if I 
Have an accuser, let it be a man 
Worthy to be so of a man like me. 
I am your equal. 

Stral. You ! 

Gab. Ay, sir ; and, for 

Aught that you know, supeVior ; but proceed — 

do not ask for hints, and surmises, 
And circumstance, and proofs ; I know enough 
Of what I have done for you, and what you owe me, 
To have at leist waited your payment rather 
Than paid myself, had I been eager of 
Your gold. I also know, that were I even 
The villain I am deem'd, the service rendcr'd 
So recently would not permit you to 
Pursue me to the death, except through shame, 
Such as would leave your scutcheon but a blank. 
But this is nothing : I demand of you 
Justice upon your unjust servants, and 
From your own lips a disavowal of 
All sanction of their insolence : thus much 
You owe to the unknown, who asks no more, 
And never thought to have ask'd so much. 

Stral. This tone 

Mav be of innocence. 

Gab. 'Sdeath ! who dare doubt it, 

Except such villains as ne'er had it ? 

Stral. You 

Are hot, sir. 

Gab. Must I turn an icicle 
Before the breith of menials, and their master ? 

Stral. Ulric ! you know this man j I found him in 
Your company. 

Gab. We found you in the Oder ; 

Would we had left you there ! 

Stral. I give you thanks, sir. 

Gab. I 've earn'd them ; but might have earn'd 
more from others, 
Perchance, if I had left you to your fate. 

Stral. Ulric ! you know this man ? 

Gab. No more than you do. 

If he avouches not my honour. 

Ulr. I 

Can vouch your courage, and, as far as my 
Own brief connection led me, honour. 

Stral. Then 

I 'm satisfied. 

Gab. (^ironically). Right easily, methinks. 
What is the spell in his asseveration 
More than in mine ? 

Stral. I merely said that I 

Was satisfied — not that you are absolved. 

Gab. Again ! Am I accused or no ? 

Stral. Go to ! 

You wax too insolent. If circumstance 
And general suspicion be against you. 
Is the fault mine ? Is 't not enough that I 
Decline all question of your guilt or innocence? 

Gab. My lord, my lord, this is mere cozenage, 
A vile equivocation ; you well know 
Your doubts are certainties to all around you — 
Your looks a voice — your frowns a sentence ; you 



Scene II.] 



A TRAGEDY. 



373 



Are practising your power on me — because 
You have it ; but beware ! you know not whom 
You strive to tread on. 

Stral. Threat'st thou ? 

Gab. Not so much 

As you accuse. You hint the basest injury, 
And I retort it with an open warning. 

Slral. As you have said, 't is true I owe you some- 
thing, 
For which you seem disposed to pay yourself. 

Gab. Not with your gold. 

Stral. With bootless insolence. 

[To his Attendants and Idenstein. 
You need not further to molest this man, 
But let him go his way. Ulric, good morrow ! 

[Exit Stralenheim, Idenstein, and Attendants. 

Gab. (following). I '11 after him and 

Ulr. {stopping him). Not a step. 

Gab. Who shall 

Oppose me ? 

Ulr. Your own reason, with a moment's 

Thought. 

Gab. Must I bear this ? 

Ulr. Pshaw ! we all must bear 

The arrogance of something higher than 
Ourselves — the highest cannot temper Satan, 
Nor the lowest his viceg-erents upon earth. 
I 've seen you brave the elements, and bear 
Things which had made this silkworm cast his skin — 
And shrink you from a few sharp sneers and words? 

Gab. Must I t)ear to be deem'd a thief? If 't were 
A bandit of the woods, I could have borne it — 
There 's something daring in it : — but to steal 
The moneys of a slumbering man ! — 

Ulr. It seems, then, 

You are not guilty ? 

Gab. Do I hear aright ? 

You too ! 

Ulr. I merely ask'd a simple question. 

Gab. If the judge ask'd me, I would answer 
<'No» — 
To you I answer thvbs. {He draws). 

Ulr. (drawing). With all my heart ! 

Jos. Without there ! Ho ! help ! help ! — Oh, God ! 
here's murder! 

[Exit Josephine, shrieking. 

Gabor and Ulric fight. Gabor is disarmed just as 

Stralenheim, Josephine, Idenstein, ^c. re-enter. 

Jos. Oh ! glorious heaven I He 's safe ! 

Stral. (to Josephine). Who 's safe ? 

Jos. My 

Ulr. (interrupting her with a stem look, and turn- 
ing afterwards to Stralenheim.) Both ! 
Here 's no great harm done. 

Stral. What hath caused all this ? 

Ulr. You, baron, I believe ; but as the effect 
Is harmless, let it not disturb you. — Gabor 1 
There is your sword ; and when you bare it next, 
Let it not be against your friends. 

[Ulric pronounces the last words slowly and 
emphatically in a low voice to Gabor. 

Gab. I thank you 

Less for my life than for your counsel. 

Stral. These 

Brawls must end here. 

Gab. (taking his sword). They shall. You have 
wrong'd me, Ulric, 
More with your unkind thoughts than sword: I would 
The last were in my bosom rather than 
The first in yours. I could have borne yon noble's 
Absurd insinuations — ignorance 
And dull suspicion are a part of his 
Entail will last him longer than his lands. — 
But I may fit him yet : — you have vanquish'd me. 
I was the fool of passion to conceive 
That I could cope with you, whom I had seen 
Already proved by greater perils than 
Rest in this arm. We may meet by and by. 
However — but in friendship. 

[Exit Gabor. 

32 



stral. I will brook 

No more '. This outrage following up his insults, 
Perhaps his guilt, has canceli'd all the little 
I owed him heretofore for the so-vaunted 
Aid which he added to your abler succour. 
Ulric, you are not hurt ?— 

Ulr. Not even by a scratch. 

Stral. (to Idenstein). Intendant ! take your mea- 
sures to secure 
Yon fellow : I revoke my former lenity. 
He shall be sent to Frankfort with an escort, 
The instant that the waters have abated. 

Men. Secure him I He hath got his sword again — 
And seems to know the use on 't ; 't is his trade, 
Belike ; — I 'm a civilian. 

Stral. Fool ! are not 

Yon score of vassals dogging at your heels 
Enough to seize a dozen such ? Hence ! after him ! 

Ulr. Baron, I do beseech you ! 

Stral. I must be 

Obey'd. No words ! 

Iden. Well, if it must be so — 

March, vassals ! I 'm your leader, and will bring 
The rear up : a wise general never should 
Expose his precious life — on which all rests. 
I like that article of war. 

[Exit Idenstein and Attendants. 

Stral. Come hither, 

Ulric ; what does that woman here ? Oh ! now 
I recognise her, 'tis the stranger's wife 
Whom they name " Werner." 

Ulr. 'T is his name. 

Stral. Indeed ! 

Is not your husband visible, fair dame ? — 

Jos. Who seeks him ? 

Stral. No one — for the present : but 

I fain would parley, Ulric, with yourself 
Alone. 

Ulr. I will retire with you. 

Jos. Not so : 

You are the latest stranger, and command 
All places here. 
(Aside to Ulric, as she goes out.) Ulric ! have a 

care — 
Remember what depends on a rash word ! 

Ulr. (to Josephine). Fear not ! — 

[Exit Josephine. 

Stral. Ulric, I think that I may trust you ; 
You saved my life — and acts like these beget 
Unbounded confidence. 

Ulr. Say on. 

Stral. Mysterious 

And long-engender'd circumstances (not 
To be now fully enter'd on) have made 
This man obnoxious — perhaps fatal to me. 

Ulr. Who ? Gabor, the Hungarian ? 

Stral. No — this " Werner " — 

With the false name and habit. 

Ulr. How can this be ? 

He is the poorest of the poor — and yellow 
Sickness sits cavern'd in his hollow eye : 
The man is helpless. 

Stral. He is — 't is no matter ; — 

But if he be the man I deem (and that 
He is so, all around us here — and much 
That is not iiere — confirm my apprehension) 
He must be made secure ere twelve hours further. 

Ulr. And what have I to do with this? 

Stral. I have sent 

To Frankfort, to the governor, my friend 
(I have the authority to do so by 
An order of the house of Brandenburg), 
For a fit escort — but this cursed flood 
Bars all access, and may do for some hours. 

Ulr. It is abating. 

Stral. That is well. 

Ulr. But how 

Am I concern'd ? 

Stral. As one who did so much 

For me, you cannot be indifl'erent to 



374 



WERNER: 



[Act hi. 



That which is of more import to me than 
The life you rescued. — Keep your eye on him ! 
The man avoids me, knows that I now know him. — 
Watch him ! — as you would watch the wild boar when 
He makes against you in the hunter's gap — 
Like him he must be spear'd. 

Ulr. Why so ? 

Stral. He stands 

Between me and a brave inheritance ! 
Oh ! could you see it ! But you shall. 

Ulr. I hope so. 

Stral. It is (he richest of the rich Bohemia, 
Unscathed by scorching war. It lies so near 
The strongest city, Prague, that fire and sword 
Have skimm'd it lightly : so that now, besides 
Its own exuberance, it bears double value 
Confronted with whole realms afar and near 
Made deserts. 

Ulr. You describe it faithfully. 

Stral. Ay — could you see it, you would say so — but, 
As I have said, you shall. 

Ulr. I accept the omen. 

Stral. Then claim a recompense from it and me, 
Such as both may make worthy your acceptance 
And services to me and mine for ever. 

Ulr. And this sole, sick, and miserable wretch — 
This way-worn stranger.— stands between you and 
This Paradise ? — (As Adam did between 
The devil and his) — [Aside.] 

Stral. He doth. 

Ulr. Hath he no right ? 

Stral. Right ! none. A disinherited prodigal, 
Who for these twenty years disgraced his lineage 
In all his acts — but chiefly by his marriage, 
And living amidst commerce-fetching burghers, 
And dabbling merchants, in a mart of Jews. 

Ulr. He has a wife, then ? 

Stral. You 'd be sorry to 

Call such your mother. You have seen the woman 
He calls his wife. 

Ulr. Is she not so ? 

Stral. No more 

Than he 's your father : — an Italian girl, 
The daughter of a banish'd man, who lives 
On love and poverty with this same Werner. 

Ulr. They are childless, then ? 

Stral. There is or was a bastard, 

Whom the old man — the grandsire (as old age 
Is ever doting) took to warm his bosom, 
As it went chilly downward to the grave : 
But the imp stands not in my path — he has fled. 
No one knows whither; and if he had not. 
His claims alone were too contemptible 
To stand.— Why do you smile ? 

Ulr. At your vain fears : 

A poor man almost in his grasp — a child 
Of doubtful birth — can startle a grandee ! 

Stral. All 's to be fear'd, where all is to be gain'd. 

Ulr. True ; and aught done to save or to obtain it. 

Stral. You have harp'd the very string next to my 
heart. 
I may depend upon you ? 

Ulr. 'T wer« too late 

To doubt it. 

Stral. Let no foolish pity shake 
Your bosom (for the appearance of the man 
Is pitiful) — he is a wretch, as likely 
To have robb'd me as the fellow more suspected, 
Except that circumstance is less against him ; 
He being lodged far off, and in a cliamber 
Without approach to mine ; and, to say truth, 
I think too well of blood allied to mine, 
To deem he would descend to such an act : 
Besides, he was a soldier, and a brave one 
Once — though too rash. 

Ulr. And they, my lord, we know 

By our experience, never plunder till 
They knock the brains out iirst — which makes them 

heirs. 
Not thieves. The dead, who feel nought, can lose no- 
thing. 



Nor e'er be robb'd : their spoils are a bequest — 
No more. 

Strut. Go to ! you are a wag. But say 
I may be sure you '11 keep an eye on this man. 
And let me know his slightest movement towards 
Concealment or escape ? 

Ulr. You may be sure 

You yourself could not watch him more than I 
Will be his sentinel. 

Stral. By this you make me 

Yours, and for ever. 

Ulr. Such is my intention. [Exeunt. 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. 

A Hall in the same Palace, from whence the secret 
Passage leads. 

Enter Werner and Gabor. 

Gab. Sir, I have told my tale : if it so please you 
To give me refuge for a few hours, well — 
If not, I '11 try my fortune elsewhere. 

JVer. How- 

Can I, so wretched, give to Misery 
A shelter ? — wanting such myself as much 
As e'er the hunted deer a covert 

Gab. Or 

The wounded lion his cool cave. Methinks 
You rather look like one would turn at bay. 
And rip the hunter's entrails. 

Wer. Ah ! 

Gab. I care not 

If it be so, being much disposed to do 
The same myself. But will you shelter me ? 
I am oppress'd like you — and poor like you — 
Disgraced 

JVer. (abruftly). Who told you that I was disgraced ? 

Gab. No one ; nor did I say you were so : with 
Your poverty my likeness ended ; but 
I said I was so — and would add, with truth, 
As undeservedly as you. 

Wer, Again ! 

As/? 

Gab. Or any other honest man. 
What the devil would you have? You don't believe me 
Guilty of this base theft? 

Wer. No, no — I cannot. 

Gab. Why that 's my heart of honour ! yon young 
gallant — 
Your miserly intendant and dense noble — 
All — all suspected me ; and why ? because 
I am the worst clothed, and least named amongst them; 
Although, were Momus' lattice in your breasts. 
My soul might brook to open it more widely 
Than theirs: but thus it is — you poor and helpless — 
Both still more than myself. 

Wer. How know you that ? 

Gab. You 're right : I ask for shelter at the hand 
Which I call helpless ; if you now deny it, 
I were well paid. But you, who seem to have proved 
The wholesome bitterness of life, know well. 
By symp:ithy, that all the outspread gold 
Of the New World the Spaniard boasts about 
Could never tempt the man who knows its worth 
Weigh'd at its proper value in the balance. 
Save in such guise (and there I grant its power. 
Because I feel it,) :is may leave no nightmare 
Upon his heart o' nights. 

Wer. What do you mean ? 

Gab. Just what I say j I thought my speech waa 
plain: 
You are no thief— nor I — and, as true men. 
Should aid each other. 

Wer. It is a damn'd world, sir. 

Gab. So is the nearest of the two next, as 
The priests sav (and no doubt they should know best), 
Therefore I '11' stick by this — as being loth 



m Scene L] 

mt To suffer mart; 



A TRAGEDY. 



375 



To suffer martyrdom, at least with such 
An epitaph as larceny upon my tomb. 
It is but a night's lodging which I crave; 
To-morrow 1 will try the waters. ;vs 
The dove did, trusting that they have abated. 

Wer. Abated? Is there hope of that ? 

Gab. There was 

At noontide. 

Wer. Then we may be safe. 

Gab. Are you 

In peril ? 

Wer. Poverty is ever so. 

Gnb. That I know by long practice. Will you not 
Promise to make mine less ? 

Wer, Your poverty ? 

Gab. No— you don'; look a leech for that disorder j 
I meant my peril only : you 've a roof, 
And I have none ; I merely seek a covert. 

Wer. Rightly J for how should such a wretch as I 
Have gold ? 

Gab. Scarce honestly, to say the truth on 't, 

Although I almost wish you had the baron's. 

Wer. Dare you insinuate ? 

Gab. What ? 

Wer. Are you aware 

To whom you speak ? 

Gab, No ; and I am not used 

Greatly to care. {A noise heard without.) But hark ! 
they come ! 

Wer. Who come ? 

Gab. The infendant and his man-hounds after me : 
I 'd face them — but it were in vain to expect 
Justice at hands like theirs. Where shall I go ? 
But show me any place. I do assure you, 
If there be faith in man, I am most guiltless: 
Think if it were your own case 1 

Wer. {aside.) Oh, just God ! 

Thy heli is not hereafter ! Am I dust still ? 

Gab. I see you 're moved j and it shows well in you : 
I may live to requite it. 

Wer. Are you not 

A spy of Stralenheim's ? 

Gab. Not I ! and if 

I were, what is there to espy in you ? 
Although I recollect his frequent question 
About you and your spouse might lead to some 
Suspicion ; but you best know — what — and why. 
I am his deadliest foe. 

Wer. You ? 

Gab. After such 

A treatment for the service which in part 
I render'd him, I am his enemy : 
If you are not his friend, you will assist me. 

Wer. I will. 

Gab. But how? 

Wer. (showing the panel). There is a secret spring: 
Remember, I discover'd it by chance, 
And used it but for safety. 

Gab. Open it, 

And I will use it for the same. 

F/er. I found it, 

As I have snid : it leads through winding walls, 
(So thick as to bear pa'hs within their ribs, 
Yet lose no jot of strength or stateliness,) 
And hollow cells, and obscure niches, to 
I know not whither; you must not advance : 
Give me your word. 

Gab. It is unnecessary : 

How should I make my way in darkness through 
A Gothic labyrinth of unknown windings ? 

Wer. Yes, but who knows to what place it may 
lead ? 
/know not — (mark you !)— but who knows it might not 
Lead even into the chamber of your foe ? 
So strangely were contrived these galleries 
By our Teutonic fathers in old days, 
When man built less against the elements 
Than his next neighbour. You must not advance 
Beyond the two first windings ; if you do 
(Albeit I never pass'd them), I'll pot answer 
For what you may be led to. 



Gab. But I will. 

A thousand thanks! 

Wer. You '11 find the spring more obvious 

On the other side ; and, when you would return, 
It yields to the least touch. 

Gab. I '11 in — farewell ! 

[Gabor goes in by the secret panel. 

Wer. (solus). What have 1 done ? Alas ! what had 
I done 
Before to make this fearful ? Let it be 
Still some atonement that I save the man. 
Whose sacrifice had saved perhaps my own — 
They come ! to seek el.-ewhere what is before them ! 

Enter Idenstein and Others. 

Iden. Is he not here ? He must have vanish'd then 
Through the dim Gothic glass by pious aid 
Of pictured saints upoo the red and yellow 
Casements, through which the sunset streams like sun- 
rise 
On long pearl-colour'd beards and crimson crosses, 
And gilded crosiers, and cross'd arms, and cowls, 
And helms, and twisted armour, and long awords, 
All the fantastic furniture of windows 
Dim with brave knights and holy heimits, whose 
Likeness and fame alike rest in some panes 
Of crystal, which each rattling wind proclaims 
As frail as any other life or glory. 
He 's gone, however. 

Wer. Whom do you seek ? 

Iden. A villain. 

Wer. Why need you come so far, then ? 

Iden. In the search 

Of him who robb'd the baron. 

Wer. Are you sure 

You have divined the man ? 

Iden. As sure as you 

Stand there : but where 's he gone ? 

Wer. Who ? 

Iden. He we sought. 

Wer. You see he is not here. 

Iden. And yet we traced him 

Up to this hall. Are you accomplices? 
Or deal you in the black art ? 

Wer. I deal plainly, 

To many men the blackest. 

Iden. It may be 

I have a question or two for yourself 
Hereafter ; but we must continue now 
Our search for t'other. 

Wer. You had best begin 

Your inquisition now : I may not be 
So patient always. 

Iden. I should like to know, 

In good sooth, if you really are the man 
That Stralenheim 's in quest of. 

Wer. Insolent ! 

Said you not that he was not here ? 

Iden. Yes, one ; 

But there 's another whom he tracks more keenly 
And soon, it may be, with authority 
Both paramount to his and mine. But, come! 
Buttle, my boys ! we are at fault, 

[Exit Idenstein and Attendants. 

Wer. In what 

A maze hath my dim destiny involved me ! 
And one base sin hath done me less ill than 
The leaving undone one fir greater. Down, 
Thou busy devil, rising in my heart ! 
Thou art too late ! I 'If nought to do with blood. 

Enter Ulric. 

Ulr. I sought you, father. 

Wer. Is 't not dangerous? 

Ulr. No ; Stralenheim is ignorant of all 
Or any of the ties between us : more — 
He sends me here a spy upou your actions, 
Deeming me wholly his. 

Wer. I cannot think it 

'T is bift a snare he winds about us both, 
To swoop the sire and son at once. 



J 



376 



WERNER: 



[Act III. 



Ulr. I cannot 

Pause in each petty fear, and stumble at 
The doubts that rise like briers in our path, 
But must break through them, as an unarm'd carle 
Would, though with naked limbs, were the wolf 

rustling 
In the same thicket where he hew'd for bread. 
Nets are for thrushes, eagles are not caught so : 
We 11 overfly or rend them. 

Wer. Show me how ? 

Ulr. Can you not guess ? 

Wer. I cannot. 

Ulr. That is strange. 

Came the thought ne'er into your mind last night ? 

Wer. I understand you not. 

Ulr. Then we shall never 

More understand each other. But to change 
The topic 

Wer. You mean tojsMwue it, as 

'T is of our safety. 

Ulr. Right ; I stand corrected. 

I see the subject now more clearly, and 
Our general situation in its bearings. 
The waters are abating ; a few hours 
Will bring his summon'd myrmidons from Frankfort, 
When you will be a prisoner, perhaps worse. 
And I an outcast, bAstardised by practice 
Of this same baron to make way for him. 

Wer. And now your remedy ! I thought to escape 
By means of this accursed gold ; but now 
I dare not use it, show it, scarce look on it. 
Methinks it wears upon its face my guilt 
For motto, not the mintage of the state ; 
And, for the sovereign's head, my own begirt 
With hissing snakes, which curl around my temples, 
And cry to all beholders, Lo ! a villain 1 

Ulr. You must not use it, at least now ; but take 
This ring. {He gives Werner a jewel. 

Wer. A gem ! It was my father's ! 

Ulr. And 

As such is now your own. With this you must 
Bribe the intendant for his old caleche 
And horses to pursue your route at sunrise, 
Together with my mother. 

Wer. And leave vou, 

So lately found, in peril too ? 

Ulr. Fear nothing ! 

The only fear were if we fled together, 
For that would make our ties beyond all doubt. 
The waters only lie in flood between 
This burgh and Frankfort ; so far 's in our favour. 
The route on to Bohemia, though encumber'd, 
Is not impassable ; and when you gain 
A few hours' start, the difficulties will be 
The same to your pursuers. Once beyond 
The frontier, and you 're safe, 

Wer. My noble boy ! 

Ulr. Hush! hush! no transports : we 'llindulge in 
them 
In Castle Siegendorf ! Display no gold. 
Show Idenstein the gem (I know the man. 
And have look'd through him) : it will answer thus 
A double purpose. Stralenheim lost gold — 
No jewel : therefore it could not be his ; 
And then the man who was possest of this 
Can hardly be suspected of abstracting 
The baron's coin, when he cnuld thus convert 
This ring to more than Stralenheim has lost 
By his last night's slumber. Be not over timid 
In your address, nor yet too arrogant, 
And Idenstein will serve you. 

Wer. 1 will follow 

In all things your direction. 

Ulr. I would have 

Spared you the trouble ; but had I ai pear'd 
To take an interest in you, and still mcire 
By dabbling with a jewel in your favour, 
All had been known at once. 

Wer. My guardian angel ! 

This overpays the past. But how wilt thou 
Fare in our absence ? 



Ulr. Stralenheim knows nothing 

Of me as aught of kindred with yourself. 
I will but wait a day or two with him 
To lull all doubts, and then rejoin my father. 

Wer. To part no more ! 

Ulr. I know not that ; but at 

The least we '11 meet again once more. 

Wer. My boy ! 

My friend ! my only child, and sole preserver 1 
Oh, do not hate me! 

Ulr. Hate my father ! 

Wer. Ay, 

My father hated me. Why not my son ? 

Ulr. Your father knew you not as I do. 

Wer. Scorpions 

Are in thy words ! Thou know me ? in this guise 
Thou canst not know me. I am not myself j 
Yet (hate me not) I will be soon. 

Ulr. I 'II wait ! 

In the mean time be sure that all a son 
Can do for parents shall be done for mine. 

Wer. I see it, and I feel it ; yet I feel 
Further — that you despise me. 

Ulr, Wherefore should I ? 

Wer. Must I repeat my humiliation ? 

Ulr. No ! 

I have fathom'd it and you. But let us talk 
Of this no more. Or if it must be ever, 
Not now. Your error has redoubled all 
The present difficulties of our house. 
At secret war with that of Stralenheim : 
All we have now to think of is to baffle 
Him. I have shown otie way. 

Wer. The only one. 

And I embrace it, as I did my son. 
Who show'd himself and father's safety in 
One day. 

Ulr. You shall be safe ; let that suffice. 
Would Stralenheim's appearance in Bohemia 
Disturb your right, or mine, if once we were 
Admitted to our lands ? 

Wer. Assuredly, 

Situate as we are now, although the first 
Possessor might, as usual, prove the strongest, 
Especially the next in blood. 

Ulr. Blood! "tis 

A word of many meanings ; in the veins. 
And out of them, it is a different thing — 
And so it should be, when the same in blood 
(As it is call'd) are aliens to each other. 
Like Theban brethren : when a part is bad, 
A few spilt ounces purify the rest. 

Wer. I do not apprehend you. 

Ulr. That may be — 

And should, perhaps — and yet • but get ye ready ; 

You and my mother must away to-night. 

Here comes the intendant : sound him with the gem ; 

'T will sink into his venal soul like lead 

Into the deep, and bring up slime and mud. 

And ooze too, from the bottom, as the lead doth 

With its greased understratum ; but no less 

Will serve to warn our ves-els through these shoals. 

The freight is rich, so heave the line in time ! 

Farewell I I scarce have time, but yet your hand, 

My father ! 

Wer. Let me embrace thee ! 

Ulr. We may be 

Observed : subdue your nature to the hour ! 
Keep off from me as from your foe ! 

Wer. Accursed 

Be he who is the stifling cause which smothers 
The best and sweetest feeling of our hearts; 
At such an hour too ! 

Ulr. Yes, curse — it will ease you ! 

Here is the intendant. 

Enter Idenstein. 

Master Idenstein, 
How fare you in your purpose ? Have you caught 
The rogue ? 
Men. No, faith ! 



Scene II.] 



A TRAGEDY. 



377 



Ulr. Well, there are plenty more : 

You may have belter luck another chase. 
Where is the baron? 

Idtn. Gone back to his chamber : 

And now I think on ';. asking after you 
With nobly-born impatience. 

Ulr. Your great men 

Must be answer'd on the instant, as the bound 
Of the stung steed replies unto the spur : 
'T is well they have horses, too ; for if they had not, 
I fear that men must draw their chariots, as 
They say kings did Sesostris. 

Idtn. Who was he ? 

Ulr. An old Bohemian — an imperial gipsy. 

Iden. A gipsy or Bohemian, 't is the same, 
For they pass by both names. And was he one ? 

Ulr. I 've heard so j but I must take leave. In- 
tendant, 
Your servant '.—Werner {to Werner slightly), if that 

be your name, 
Yours. [Exit Ulric. 

Idtn. A well-spoken, prelty-faced young man ! 
And prettily behaved ! He knows his station, 
You see, sir : how he gave to each his due 
Precedence ! 

Wer. I perceived it, and applaud 

His just discernment and your own. 

Iden. That 's well — 

That 's very well. You also know your place, too j 
And yet I don't know that I know your place. 

Wer. {showing the ring). Would this assist your 
knowledge ? 

Iden. How ! —What ! — Eh ! 

A jewel ! 

Wer. 'T is your own on one condition. 

Iden. Mine ! — Name it ! 

Wer. That hereafter you permit me 

At thrice its value to redeem it: 'tis 
A family ring. 

Iden. A family ! — yours 1 — a gem I 

I 'm breathless ! 

Wer. You must also furnish me, 

An hour ere daybreak, with all means to quit 
This place. 

Iden. But is it real ? Let me look on it : 
Diamond, by all that 's glorious ! 

Wer. Come, I '11 trust you : 

You have guess'd, no doubt, that I was born above 
My present seeming. 

Iden. I can't say I did. 

Though this looks like it : this is the true breeding 
Of gentle blood ! 

Wer. I have important reasons 

For wishing to continue privily 
My journey hence. 

Iden. So then you are the man 

Whom Stralenheim "s in quest of? 

Wer. I am not ; 

But being taken for him might conduct 
To mucti embarrassment to me just now, 
And to the baron's self hereafter — 't is 
To spare tjoih that I would avoid nil bustle. 

Iden. Be you the man or no, 't is not my business; 
Besides-, I never should obtain the half 
From this proud, niggardly noble, who would raise 
The country for some missing bits of coin. 
And never otfer a precise reward — 
But this ! — another look ! 

Wer. Gaze on it freely ; 

At day-dawn it is yours. 

Iden. Oh, thou sweet sparkler! 

Thou more than stone of the philosopher ! 
Thou touchstone of Philosopliy herself! 
Thou bright eye of the Mine ! thou loadstar of 
The soul ! the' true magnetic Pole to which 
All hearts point duly north, like trembling needles ! 
Thou flaming Spirit of the Earth ! whicli, sitting 
High on the monarch's diadem, attractest 
More worship tban the majesty who sweats 
Beneath the crown which makes his head ache, like 
Millions of hearts which bleed to lend it lustre ! 



Shalt thou be mine ? I am, methinks, already 
A little king, a lucky alchymist ! — 
A wise magician, who has bound the devil 
Without the forfeit of his soul. But come, 
Werner, or what else ? 

Wer. Call me Werner still ; 

You may yet know me by a loftier title. 

/rft?i. I do believe in thee thou art the spirit 
Of whom I long have dream'd in a low garb. — 
But come, I 'II serve thee ; thou shall be as free 
As ait, despite the waters ; let us hence : 
I '11 show thee 1 am honest — (oh, thou jewel !) 
Thou slialt be furnish'd, Werner, with such means 
Of flight, that if thou wert a snail, not birds 
Should overtake thee. — Le; me gaze again ! 
I have a foster-brother in the mait 
Of Hamburgh skill'd in precious stones. How many 
Carats may it weigh ?— Come, Werner, 1 will v^ing 
thee. [Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 
Straienheim^s Chamber, 
Stralenheim and. Fritz. 

Fritz. All h ready, my good lord ! 

Stral. I am not sleepy, 

And yet I must to bed : I fain would say 
To re t, but something heavy on my spirit, 
Too dull for wakefulness, loo quick fOr slumber, 
Sits on me as a cloud along the sky, 
Which will not let the sunbeams through, nor yet 
Descend in rain and end, but spreads itself 
'Twixt earth and heaven, like envy between man 
And man, an everlasting mist : — 1 will 
Unto my pillow. 

Fritz. May you rest there well ! 

Stral. I feel, and fear, I shall. 

Fritz. And wherefore fear ? 

Stral. I know not why, and therefore do fear more, 

Because an undescribable but tis 

All folly. Were the locks (as I de-ired) 
Changed, to-day, of this chamber? for last night's 
Adventure makes it needful. 

Fritz. Certainly, 

According to your order, and beneath 
The inspection of myself and the young Saxon 
Who saved your life. 1 Ihink they call him "Ulric." 

Stral, You think! you supercilious slave ! what right 
Have you to tax your memory, which should be 
Quick, proud, and happy to retain the name 
Of him who saved your master, as a litany 
Whose daily repetition marks your duty ? — 
Get hence ! " You think,^' indeed ! you, who stood still 
Howling and drippling on the bank, whilst I 
Lay dying, and the stianger dash'd aside 
The roaring torrent, and restored me to 
Thank him — and despise you. " FoM think .' ^^ and 

scarce 
Can recollect his name ! I will not waste 
More words on you. Call me betimes. 

Frilz. Good night ! 

I trust to-morrow will restore your lordship 
To renovated strength and temper. 

[The scene closes. 

SCENE in. 

The secret Passage. 

Gab. (solus). Four — 

Five — six hours have I counted, like the guard 
Of outposts on the never-merry clock : 
That hollow tongue of lime, which, even when 
It sounds for joy, lakes something from enjoyment 
With every clang. 'T is a perpetual knell. 
Though for a marriage-feast it rings : each stroke 
Peals for a hope the less ; the funeral note 
Of Love deep-buried without lesurrection 
In the grave of Possession ; while the knoll 
Of long-lived parents finds a jovial echo 
To triple Time in the son's ear. 

I 'm cold — 



32* 



378 



WERNER: 



[Act in. 



I 'm dark ; — I 've blown my fingers — number'd o'er 

And o'er my steps — and knock'd my head against 

Some fifty buttresses — and roused the rats 

And bats in general insurrection, till 

Their cursed pattering feet and whirling wings 

Leave me scarce hearing for another sound. 

A light ! It is at distance (if I can 

Measure in darkness distance) : but it blinks 

As through a crevice or a key-hole, in 

The inhibited direction : I must on, 

Nevertheless, from curiosity. 

A distant lamp-light is an incident 

In such a den as this. Pray Heaven it lead me 

To nothing that may tempt me ! Else— Heaven aid me 

To obtain or to escape it ! Shining still! 

Were it the star of Lucifer himself, 

Or he himself girt with its beams, I could 

Contain no longer. Softly ! mighty well! 

That corner 's turn'd — so — ah I no ;— right ! it draws 

Nearer. Here is a darksome angle — so. 

That 's weather'd. — Let me pause. — Suppose it leads 

Into some greater danger than that which 

I have escaped — no matter, 't is a new one j 

And novel perils, like fresh mistresses. 

Wear more magnetic aspects : — I will on, 

And be it where it may — I have my dagger, 

Which may protect me at a pinch. — Burn still, 

Thou little light ! Thou art my ignis fatuus I 

My stationary Will-o'-the-wisp ! — So I so ! 

He hears my invocation, and fails not. 

[The scene closes. 

SCENE IV. 

A Garden. 
Enter Werner. 
I could not sleep — and now the hour 's at hand ; 
All 's ready. Idenstein has kept his word j 
And sfatiou'd in the outskirts of the town, 
Upon the forest's edge, the vehicle 
Awaits us. Now the dwindling stars begin 
To pale in heaven ; and for the last time I 
Look on these horrible walls. Oh ! never, never 
Shall I forget them. Here I came most poor, 
But not dishonour'd: and I leave them with 
A stain, — if not upon my name, yet in 
My heart ! — a never-dying canker-worm, 
Which all the coming splendour of the lands, 
And rights, and sovereignty of Siegendorf 
Can scarcely lull a moment. I must find 
Some means of restitution, which would ease 
My soul in part: but how without discovery?— 
It must be done, however; and I '11 pause 
Upon the method the first hour of safety. 
The madness of my misery led to this 
Base infamy ; repentance must retrieve it: 
I will have nought of Stralenheim's upon 
My spirit, though he would grasp all of mine ; 
Lands, freedom, life,— and yet he sleeps as soundly, 
Perhaps, as infancy, with gorgeous curtains 
Spread for his canopy, o'er silken pillows. 

Such as when Hark ! what noise is that ? Again ! 

The branches shake ; and some loose stones have fallen 
From yonder terrace. 

{Ulric leaps down from the terrace. 
Ulric ! ever welcome ! 
Thrice welcome now ! this filial 

Ulr. Stop! Before 

We approach, tell me 

Wer. Why look you so ? 

Ulr. Do I 

Behold my father, or 

Wer. What ? 

Ulr. An assassin ? 

Wer. Insane or insolent ! 

Ulr. Reply, sir, as 

You prize your life, or mine ! 

Wer. To what must I 

Answer ? 

Ulr. Are you or are you not the assassin 
Of Stralenheim ? 



Wer. I never was as yet 

The murderer of any man. What mean you ? 

Ulr. Did not you this night (as the night before) 
Retrace the secret passage ? Did you not 

Again revisit Stralenheim's chamber ? and 

{Ulric pauses. 

Wer. Proceed. 

Ulr. Died he not by your hand ? 

We:r. Great God ! 

Ulr. You are innocent, then ! my father 's innocent ! 

Embrace me 1 Yes, — your tone — your look — yes, yes, 

Yet say so. 

Wer. If I e'er, in heart or mind. 

Conceived deliberately such a thought. 
But rather strove to trample back to hell 
Such thoughts — if e'er they glared a moment through 
The irritation of my oppressed spirit — 
May heaven be shut for ever from my hopes. 
As from mine eyes ! 

Ulr. But Stralenheim is dead. 

Wer. 'T is horrible ! 't is hideous, as 't is hateful !— 
But what have I to do with this ? 

Ulr. No bolt 

Is forced ; no violence can be detected, 
Save on his body. Part of his own household 
Have been alarm'd ; but as the intendant is 
Absent, I took upon myself the care 
Of mustering the police. His chamber has, 
Past doubt, been enter'd secretly. Excuse me, 
If nature 

Wer. Oh, my boy ! what unknown woes 

Of dark fatality, like clouds, are gathering 
Above our house ! 

Ulr. My father ! I acquit you ! 

But will the world do so ? will even the judge, 
If But you must away this instant. 

Wer. No ! 

I '11 face it. Who shall dare suspect me ? 

Ulr. Yet 

You had no guests — no visiters — no life 
Breathing around you, save my mother's? 

Wer. Ah ! 

The Hungarian ! 

Ulr. He is gone ! he disappear'd 

Ere sunset. 

Wer. No ; I hid him in that very 
Conceal'd and fatal gallery. 

Ulr. rAerel'llfindhim. 

[Ulric is going. 

Wer. It is too late : he had left the palace ere 
I quitted it. I found the secret panel 
Open, and the doors which lead from that hall 
Which masks it : I but thought he had snatch'd the 

silent 
And favourable moment to escape 
The myrmidons of Idenstein, who were 
; Dogging him y ester-even. 
I Ulr. You reclosed 

i The panel ? 

I Wer. Yes ; and not without reproach 

' (And inner trembling for the avoided peril) 
At his dull heedlessness, in leaving thus 
I His shel'erer's asylum to the risk 
Of a discovery. 

Ulr. You are sure you closed it ? 

Wer. Certain. 

Ulr. That 's well ; but had been better, if 
You ne'er had turn'd it to a den for [He pauses. 

Wer. Thieves ! 

I Thou wouldst say : I must bear it, and deserve it ; 
But not 

Ulr. No, father ; do not speak of this : 
This is no hour to think of petty crimes. 
But '0 prevent the consequence of great ones. 
Why would you shelter this man? 

Wer. Could I shun it ? 

A man pursued by my chief foe; disgraced 
For my own crime ; a victim to my safety, 
i Imploring a few hours' concealment from 
The very wretch who was the cause he needed 



Scene IV.] 



A TRAGEDY. 



379 



Such refuge. Had he been a wolf, I could not 
Have in such circumstances thrust him forth. 

Ulr. And liiie the wolf he hath repaid you. But 
It is too late to ponder thus : — you must 
Set out ere dawn. I will remain here to 
Trace the murderer, if 't is possible. 

We): But this my sudden flight will give the Moloch 
Suspicion : two new victims in the lieu 
Of one, if I remain. The fled Hungarian, 
Who seems the culprit, and 

Ulr. Who seems ? Who else 

Can be so ? 

Wer. Not /, though just now you doubted — 
You, my son I — doubted 

Ulr. And do you doubt of him 

The fugitive ? 

Wer. Boy ! since I fell into 

The abyss of crime (though not of such crime), I, 
Having seen the innocent oppress'd for me, 
May doubt even of the guiliy's guilt. Your heart 
Is free, and quick with virluous wrath to accuse 
Appearances; and views a criminal 
In Innocence's shadow, it may be, 
Because 't is dusky. 

Ulr. And if I do so, 
What will mankind, who know you not, or knew 
But to oppress ? You must not stand the hazard. 
Away ! — I '11 make all easy. Idenstein 
Will for his own sake and his jewel's hold 
His peace — he also is a partner in 
Your flight — moreover 

Wer. Fly ! and leave my name 

Link'd with the Hungarian's, or preferr'd as poorest, 
To bear the brand of bloodshed ? 

Ulr. Pshaw ! leave any thing 

Except our fathers' sovereignty and castles. 
For which you have so long panted and in vain ! 
What name ? You have no name, since that you bear 
Is feign'd. 

Wer. Most true : but still I would not have it 
Engnved in crimson in men's memories, 

Though in this most obscure abode of men 

Besides, the search 

Ulr. I will provide against 

Aught that can touch you. No one knows you here 
As heir of Siegendorf: if Idenstein 
Suspects, 'tis but suspicion, and he is 
A fool : his folly shall have such employment, 
Too, that the unknown Werner shall give way 
To nearer thoughts of self. The laws (if e'er 
Laws reach'd this village) are all in abeyance 
With the late general war of thirty years. 
Or crush'd, or rising slowly from the dust, 
To which the march of armies trampled them. 
Stralenheim, although noble, is unheeded 
Here, save as such — without lands, influence, 
Save what hath perish'd with him. Few prolong 
A week beyond their funeral rites their sway 
O'er men, unless by relatives, whose interest 
Is roused : such is not here the case ; he died 
Alone, unknown, — a solitary grave. 
Obscure as his deserts, without a scutcheon, 
Is all he'll have, or wants. If /discover 
The assassin, 't will be well — if not, believe me, 
None else ; though all the full-fed train of menials 
May how] above his ashes (as they did 
Around him in his danger on the Oder), 
Will no more stir a finger now than then. 
Hence ! hence ! I must not hear your answer.— Look ! 
The stars are almost faded, and the grey 
Begins to grizzle the black air of night. 
You shall not answer : — Pardon me that I 
Am peremptory ; 't is your son that speaks. 
Your long-lost, late-found son. — Let 's call my mother I 
Softly and swiftly step, and leave the rest 
To me : I '11 answer for the event as far 
As regards you, and that is the chief point, 
As my first duty, which shall be observed. 
We'll meet in Castle Siegendorf— once more 
Our banners shall be glorious ! Think of that 
Alone, and leave all other thoughts to me, 



Whose youth may better battle with them. — Hence ! 
And may your age be happy ! — I will kiss 
My mother once more, then Heaven's speed be with 
you ! 
Wer. This counsel 's safe — but is it honourable ? 
Ulr. To save a father is a child's chief honour. 

lExeunt. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. 

A Gothic Hall in the Castle of Siegendorf, 7iear 
Prague, 

Enter Eric and Henrick, Retainers of the Count. 

Eric. So, better times are come at last ; to these 
Old walls new masters and high wassail — both 
A long desideratum. 

Hen. Yes, for vnasters, 

It might be unto those who long for novelty, 
Though made by a new grave : but as for wassail, 
Methinks the old Count Siegendorf maintain'd 
His feudal hospitality as high 
As e'er another prince of the empire. 

Eric. Why, 

For the mere cup and trencher, we no doubt 
Fared passing well ; but as for merriment 
And sport, without which salt and sauces season 
The cheer but scantily, our sizings were 
Even of the narrowest. 

Hen. The old count loved not 

The roar of revel ; are you sure that this does ? 

Eric. As yet he hath been courteous as he 's boun- 
teous, 
And we all love him. 

Hen. His reign is as yet 

Hardly a year o'erpast its honey-moon. 
And the first year of sovereigns is bridal : 
Anon, we shall perceive his real sway 
And moods of mind. 

Eric. Pray Heaven he keep the present ! 

Then his brave son, Count Ulric— there 's a knight ! 
Pity the wars are o'er ! 

Hen. Why so ? 

Eric. Look on him ! 

And answer that yourself. 

Hen, He 's very youthful, 

And strong and beautiful as a young tiger. 

Eric. That 's not a faithful vassal's likeness. 

Hen. But 

Perhaps a true one. 

Eric. Pity, as I said. 

The wars are over : in the hall, who like 
Count Ulric for a well-supported pride. 
Which awes, but ye^ offends not ? in the field, 
Who like him with his spear in hand, when, gnashing 
His tusks, and ripping up from right to left 
The bowling hounds, the boar makes for the thicket.' 
Who backs a horse, or bears a hawk, or wears 
A sword like him ? Whose plume nods knightlier ? 

^£71. No one's, I grant you. Do not fear, if war 
Be long in coming, he is of that kind 
Will make it for himself, if he hath not 
Already done as much. 

Eric. What do you mean ? 

Hen. You can't deny his train of followers 
(But few our native fellow vassals born 
On the domain) are such a sort of knaves 
As {Pauses.) 

Eric. What? 

Hen. The war (you love so much) leaves living. 
Like other parents, she spoils her worst children. 

Eric. Nonsense! they are all brave irou-visaged 
fellows, 
Such as old Tilly loved. 

Hen. And who loved Tilly ? 
Ask that at Magdebourg — or for that matter 
Wallenstein either; — they are gone to 



380 



WERNER: 



[Act IV. 



Eric. Rest ! 

But whit beyond 't is not ours to pronounce. 

Hen. 1 wish they had left us somethins of their rest : 
The country (nominally now at peace) 
Is over-run with — God knows who : ihey fly 
By night, and disappear with sunrise ; but 
Leave us no less desolation, nay, even more, 
Than the most open warfare. 

Eric. But Count Ulric — 

What has all this to do with him ? 

Hen. With him 1 

He might prevent it. As you say he 's fond 

Of war, why makes he it not on those marauders? 

Eric. You 'd better ask himself. 

Hen. I would as soon 

Ask the lion why he laps not milk. 

Eric. And here he comes I 

Hen. The devil ! you 'II hold your tongue ? 

Eric. Why do you turn so pale ? 

Hen. 'T is nothing — but 

Be silent. 

Eric. I will, upon what you have said. 

Hen. I assure you I meant nothing, — a mere sport 
Of words, no more ; besides, had it been otherwise, 
He is to espouse the gentle Baroness 
Ida of Stralenheim, the late baron's heiress; 
And she, no doubt, will soften whatsoe'er 
Of fierceness the late long intestine wars 
Have given all natures, and most unto those 
Who were born in them, and bred up upon 
The knees of Homicide ; sprinkled, as it were, 
With blood even at their baptism. Prithee, peace 
On all that I have said ! 

Enter Ulric and Rodolph. 

Good morrow, count. 

Ulr. Good morrow, worthy Heniick. Eric, is 
All ready for the chase ? 

Eric. The dogs are order'd 

Down to the forest, and the vassals out 
To beat the bushes, and the day looks promising. 
Shall I call forth your excellenc\'s suite ? 
What courser will you please to" mount ? 

Ulr. The dun, 

Welstein. 

Eric. I fear he scarcely has recover'd 
The toils of Monday : 't was a noble chase : 
You spear'd four with your own hand. 

Ulr. True, good Eric; 

I had forgotten — let it be the grey, then, 
Old Ziska : he has not beeu out this fortnight. 

Eric. He shall be straight caparison'd. How many 
Of your immediate retainers shall 
Escort you ? 

Ulr. I leave that to Weilburgb, our 

Master of the horse. [Exit Eric. 

Rodolph ! 

Rod. My lord ! 

Ulr. The news 

Is awkward from Ihe— (Rodolph points to Henrick.) 

How now, Henrick ? why 
Loiter you here ? 

Hen. For your commands, my lord. 

Ulr. Go to my father, and present my duty. 
And learn if he would aught with me before 
I mount. [Exit Henrick. 

Rodolph, our friends have had a check 
Upon the frontiers of Francnnia, and 
'Tis rumour'd that the column sent against them 
Is to be strengthen'd. I must join them soon. 

Rod. Best wait for further and more sure advices. 

Ulr. I mean it — and indeed it could not well 
Have fallen out at a time more opposite 
To all my plans. 

Rod. It will be difficult 

To excuse your absence to the count your father. 

Ulr. Yes, but the unsettled stale of our domain 
In high Silesia will permit and cover 
My journey. In the mean lime, when we are 
Engaged in the chase, draw off the eighty men 



W^hom Wolffe leads — keep the forests on your route : 
You know it well ? 

Rod. As well as on that night 

When we 

Ulr. We will not speak of that until 

We can repeat the same with like success: 
And when you have join'd, give Rosenberg this letter. 
[Gives a letter. 
Add further, that I have sent this slight addition 
To our force with you and Wolffe, as herald of 
My coming, though I could but spare them ill 
At Ibis time, as my father loves to keep 
Pull numbers of retainers round the cas!le, 
Until this marriage, and its fe sis and fooleries. 
Are rung out with its peal of nuptial nonsense. 

Rod. I thought you loved the lady Ida ? 

Ulr. Why, 

I do fo — but it follows not from that 
I would bind in my youth and glorious years, 
i So brief and burning, with a lady's zone, 
j Althoush 't were that of Venus : — but I love her, 
As woman should be loved, fairly and solely. 

Rod. And constantly ? 
I Ulr. I think so ; for I love 

Nought else. — But I have not the time to pause 
Upon these gewgaws of the heart. Great things 
We have to do ere long. Speed ! speed ! good Rodolph ! 

Rod. On my return, however, I shall find 
The Baroness Ida lost in Countes? Siegendorf ? 

Uh: Perhaps niy father wishes it ; and sooth, 
'T is no bad policy : this union with 
The last bud of the rival branch at once 
Unites the future and destroys the past. 

Rod. Adieu. 

Ulr. Yet hold — we had better keep together 

Until the chase begins ; then draw thou off, 
And do as I have said. 

Rod. I will. But to 

Return — 't was a most kind act in the count 
Your father to send up to Konigsberg 
Por this fair orphan of the baron, and 
j To hail her as his daughter. 
j Ulr. Wondrous kind ! 

, Especially as little kindness till 
: Then grew between them. 
I Rod. The late baron died 

Of a fever, did he not? 

Ulr. How should I know ? 

Rod. I have heard it whisper'd there was something 
strange 
About his death — and even the place of it 
Is scarcely known. 

Ulr. Some obscure village on 

The Saxon or Silesiac frontier. 

Rod. He 

Has left no testament — no farewell words ? 

Ulr. I am neither confessor nor notary. 
So cannot say. 

Rod. Ah ! here 's the lady Ida. 

Enter Ida Stralenheirru 
Ulr. You are early, my sweet cousin ! 
Ida. Not too early, 

! Dear Ulric, if I do not interrupt you. 
j Why do you call me " cousin .'"' 
j Ulr. (smiling). Are we not so? 

Ida. Yes. bull do not like the name ; methinks 
I It sounds so cold, as if you thought upon 
I Our pedigree, and cnly'weigh'd our blood. 

Ulr. (starting). Blood ! 

Ida. Why does yours start from your cheeks ? 
Uir. Ay! doth it? 

Ida. It doth — but no ! it rushes like a torrent 
Even to your brow again. 

Ulr. (n covering himself). And if it fled. 
It only was because your presence sent it 
Back to my heart, v hich beats for you, sweet cousin ! 
Ida. "Cousin'' again ! 

Ulr. Nay. then, I '11 call you sister. 

Ida. I like that name still worse.— Would we had 

Been aught of kindred ! [ne'er 



Scene I.] 



A TRAGEDY. 



381 



Ulr. {gloomily). Would we never had ! 

Ida. Oh, heavens ! and can you wish that ? 

Ulr. Dearest Ida ! 

Did 1 not echo your own wish ? 

Ida. Yes, Ulric, 

But then I wish'd it not with such a glance, 
And scarce knew what I said ; but let me be 
Sister, or cousin, what you will, so that 
I still to you am something. 

Ulr. You shall be 

All — all 

Ida. And you to me are so already ; 

But I can wait. 

Ulr. Dear Ida ! 

Ida. Call me Ida, 

Your Ida, for I would be yours, none else's — 
Indeed I have none else left, since my poor father — 

[She pauses. 

Ulr. You have mine — you have me. 

Ida. Dear Ulric, how I wish 

My father could but view my happiness, 
Which wants but this! 

Ulr. Indeed ! 

Ida. You would have loved him. 

He you ; for the brnve ever love each other : 
His m inner was a little cold, his spirit 
Proud (as is birth's prerogative) ; but under 

This grave exterior Would you had known each 

other ! 
Had such as you been near him on his journey, 
He had not died without a friend to soothe 
His last and lonely moments. 

Ulr. Who says that ? 

Ida. What? 

Ulr. That he died alone. 

Ida. The general rumour. 

And disappearance of his servants, who 
Have ne'er return'd : that fever was most deadly 
Which swept them all away. 

Ulr. If they were near him, 

He could not die neglected or alone, 

Ida. Alas ! what is a menial to a death-bed, 
When the dim eye rolls vainly round for what 
It loves ? — They say he died of a fever. 

Ulr. Say ! 

It was so, 

Ida. I sometimes dream otherwise. 

Ulr. All dreams are false. 

Ida. And yet I see him as 

I see you. 

Ulr. Where? 

Ida. In sleep — I see him lie 

Pale, bleeding, and a man with a raised knife 
Beside him. 

Ulr. But you do not see his face ? 

Ida (looking at him). No ! Oh, my God ! do you ? 

Ulr. Why do you ask ? 

Ida. Because you look as if you saw a murderer ! 

Ulr. {agitatedly). Ida, this is mere childishness j 
your weakness 
Infects me, to my shame: but as all feelings 
Of yours are common to me, it affects me. 
Prithee, sweet child, change 

Ida. Child, indeed ! I have 

Full fifteen summers 1 [A bugle sounds. 

Rod. Hark, my lord, the bugle ! 

Ida (peevishly to Rodolph). Why need you tell him 
that ? Can he not hear it 
Without your echo ? 

Rod. Pardon me, fair baroness ! 

Ida. I will not pardon you, unless you earn it 
By aiding me in my dissuasion of 
Count Ulric from the chase to-day. 

Rod. You will not, 

Lady, need aid of mine. 

Ulr. I must not now 

Forego it. 

Ida. But you shall ! 

Ulr. Shall! 

Ida. Yes, or be 

No true knight.— Come, dear Ulric ! yield to me 



In this, for this one day : the day looks heavy, 
And you are turn'd so pale and ill. 

Ulr. You jest. 

Ida. Indeed I do not : — ask of Rodolph. 

Rod. Truly, 

My lord, within this quarter of an hour 
You have changed more than e'er I saw you change 
In years. 

Ulr. 'T is nothing ; but if 't were, the air 
Would soon restore me. I 'm the true chameleon. 
And live but on the atmosphere ; your feasts 
In castle halls, and social banquets, nurse not 
My spirit— 1 'ni a forester and breather 
Of the steep mountain-tops, where I love all 
The eagle loves. 

Ida. Except his prey, I hope. 

Ulr. Sweet Ida, wish me a fair chase, and I 
Will bring you six boars' heads for trophies home. 

Ida. And will you not stay, then ? You shall not go ! 
Come ! I will sing to you. 

Ulr. k Ida, you scarcely 

Will make a soldier's wife. 

Ida. I do not wish 

To be so ; for I trust these wars are over, 
And you will live in peace on your domains. 

Enter Werner as Count Siegendorf. 

Ulr. My father, I salute you, and it grieves me 
With such brief greeting.— You have heard our bugle; 
The vassals wait. 

Sieg. So let them.— You forget 

To-morrow is the appointed fes'ival 
In Prague for peace restored. You are apt to follow 
The chase with such an ardour as will scarce 
Permit you to return to-day, or if 
Return'd, too much fatigued to join to-morrow 
The nobles in our marshall'd ranks. 

Ulr. You, count, 

Will well supply the place of both — I am not 
A lover of these pageantries. 

-Ste^. No, Ulric : 

It were not well that you alone of all 
Our young nobility 

Ida. And far the noblest 

In aspect and demeanour. 

Sieg. {to Ma). True, dear child, 

Though somewhat frankly said for a fair damsel — 
But, Ulric, recollect too our position, 
So lately reinstated in our honours. 
Believe me, 't would be mark'd in any house, 
But most in ours, that 07ie should be found wanting 
At such a time and place. Besides, the Heaven 
Which gave us back our own, in the same moment 
It spread its peace o'er all, hath double claims 
On us for thanksgiving : first, for our country ; 
And next, that we are here to share its blessings. 

Ulr. {aside). Devout, too ! Well, sir, I obey at once. 

{Then aloud to a Servant.) 

Ludwig, dismiss the train without ! [Exit Ludwig. 

Ida. And so 

You yield at once to him what I for hours 
Might supplicate in vain. 

Sieg. {smiling). You are not jealous 

Of me, I trust, my pre'ty rebel ! who 
Would sanction disobedience against all 
Except thyself? But fear not ; thou shalt rule him 
Hereafter with a fonder sway and firmer. 

Ida. But I should like to govern now. 

Sieg. You shall, 

Your harp, which by the way awaits you with 
The countess in her chnmber. She complains 
That you are a sad truant to your musics 
She attends you. 

Ida. Then good morrow, my kind kinsmen ! 

Ulric, you '11 come and hear me ? 

Ulr. By and by. 

Ida. Be sure I '11 sound it better than your bugles J 
Then pray you be as punctual to its notes: 
I '11 play you King Gustavus' march. 

U/r. And why not 

Old Tilly's ? 



I' f? 



382 



WERNER: 



[Act IV. 



Ida. Not that monster's ! I should think 

My harp-strings rang with groans, and not wilh music, 
Could aught of his sound on it : — but come quickly ; 
Your mother will be eager to receive you. [Exit Ida. 
Sieg. Ulric, I wish to speak with you alone. 
Ulr. My time's your vassal. — 
(Aside to Rodolph.) Rodolph, hence ! and do 
As I directed : and by his best speed 
And readiest means let Rosenberg reply. 
Rod. Count Siegendorf, command you aught ? I am 
bound 
Upon a journey past the frontier. 

Sieg. {starts). Ah ! — 

Where ? on what frontier ? 

Rod. The Silesian, on 

My way — {Aside to Ulric.) — Where shall I say ? 
Ulr. {Aside to Rodolph). To Hamburgh. 

{Aside to himself.) That 
Word will, I think, put a firm padlock on 
His further inquisition. 
Rod. Count, to Hamburgh. 

Sieg. {agitated), Hamburgh ! No, I have nought to 
do there, nor 
Am aught connected with that city. Then 
God speed you ! 
Rod. Fare ye well, Count Siegendorf! 

[Exit Rodolph. 
Sieg. Ulric, this man, who has just departed, is 
One of those strange companions whom I fain 
Would reason with you on. 

IJlr. My lord, he is 

Noble by birth, of one of the first houses 
In Saxony. 

Sieg. I talk not of his birth, 
But of his bearing. Men speak lightly of him. 
Ulr. So they will do of most men. Even the mon- 
arch 
Is not fenced from his chamberlain's slander, or 
The sneer of the last courtier whom he has made 
Great and ungrateful. 

Sieg. If I must be plain, 

The world speaks more than lightly of this Rodolph: 
They say he is leagued with the " black bands " who 

still 
Ravage the frontier. 

Ulr. And will you believe 

The world ? 
Sieg. In this case — yes. 

Ulr. In any case, 

I thought you knew it better than to take 
An accusation for a sentence. 
Steg. Son ! 

I understand you : you refer to but 

My destiny has so involved about me 

Her spider web, that I can only flutter 

Like the poor fly, but break it not. Take heed, 

Ulric; you have seen to what the passions led me : 

Twenty long years of misery and famine 

Quench'd them not— twenty thousand more, perchaBce, 

Hereafter (or even here in moments which 

Might date for years, did Anguish make the dial) 

May not obliterate or expiate 

The madness and dishonour of an instant. 

Ulric, be warn'd by a father ! — I was not 

By mine, and you behold me ! 

Ulr. I behold 

The prosperous and beloved Siegendorf, 
Lord of a prince's appanage, and honour'd 
By those he rules and those he ranks with. 

Steg-. Ah ! 

Why wilt thou call me prosperous, while I fear 
For thee ? Beloved, when thou lovest me not ! 
All hearts but one may beat in kindness for me — 

But if my son's is cold ! 

Ulr. ' Who dare say that ? 

Sieg. None else but I, who see W—feel it — keener 
Than would your adversary, who dared say so, 
Your sabre in his heart ! But mine survives 
The wound. 
Ulr. You err. My nature is not given 



To outward fondling : how should it be so, 

After twelve years' divorcement from my parents ? 

Sieg. And did not I too pass those twelve torn years 
In a like absence ? But 't is vain to urge you — 
Nature was never call'd back by remonstrance. 
Let 's change the theme. I wish you to consider 
That these'young violent nobles of high name, 
But dark deeds (ay, the darkest, if all Rumour 
Reports be true), with whom thou consortest, 

Will lead thee 

Ulr. {impatiently). I '11 be led by no man. 
Sieg. Nor 

Be leader of such, I would hope : at once 
To wean thee from the perils of thy youth 
And haughty spirit, I have thought it well 
That thou shouldst wed the lady Ida — more 
As thou appear'st to love her. 

Ulr. I have said 

I will obey your orders, were they to 
Unite with Hecate — can a son say more? 

Sieg. He says too much in saying this. It is not 
The nature of thine age, nor of thy blood, 
Nor of thy temperament, to talk so coolly, 
Or act so carelessly, in that which is 
The bloom or blight of all men's happiness, 
(For Glory's pillow is but restless, if 
Love lay not down his cheek there) : some strong bias, 
Some master fiend is in thy service, to 
Misrule the mortal who believes him slave. 
And makes his every thought subservient j else 
Thou 'dst say at once — " 1 love young Ida, and 
Will wed her ;" or, " I love her not, and all 
The powers of earth shall never make me."— So 
Would I have answer'd. 

Ulr. Sir, you tped for love. 

Sieg. I did, and it has been my only refuge 
In many miseries. 

Ulr. Which miseries 

Had never been but for this love-match. 

Sieg. Still 

Against your age and nature ! Who at twenty 
E'er answer'd thus till now ? 

Ulr. Did you not warn me 

Against your own example ? 

Sieg. Boyish sophist I 

In a word, do you love, or love not, Ida ? 

Ulr. What matters it, if I am ready to 
Obey you in espousing her ? 

Sieg. As far 
As you feel, nothing, but all life for her. 
She 's young — all-beautiful — adores you — is 
Endow'd with qualities to give happiness, 
Such as rounds common life into a dream 
Of something which your poets cannot paint, 
And (if it were not wisdom to love virtue) 
For which Philosophy might barter Wisdom j 
And giving so much happiness, deserves 
A little in return, I would not have her 
Break her heart for a man who has none to break ; 
Or wither on her stalk like some pale rose 
Deserted by the bird she thought a nightingale, 
According to the Orient tale. She is 

Ulr. The daughter of dead Stralenheim, your foe : 
I '11 wed her, ne'ertheless ; though, to say truth, 
Just now I am not violently transported 
In favour of such unions. 

iSieg'. But she loves you. 

Ulr. And I love her, and therefore would think twice. 

Sieg. Alas! Love never did so. 

Ulr. Then 't is time 

He should begin, and take the bandage from 
His eyes, and look before he leaps ; till now 
He hath ta'en a jump i' the dark. 

Sieg. But you consent ? 

Ulr. I did, and do. 

Sieg. Then fix the day. 

Ulr. 'T is usual, 

And certes courteous, to leave that to the lady. 

Sieg. I will engage for her. 

Ulr. So will not 7 

For any woman : and as what I fix, 



Scene L] 



A TRAGEDY. 



383 



I fain would see unshaken, when she gives 
Her answer, I '11 give mine. 

Sieg. But 't is your office 

To woo. 

Ulr. Count, 't is a marriage of your making, 
So be it of your wooing ; but to please you, 
I will now pay my duty to my mother, 
With whom, you know, the lady Ida is. — 
What would you have ? You have forbid my stirring 
For manly sports beyond the castle walls. 
And I obey ; you bid me turn a chamberer. 
To pick up gloves, and fans, and knitting-needles. 
And list to songs and tunes, and watch for smiles, 
And smile at pretty prattle, and look into 
The eyes of feminine, as though they were 
The stars receding early to our wish 
Upon the dawn of a world-winning battle — 
What can a son or man do more ? [Exit Ulric. 

Sieg. {solus). Too much! — 

Too much of duty, and too little love ! 
He pays me in the coin he owes me not: 
For such hath been my wayward fate, I could not 
Fulfil a parent's duties by his side 
Till now ; but love he owes me, for my thoughts 
Ne'er left him, nor my eyes long'd without tears 
To see my child again, and now I have found him ! 
But how — obedient, but with coldness; duteous 
In my sig-ht, but with carelessness; mysterious — 
Abstracted — distant — much given to long absence, 
And where — none know — in league with the most 

riotous 
Of our young nobles ; though to do him justice. 
He never stoops down to their vulgar pleasures ; 
Yet there 's some tie between them which I can not 
Unravel. They look up to him — consult him — 
Throng round him as a leader: but with me 
He hath no confidence ! Ah ! can I hope it 
After— what ! doth my father's curse descend 
Even to mv child ? Or is the Hungarian near 
To shed more blood ? or — Oh ! if it should be ! 
Spirit of Stralenheim, dost thou walk these walls 
To wither him and his— who, though they slew not, 
Unlatch'd the door of death for thee ? 'T was not 
Our fault, nor is our sin : thou wert our foe. 
And yet I spared thee when my own destruction 
Slept with thee, to awake with thine awakening ! 
And only took — Accursed gold ! thou liest 
Like poison in my hands ; I dare not use thee, 
Nor part from thee ; thou earnest in such a guise, 
Methinks thou wouldst contaminate all hands 
Like mine. Yet I have done, to atone for thee. 
Thou villanous gold ! and thy dead master's doom. 
Though he died not by me or mine, as much 
As if he were my brother ! I have ta'en 
His orphan Ida — cherish'd her as one 
Who will be mine. 

Enter an Attendant. 
Atten. The abbot, if it please 

Your excellency, whom you sent for, waits 
Upon you. [Exit Attendant. 

Enter the Prior Albert. 

Prior. Peace be with these walls, and all 
Within them ! 

Sieg. Welcome, welcome, holy father ! 
And may thy prayer be heard ! — all men have need 
Of such, and I 

Prior. Have the first claim to all 

The prayers of our community. Our convent. 
Erected by your ancestors, is still 
Protected by their children. 

Sieg. Yes, good father ; 

Continue daily orisons for us 
In these dim days of heresies and blood, 
Though the schismatic Swede, Gustavus, is 
Gone home. 

Prior. To the endless home of unbelievers, 
Where there is everlasting wail and woe, 
Gnashing of teeth, and tears of blood, and fire 
Eternal, and the worm which dieth not! 



Sieg. True, father : and to avert those pangs from 
one, 
Who, though of our most faultless holy church, 
Yet died without its last and dearest offices. 
Which smooth the soul through purgatorial pains, 
1 have to offer humbly this donation 
In masses for his spirit. 

[Siegendorf offers the gold which he had taken 
from Straltnheim. 

Prior. Count, if I 

Receive it, 't is because I know too well 
Refusal would offend you. Be assured 
The largess shall be only dealt in alms, 
And every mass no less sung for the dead. 
Our house needs no donations, thanks to yours, 
Which has of old endow'd it ; but from you 
And yours in all meet things 'I is fit we obey. 
For whom shall mass be said ? 

Sieg. (faltering). For — for — the dead. 

Prior. His name ? 

Sieg. 'T is from a soul, and not a name, 

I would avert perdition. 

Prior. I meant not 

To pry into your secret. We will pray 
For one unknown, the same as for the proudest. 

Sieg. Secret ! I have none : but, father, he who 's 
gone 
Might have one ; or, in sliorf, he did bequeath — 
No, not bequeath — but I bestow this sum 
For pious purposes. 

Prior, A proper deed 

In the behalf of our departed friends. 

Sieg. But he who 's gone was not my friend, but foe, 
The deadliest and the stanchest. 

Prior. Better still ! 

To employ our means to obtain heaven for the souls 
Of our dead enemies, is worthy those 
Who can forgive them living, 

Sieg. But I did not 

Forgive this man. I loathed him to the last. 
As he did me. I do not love him now, 
But 

Prior. Best of all ! for this is pure religion ! 
You fain would rescue him you hate from hell — 
An evangelical compassion — with 
Your own gold too ! 

Sieg. Father, 't is not my gold. 

Prior. Whose then ? You said it was no legacy. 

Sieg. No matter whose — of this be sure, that he 
Who own'd it never more will need it, save 
In that which it may purchase from your altars : 
'T is yours, or theirs. 

Prior. Is there no blood upon it ? 

Sieg. No; but there's worse than blood — eternal 
shame ! 

Prior. Did he who own'd it die in bis bed ? 

Sieg. Alas ! 

He did. 

Prior. Son ! you relapse into revenge, 
If you regret your enemy's bloodless death. 

Sieg. His death was fathomlessly deep in blood. 

Prior. You said he died in his bed, not battle. 

Sieg. He 

Died, I scarce know— but— he was stabb'd i' the dark. 
And now you have it — perish'd on his pillow 
By a cut-throat ! — Ay ! — you may look upon me ! 
/am not the man. I '11 meet your eye on that point, 
As I can one day God's. 

Prim: Nor did he die 

By means, or men, or instrument of yours? 

Sieg. No : by the God who sees and strikes ! 

Prior. Nor know you 

Who slew him ? 

Sieg. I could only guess at one, 

And he to me a stranger, unconnected, 
As unemploy'd. Except by one day's knowledge, 
I never saw the man who was suspected. 

Prior. Then you are free from guilt. 

Sieg. (eagerly). Oh ! am I ?— say ! 

Prior. You have said so, and know best. 



384 



WERNER: 



[Act V. 



Sieg, Father ! I have spoken 

The truth, and nought but truth, if not the whole; 
Yet say I am not guilty ! for the blood 
Of this man weighs on me, as if I shed it, 
Though, by the Power who abhorreth human blood, 
I did not I — nay, once spared it, when I might 
And cotdd — ay, perhaps, should (if our self-safety 
Be e'er excusable in such defences 
Against the atiacks of over-potent foes) : 
But pray for him, for me, and all my house; 
For, as I said, though I be innocent, 
I know not why, a like remorse is on me, 
As if he had fallen by me or mine. Pray for me, 
Father ! 1 have pray'd myself in vain. 

Prior, I will. 

Be comforted ! You are innocent, and should 
Be calm as innocence. 

Sieg. But calmness is not 

Always the attribute of innocence. 
I feel it is not. 

Prior. But it will be so, 

When the mind gathers up its truth within it. 
Remember the great festival to-morrow. 
In which you rank amidst our chiefest nobles, 
As well as your brave son ; and smooth your aspect, 
Nor in the general orison of thanks 
For bloodshed stopt, let blood you shed not rise 
A cloud upon your thoughts. This were to be 
Too sensitive. Take comfort, and forget 
Such things, and leave remorse unto the guilty. 

lExeu7it. 



ACT V. 

SCENE I. 

^ large and magnificent Gothic Hall in the Castle 
of Siegendorf, decorated with Trophies^ Banners, 
and Arms of that Family. 

Enter Amheim and Meister, attendants of Count 
Siege7idorf. 

Am. Be quick ! the count will soon return : the 
ladies 
jilready are at the portal. Have you sent 
The messengers in search of him he seeks for ? 

Meis. I have, in ail directions, over Prague, 
As far as the man's dress and figure could 
By your description track him. The devil take 
These revels and processions ! All the pleasure 
(If such there be) must fall to the spectators. 
I 'm sure none doth to us who make the show^. 

Am. Go to ! my lady countess comes. 

Meis. I 'd rather 

Ride a day's hunting on an outworn jade. 
Than follow in the ?rain of a great man, 
In these dull pageantries. 

Arn. Begone ! and rail 

Within. [Exeunt. 

Enter the Countess Josephine Siegendorf, and Ida 
Stralenheim. 

Jos. Well, Heaven be praised ! the show is over. 

Ida. How can you say so ? Never have I dreamt 
Of aught so beautiful. The flowers, the boughs. 
The banners, and the nobles, and the knights, 
The gems, the robes, the plumes, the happy faces. 
The coursers, and the incense, and the sun 
Streaming through the s'ain'd windows,even the tombs, 
Which look'd so cnlm, and the celestial hymns. 
Which seem'd as if they rather came from heaven 
Than mounted there. The bursting organ's peal 
Rolling on high like an harmonious thunder; 
The white robes and the lifted eyes; the world 
At peace ! and all at peace with one another ! 
Oh, my sweet mother ! [Embracing Josephine. 

jQg. My beloved child ! 

For such, I trust, thou shall be shortly. 



Ida. Oh ! 

I am so already. Feel how my heart beats ! 

Jos. It does, my love ; and never may it throb 
With aught more bitter. 

Ida. Never shall it do so ! 

How should it ? What should make us grieve ? I bate 
To hear of sorrow : how can we be sad. 
Who love each other so entirely ? You, 
The count, and Ulric, and your daughter Ida. 

Jos. Poor child ! 

Ida. Do you pity me ? 

Jos. No : I but envy, 

And that in sorrow, not in the world's sense 
Of the universal vice, if one vice be 
More general than another. 

Ida. I '11 not hear 

A word against a world which still contains 
You and my Ulric. Did you ever see 
Aught like him ? How he tower'd amongst them all ! 
How all eyes followed him ! The flowers fell faster — 
Rain'd from each lattice at his feet, methought, 
Than before all the rest ; and where he trod 
I dare be sworn that they grow still, nor e'er 
Will wither. 

Jos. You will spoil him, little flatterer, 

If he should hear you. 

Ida, But he never will. 

I dare not say so much to him — I fear him. 

Jos. Why so? he loves you well. 

Ida. But I can never 

Shape my thoughts of him into words to him : 
Besides, he sometimes frightens me. 

Jos. How so ? 

Ida. A cloud comes o'er his blue eyes suddenly, 
Yet he says nothing. 

Jos. It is nothing : all men, 

Especially in these dark troublous times, 
Have much to think of. 

Ida. But I cannot think 

Of aught save him. 

Jos. Yet there are other men, 

In the world's eye, as goodly. There 's, for instance. 
The young Count Waldorf, who scarce once withdrew 
His eyes from yours to-day. 

Ida. I did not see him, 

But Ulric. Did you not see at the moment 
When all knelt, and I wept ? and yet methought, 
Through my fast tears, though they were thick and 

w-irm, 
I saw him smiling on me. 

Jos. I could not 

See aught save heaven, to which my eyes were raised. 
Together with the people's. 

Ida. I thought too 

Of heaven, although I look'd on Ulric. 

Jos. Come, 

Let us retire ! they will be here anon 
Expectant of the banquet. We will lay 
Aside these nodding plumes and dragging trains. 

Ida. And, above all, these stiff and heavy jewels, 
Which mnke my head and heart ache, as both throb 
Beneath their gUlfer o'er my brow and zone. 
Dear mother, I am wi;h you. [Exeunt. 

Enter Count Siegendorf^ in full dress, from the 
solemnity, and Ludwig. 

Sieg. Is he not found ? 

Lud. Strict search is making every where ; and if 
The man be in Prague, be sure he will be found. 

Sieg, Where 's Ulric ? 

Lud. He rode round the other way 

With some young nobles ; but he left them soon ; 
And, if I err not, not a minute since 
I heard his excellency, with his train, 
Gallop o'er the west "drawbridge. 

Enter Ulric, splendidly dressed. 

Sieg. (to Ludwig). See they cease not 

Their quest of him 1 have described. [Exit Ludwig. 

Oh, Ulric ! 
How have I long'd for thee ! 



Scene I.j 



A TRAGEDY. 



385 



Ulr. Your wish is granted — 

Behold me. 

jSteg-. I have seen the murderer. 

Ulr. Whom? V/here? 

Sieg. The Hungarian, who slew Stralenheim. 

Ulr. You dream. 

Sieg. I live ! and as I live, I saw him — 

Heard him ! he dared to utter even my name. 

Ulr. What name ? 

Sieg. Werner ! H was mine. 

Ulr. It must be so 

No more : forget it. 

Sieg. Never! never! all 

My destinies were woven in that name : 
It will not be engraved upon my tomb, 
But it may lead me there. 

Ulr. To the point the Hungarian ? 

Sieg. Listen !— T^e church was throng'd : the hymn 
was raised ; 
" Te Deurri''' peal'd from nations, rather than 
From choirs, in one great cry of " God be praised" 
For one day's peace, after thrice ten dread years, 
Each bloodier than the former : I arose, 
With all the nobles, and as I look'd down 
Along the lines of lifted faces, — from 
Our banner'd and escutcheon'd gallery, I 
Saw, like a flash of lightning (for I saw 
A moment and no more), what struck me sightless 
To all else — the Hungarian's face ! I grew 
Sick ; and when I recover'd from the mist 
Which curl'd about my senses, and again 
Look'd down, I saw him not. The thanksgiving 
Was over, and we maich'd back in procession. 

Ulr. Continue. 

Sieg. When we reach'd the Muldau's bridge, 

The joyous crowd above, the numberless 
Barks mann'd with revellers in their best garbs, 
Which shot along the glancing tide below, 
The decorated street, ttie long array, 
The clashing music, and the thundering 
Of far artillery, which seem'd to bid 
A long and loud farewell to its great doings, 
The standards o'er me, and the tramplings round. 
The roar of rushing thousands, — all — all could not 
Chase this man from my mind, although my senses 
No longer held him palpable. 

Ulr. You saw him 

No more, then ? 

Sieg. I look'd, as a dying soldier 
Looks at a draught of water, for this man ; 
But still I saw him not ; but in his stead- 

Ulr. What in his stead ? 

Sieg. My eye for ever fell 

Upon your dancing crest ; the loftiest. 
As on the loftiest and the loveliest head. 
It rose the highest of the stream of plumes, 
Which overflow'd the glittering streeis of Prague, 

Ulr. What's this to the Hungarian ? 

Sieg. Much 5 fori 

Had almost then forgot him in my son ; 
When just as the artillery ceased, and paused 
The music, and the crowd embraced in lieu 
Of shouting, I heard in a deep, low voice. 
Distinct and keener far upon my ear 
Than the late cannon's volume, this word—" Werner P 

Ulr. Uttered by 

Sieg. Him! I turn'd— and saw— and fell. 

Ulr. And wherefore ? Were you seen ? 

Sieg. The officious care 

Of those around me dragg'd me from the spot. 
Seeing my faintness, ignorant of the cause: 
You, too, were too remote in the procession 
(The old nobles being divided from their children) 
To aid me. 

Ulr. But I '11 aid you now. 

Sieg. In what ? 

Ulr. In searching for this man, or When he 's 

found. 
What shall we do with him ? 

Sieg. I know not that. 

Ulr. Then wherefore seek ? 



Sieg. Because I cannot rest 

Till he is found. His fate, and Strdenheim's, 
And ours, seem intertwis'.ed ! nor can be 
Unravell'd, till 

Enter an Attendant. 

Atten. A stranger to wait on 

Your excellency. 

Sieg. Who ? 

Mien, He gave no name. 

Sieg. Admit him, ne'ertheless. 

[The Mtendant introduces Gabor, and after- 
wards exit. 

Ah! 

Gab. 'T is, then, Werner I 

Sieg. (haughtily). The same you knew, sir, by that 
name; and you! 

Gab. (looking round). I recognise you both: father 
and son. 
It seems. Count, I have heard that you, or yours. 
Have lately been in search of me : I am here, 

Sieg. 1 have sought you, and have found you : you 
are charged 
(Your own heart may inform you why) with such 
A crime as [He pauses. 

Gab. Give it utterance, and then 

I '11 meet the consequences, 

Sieg. You shall do so •— 

Unless 

Gab. First, who accuses me ? 

Sieg. All things, 

If not all men : the universal rumour — 
My own presence on the spot — the place — the time — 
And every speck of circumstance unite 
To fix the blot on you. 

Gab. And on me only ? 

Pause ere you answer : is no other name. 
Save mine, stain'd in this business ? 

Sieg. Trifling villain ! 

Who play'st with thine own guilt ! Of all that breathe 
Thou best dost know the innocence of him 
'Gainst whom thy breath would blow thy bloody 

slander. 
But I will talk no further with a wretch, 
Further than justice asks. Answer at once, 
And without quibbling, to my charge. 

Gab. 'T is false! 

Sieg. Who says so ? 

Gab. I. 

Sieg. And how disprove it ? 

Gab. By 

The presence of the murderer, 

Sieg. Name him ! 

Gab. He 

May have more names than one. Your lordship had so 
Once on a time. 

Sieg. , If you mean me, I dare 

Yout utmost. 

Gab. You may do so, and in safety ; 

I know the assassin. 

Sieg. Where is he ? 

Gab. (pointing to Ulric). Beside you ! 

[Ulric rushes forward to attack Gabor j Sie- 
gendmf interposes. 

Sieg. Liar and fiend ! but you shall not be slain ; 
These walls are mine, and you are safe within them. 
[Ht turns to Ulric. 
Ulric, repel this calumny, as I 
Will do. I avow it is a growth so monstrous, 
I could not deem it earth-born : but be calmj 
It will refute itself. But touch him not. 

[Ulric endeavours to compose himself. 

Gab. Look at him, count, and then hear me. 

Sieg. (first to Gabor, and then looking at Ulric). 

I hear thee. 
My God ! you look ■ 

Ulr. How ? 

Sieg. As on that dread night, 

When we met in (he garden. 

Ulr. (composing himself). It is nothing. 



33 



25 



386 



WERNER: 



[ActV. 



Gab. Count, you are bound to hear uie. 1 came 
hither 
Not seek.in« you, but sought. When I knelt down 
Amidist the people in the church, 1 dream'd not 
To find the begig.ir'd Werner iu the se.U 
Of senutois and priuces ; but you hvive call'd me. 
And w e have met. 

SiVa*. Go on, sir. 

Gab. Ere I do so, 

Allow nielo inquire, who protlted 
By Stralenheiui's death ? Was 't 1 — as poor as ever; 
And poorer by suspicion on my name I 
The biron lost in that last outra^^e neither 
Jewels nor jjold ; his life alone was soutcht, — 
A life which stoixl between the claims of others 
To honours and estates scarce less than princely. 

S«f^. These hints, as vague as vain, attach u6 less 
To n^e than to my sou. 

Gab. I cant help that. 

But let the consequence alight on him 
Who feels himself the guilty one amongst us. 
I speak to you. Count Sieijendorf, because 
I know you innocent, and deem you just. 
But ere 1 can proceed — dan you protect ma ? 
Dare you command me ? 

[Skgtndorffiist looks at the Iliin^cirian, and 
then at Ulric, who has unbuckled his sabre, 
and is drawing lines with it on the Jloor — 
still in ils sheath. 

Ulr. (kK>ks at his father and says). Let the man go 
on! 

Gab. I am unarm 'd, count — bid your son lay down 
His sabre. 

Ulr. {offers it to him contemptuously). Take it. 

Gab. No, sir, 't is enough 

That we are biith vmarm'd — I would not choase 
To wear a steel which may be stain'd with more 
Blood than came there in battle. 

Ulr. (casts the sabre from hint in contempt). It — 
or some 
Such other weajjon, in my hand — spared yours 
Once, when disarm'd and at my mercv. 

Gab. ' True — 

I have not forgotten it : you spared me for 
Your own especial purpose — to sustain 
An ignominy not my own. 

Ulr. ' Proceed. 

The tale is doubtless worthy the relator. 
But is it of my father to hear further ? 

[To Sie£:endorf. 

Sieg. (takes his son by the hand). My sou,' 1 know 
my own innocence, and doubt not 
Of yours — but 1 have pumiised this man patience : 
Let him continue. 

Gab. I will not detain you, 

By speaking of njyself n\uch: 1 began 
Life early — and an\ what tlie world has made nie. 
At Frankfort on the Oder, where 1 pass'd 
A winter in oliscurity, it was 
My chance at several places of resort 
(Which I frequenieil sometimes but not often} 
To hear related a strange circumstance 
In Fel)ruary last. A mariial force. 
Sent by the state, h ul, after strong resistance, 
Secured a band of desperate men, supposed 
Marauders from the hivslile camp. — They proved, 
However, not to l)o so — but banditti, 
Whom either accident or enterprise 
Hid carried fmm their usual haunt — the forests 
Which skirt Bohenua — even into Lus;\tia. 
Many anunigsl then» were reported of 
High rank — and ntartial law slept for a time. 
At last thev were escorted o'er the frontier, 
And placet! lieneath the civil jurisdiction 
Of the frw town of Frankfort. Of thetr fate 
1 know no more. 

.Sij-Jf. And what is this to Ulric ? 

(tab. Amongst them there was said to l)e one man 
Of wonderful eudowu>enls : — l)irth and fortune, 
Youth, strength, and beauty, almost superhumifn, 
And courage as unrivalPd, were proclaim'd 



His by the public rumour ; and his sway, 

Not only over his associates, but 

His judges, was attributed to witchcraft, 

Such was his influence : — 1 have no great faith 

In any magic save that of the mine — 

I thert^fore'deeiu'd him weal hy.— But my soul 

Was rousetl with various feelings to seek out 

This prodigy, if only to behold him. 

Nif^. And did you so ? 

Gab. ' You '11 hear. Chance favour'd me 

A popular alfray in the public square 
Drew crowds ti>gether — it was one of those 
Occasions where men's souls look out of them, 
And show them as they are — even in their faces: 
The moment my eye liiet his, I excl\im'd, 
" This is the man t'" though he was then, .as since, 
Wi;h the nobles of the city. 1 felt sure 
I had not err'd, and watch'd him long and nearly ; 
1 noted down his form — his ges ure — features, 
Stature, and bearing — and amidst them all, 
'Midst every lUtura"! and acquire^! distinction, 
I could discern, methought, the assassin's eye 
And gladiator's heart. 

Uir. (smilmg). The tale sounds well. 

Gab. And may sound better. — He anpear'd to me 
One of those beings to whom Fortune oeuds, 
As she doth to the' daring — and on whom 
I The fates of others oft depend ; besides, 
I An indescril)able sensation drew uie 
] Near to this man, as if my iioint of fortune 
Was to be fix'd by him.— 1 here I was wrtnig. 
1 5iVg. And may not be right now. 
I Gab. I foUow'd him, 

Solicited his notice — and obtain'd it — 
Thoui;h not his friendship : — it w.as his intention 
To leave the ciiy privately — we left it 
Together — .and together we arrivetl 
In the poiir town where Werner was conceal'd, 

And Stralenheim was succour'd Now we are on 

The verge — dare you heir further ? 

iSiVjc. " I must do so — 

Or 1 have heard too much. 

Gab. I saw in you 

A man .above his station — and if not 
So high, as now I tind you, in my then 
Conceptions, twas that 1 had rarely seen 
Men such as vou appeai'd in hei<ht of miml. 
In the most h\gh of worldly rank ; vou were 
Poor, even to all save nisrs • 1 would have shareil 
Alv puree, though slender, n\ ith you — you refused it. 

S'itg'. Doth my refusal make adebt to you. 
That thus you urge it ? 

Gab. Still you owe me something, 

Though not for that ; and 1 owed you my safety, 
At le.vst my seeming safety, when the slaves 
Of Sti-alenheim nui-sued me on the grounds 
That / had robbM him. 

iSicg. / conceal'd you — I, 

Whom and whose house you arraign, reviving viper! 

Gab. I accuse no man — save in my defence. 
You, count, have made yourself accuser — judge: 
Your hall 's my court, your heart is my tribuiuJ. 
Be just, and 1 "'11 be merciful ! 

Sif^. You merciful ? — 

You ! Base calumniator ! 

Gab. I. 'T will rest 

With me at last to be so. You conceal'd me — 
In secret j>assages known to yourself, 
I You s.\id, and io none else. 'At dead of night. 
Weary with watching in the d uk, and dubious 
Of tracing back my way, I saw a glimmer, 
Thnnigh distant crannies, of a twinklin* light : 
I follow'd it. and reach'd a diwr — a secret 
Portal — which open'd to the chamber, where. 
With cautious hand and slow, having first undone 
As much as made a crevice of the f tstening, 
1 lo(»k'd thnnigh andl>eheld a purple U-d, 
And on it Stralenheim ! — 

Nifg. Asleep ! And yet 

You slew him ! —Wretch ! 

linb. He n-as already slain, 



Scene I.] 



A TRAGEDY. 



387 



And bleeding like a sacrifice. My own 
Blood became ice. 

Sieg. But lie was all alone ! 

You saw none else ? You did not see the 

[He pauses from agitation. 

Oab. No : 

He, whom you dare not name, nor even I 
Scarce daro to recollect, was not then in 
The chamber. 

Sieg. {(o Ulric). Then, my boy ! thou art guiltless 
still — 
Thou bad'st me say / was so once — Oh ! now 
Do thou as nmch ! 

Gab. Be patient ! I can not 

Recede now, though it shake the very walls 
Which frown above us. You remember, — or 
If not, your son does,-.- that the locks were changed 
Beneath his chief inspection on the morn 
Which led to this same nia;ht : how he had enler'd 
He best knows — l)ut within an antechamber, 
The door of which was half ajar, 1 saw 
A man who wasli'd his bloody hands, and oft 
With stern and anxious glance gazed back upon 
The bleeding body — but it moved no more. 

Sieg. Oh ! Godof fathers ! 

Gab. I beheld his features 

As I see yours — but yours they were not, though 
Resembling them — behold them in Count Uiric's ! 
Distinct as I beheld them, though the expression 
Is not now what it then was ! — but it was so 
When I first charged him with tlie crime — so lately. 

Sifg. This is so 

Gab. {iiHernipting him). Nay— but hear me to the 
end! 
Now you must do so.— I conceived myself 
Eetray'd by you and him (for now I saw 
There was some tie between you) into this 
Pretended den of refuge, to become 
The victim of your guilt ; and my first thought 
Was vengeance : but though arm'd with a short poniard 
(Having left my sword without), I was no match 
For him at any time, as had been proved 
That morning — either in address or force. 
I turn'd and tied — i' the dark : chuice rather than 
Skill made me gain the secret door of the hall, 
And thence the chamber where you slept : if I 
Had found you wakiug. Heaven alone can tell 
What vengeance and suspicion might have prompted ; 
But ne'er slept guilt as Werner slept that night. 

Sieg. And yet I had horrid dreams ! and such brief 
sleep, 
The stars had not gone down when I awoke. 
Why didst thou spare me ? I dreamt of my father — 
And now my dream is out 1 

Gab. 'T is not my fault, 

If I have read it.— Well '. I tied and hid me — 
Chance led me here after so many moons — 
And show'd me Werner in Count Siegendorf ! 
Werner, whom I had sought in huts in vain, 
Inhabited the palace of a sovereign ! 
You sought me and have found me — now you know 
My secret, and may weigh its worth. 

Sieg. (after a pause). Indeed ! 

Gab. Is it revenge or justice which inspires 
Your meditation ? 

Sieg. Neither — I was weighing 

The value of your secret. 

Gab. You shall know it 

At once : — When you were jioor, and I, though poor. 
Rich enough to relieve such poverty 
As mighi have envied mine, I otlei'd yon 
My purse — you would not share it : — I 'II be franker 
VVith you : you are wealthy, ntil)ie, trusted by 
The imperial powers— vou understand me? 

Sieg. ' Yes. 

Gab. Not quite. You think me venal, and scarce 
true: 
'Tis no less true, however, that my fortunes 
Have made me both at present. You shall aid me ; 
I would have aided you — and also have 



Been somewhat damaged in my name to save 

Yours and your son's. Weigh well what I have said. 

Sieg. Dare you await the event of a few minutes' 
Deliberation? 

Gab. (casts his eyes on Ulric, who is leaning against 
a pillar). It I should do so ? 

Sieg. 1 pledge my life for yours. Withdraw into 
This tower. [Opctis a turret door. 

Gab. (hentatiitgly). This is the second safe asylum 
You have olier'd me. 

iSicg. And was not the first so ? 

Gab. I know not that even now — l)ut will approve 
The second. I have still a further shield. — 
I did not enter I'rague alone ; and should I 
Be put to rest with Stralenheim, there are 
Some tongues without will wag in my behalf. 
Be brief in your decision ! 

Sieg. I will be so.— 

My word is sacred and irrevocable 
Within these walls, but it extends no further. 

Gab. I 'II take it for so much. 

Sieg. (points to Ulric''s sabre, still upon the ground). 
Take also that — 
I saw you eye it eagerly, and him 
Distrustfully. 

Gab. (takes up the sabre). I will ; and so provide 
To sell my life — not cheaply. 

[Gabor goes into the timet, which Siegendorf 
closes. 

Sieg. (advances to Ulric). Now, Count Ulric ! 
For son I dare not call thee — What say'st thou ? 

Ulr. His tale is true. 

Sieg. True, monster ! 

Ulr. Most true, father 

And you did well to listen to it : what 
We linow, we can jirovide against. He must 
Be silenced. 

Sieg. Ay, with hilf of my domains ; 

And with the other half, could he and thou 
Unsay this villany. 

Ulr. It is no time 

For trifling or dissembling. I have said 
His story 's true ; and he too must be silenced. 

Sieg. How so ? 

Ulr. As Stralenheim is. Are you so dull 

As never to have hii on this befiire ? 
When we met in the garden, what except 
Discovery in the act could make me know 
His deatli ? Or had the pi ince"'s household been 
Then summoiiM, would the cry for the police 
Been left to such a stranger? Or should I 
Have loiter'd on the way ? Or could you, Werner^ 
The object of the baron's hate and fears, 
Have (led, unless by many an hour before 
Suspicion woke ? I sought and fathom'd you, 
Doubting if you were fabe or feeble : I 
Perceived you were the latter : and yet so 
Confiding have I fouml you, that I doubted 
At times your weakness. 

Sieg. Parricide ! no less 

Than common slabber ! What deetl of my life, 
Or thouglif of mine, could make you deem me fit 
For your accomplice ? 

Ulr. Father, do not raise 

The devil you cannot lay between us. This 
Is lime for union and for nclion, not 
For family disputes, While ?;ou were tortured, 
Could / be calm ? Think yoii that I have heard 
This fellow's tale without some feeling ? — You 
Have taught me feeling for ymi and myself; 
For whom or what else did vou ever teach it ? 

Sieg. Oh : my dead father's cur>e ? 't is working now, 

Ulr. Let it work on ! the grave will keep it down! 
Ashes are feeble foes ; it is more easy 
To badle such, than countermine a mole. 
Which winds its blind but liviiiix p:«th beneath you. 
Yet hear mo still I — If yi.m coiuleinii me, yet 
Hemember uiho hath talight me once too often 
To listen to hinl ! Who pioclaim'd to me 
Thai there were crimes made venial by the occasion ? 
That p.ission was our nature ? that the goods 



388 



WERNER: 



[Act V. 



Of Heaven waited on the goods of fortune! 

Who show'd me his humanity secured 

By bis 7ien>£S only ? H^jo deprived me of 

All power to vindicnte myself and race 

In open day ? By his disgrace which stamp'd 

(H mixht be) bastardy on me, and ou 

Himself — a felon'i brand ! The man who is 

At once both warm and weak invites to deeds 

He longs to do, but dare not. Is it strange 

That I should act what you could think ? We have 

done 
With right and wrong ; and now must only ponder 
Upon effects, not causes. Stralenheim, 
Whose life I saved from impure, as un'known 
I would have saved a peasant's or a dog's, I slew 
Known as our foe — but not from vengeance. He 
Was a rock in our way which I cut through, 
As doth the bolt, because it stood between us 
And our true destination — but not idly. 
As stranger I preserved him, and he owed me 
His life : when due, I but resumed the debt. 
He, you, and I stood o'er a gulf wherein 
I have plunged our enemy. You kindled first 
The torch — you show'd the path j now trace me that 
Of safety — or let me ! 

Sieg. I have done with life ! 

Ulr. Let us have done with that which cankers 
life — 
Familiar feuds and vain recriminations 
Of things which cannot be undone. We have 
No more to learn or hide : I know no feir, 
And have within these very walls men who 
(Although you know them not) dare venture all 

things. 
You stand high with the state ; what passes here 
Will not excite her too great curiosity : 
Keep your own secret, keep a steady eye, 
Stir not, and speak not ; — leave the rest to me : 
We must have no third babblers thrust between us. 

[Exit Ulric. 

Sieg. (solus). Am I awake ? are these my father's 
halls? , 

And you — my son ? My son ! mine ! who have ever 
Abhorr'd both mystery and blood, and yet 
Am plunged into the deepest hell of both ! 
I must be speedy, or more will be shed — 
The Hungarian's ! — Ulric — he hath partisans, 
It seems : I might have guess'd as much. Oh fool ! 
Wolves prowl in company. He hath the key 
(As I too) of the opposite door which leads 
Into the turret. Now then ! or once more 
To be the father of fresh crimes, no less 
Than of the criminal ! Ho! Gabor ! Gabor ! 

[Exit into the turret, dosing the door after him. 

SCENE II. 

Tlie Interior of the Turret. 
Gabor and Siegendorf. 

Gab. Who calls ? 

Sieg. I — Siegendorf ! Take these and fly ! 

Lose not a moment ! 

[Tears off a diamond star and other jewels, and 
thrusts them into Gabor^s hand. 

Gab. What am I to do 

With these ? 

Sieg. Whate'er you will : sell them, or hoard, 

And prosper ; but delay not, or you are lost ! 

Gab. You pledged your honour for my safety ! 

Sieg. And 

Must thus redeem it. Fly ! I am not master, 
It seems, of my own castle — of my own 
Retainers — nay, even of these very walls, 
Or I would bid them fall and crush me ! Fly ! 
Or you will be slain by 

Gab. Is it even so ? 

Farewell, then ! Recollect, however. Count, 
You sought this fatal interview ! 

Ste^. I did : 

l!^t it not be more fatal still ! — Begone ! 



Gab. By the same path I enter 'd ? 
5teg-. Yes ; that 's safe still : 

But loiter not in Prague ; — you do not know 
With whom you have to deal. 

Gab. I know too well — 

And knew it ere yourself, unhappy sire ! 
Farewell ! " [Exit Gabor. 

Sieg. {solus and listening). He hath clear'd the 
staircase. Ah ! I hear 
The door sound loud behind him ! He is safe ! 

Safe ! — Oh. my father's spirit ! — I am faint 

[He leans down upon a stone seat, near the wall 
of the tower, in a drooping posture. 

Enter Ulric, with others armed, and with weapons 
drawn. 

Ulr. Despatch ! — he 's there ! 

Lud, The count, my lord ! 

Ulr. {recognising Siegendorf). You here, sir ! 

Sieg. Yes: if you want another victim, strike! 

Ulr. {seeing him stript of his jeioels). Where is 
the ruffian who hath plunder'd you ? 
Vassals, despatch in search of him ! You see 
'T was as I said — the wretch hath stript my father 
Of jewels which might form a prince's heir-loom ! 
Away ! I '11 follow you forthwith. 

[Exeunt all but Siegendorf and Ulric. 

What 's this : 
Where is the villain ? 

Sieg. There are two, sir ; which 

Are you in quest of? 

Ulr. " Let us hear no more 

Of this : he must be found. You have not let him 
Escape? 

Sieg, He 's gone. 

Ulr. With your connivance ? 

Sieg. With 

My fullest, freest aid. 

Ulr. Then fare you well ! 

[Ulric is going. 

Sieg. Stop ! I command — entreat — implore ! Oh, 
Ulric ! 
Will you then leave me ? 

Ulr. What ! remain to be 

Denounced — dragg'd, it may be, in chains ; and all 
By your inherent weakness, half-humanity. 
Selfish remorse, and temporising pity, 
That sacrifices your whole race to save 
A wretch to profit by our ruin ! No, count. 
Henceforth you have no son ! 

Sieg. I never had one ; 

And would you ne'er had borne the useless name I 
Where will you go ? I would not send you forth 
Without protection. 

Ub'. Leave that unto me, 

I am not alone ; nor merely the vain heir 
Of your domains ; a thousand, ay, ten thousand 
Swords, hearts, and hands are mine. 

Sieg. The foresters ! 

Wiih whom the Hungarian found you first at Frank- 
fort ! 

Ulr. Yes — men — who are worthy of the name! 
Go tell 
Your senators that they look well to Prague; 
Their feast of peace was early for the times ; 
There are more spirits abroad than have been laid 
With Wallenstein ! 

Enter Josephine and Ida. 

Jnt. What is 't we hear ? My Siegendorf! 

Thank Heav'n, I see you safe ! 

Sieg. Safe ! 

Ida. Yes, dear father ! 

Sieg. No, no ; I have no children : never more 
Call me by that worst name of parent. 

Jos. What 

Means my good lord ! 

Sieg. That you have given birth 

To a demon ! 



Scene!.] THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED, 



389 



Ida. {taking Ulric's hand). Who shall dare say 

thisofUlric? 
Sicg. Ida, beware ! there 's blood upon that hand. 
Ida. {stooping to kiss it). I 'd kiss it oft", though it 

were niiue. 
Sieg. It is so ! 

Ulr. Away ! it is your father's ! [Exit Ulric. 

Ida. Oh, great God ! 

And I have loved this man ! 



{Ida falls senseless — Josephine stands speech- 
less with horror. 
Sieg. The wretch hath slain 

Them both ! — My Josephine ! we are now alone I 
Would we had ever been so ! — All is over 
For me ! — Now open wide, my sire, thy grave j 
Thy curse hath dug it deeper for thy son 
In mine 1 — The race of Siegendorf is past I 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED: 

A DRAMA.^ 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



This production is founded partly on the story of a 
novel called "The Three Broheis,'' 2 published maiiv 
years ago, from which M. G. Lewis's " Wood Demon'" 
was also taken; and pirtlyon the " Faust " of (he 
great Goethe. The present publication contains the 
two first Parts only, and the opening chorus of the 
third. The rest may perhaps appear hereafter. 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 



stranger, afterwards Caesar. 

Arnold. 

Bourbon. 

Philibert. 

Cellini. 

Bertha. 
Olimpia. 

Spirits, Soldiers, Citizens of Rome, Priests, Pea- 
sa7its, <^c. 



PART I. 

SCENE I. 

A Forest. 
Filter Arnold and his mother Bertha. 

Bert. Out, hunchback ! 

Ar72. I was born so, mother ! 

Bert. Out. 

Thou incubus ! Thou nightmare ! Of seven sons. 
The sole abortion ! 

Am. Would that I had been so, 

And never seen the light ! 

Birt. I would so too! 

But as thou hiist — hence, hence — and do thy best ! 
That back of thine m ly bear its burthen ; 't is 
More hiijh, if not so broad as that of others. 

Arn. It betirs its burthen ; — but, my heart ! Will it 
Susain that which vou lay upon it, mother? 
I love, or, at the least, I loved you : nothing 
Save you, in nature, can love aught like me. 
You nursed me — do not kill me ! 

Bert. Yes — I nursed thee, 

Beclu^e thou wert my first-born, and I knew not 
If there would be another unlike thee. 
That monstrous port of nature. But get hence, 
And gather wood ! 

Arn. I will : but when I bring it, 



IThia drama was begun at Pisa in 1821, but was not 
published till January, 1821. , 

2 The "Three Brothers" is a romance, published in; 
1803, the work of a Joshua Pickersgill, junior.— E. | 

33* 



Speak to me kindly. Though my brothers are 
So beautiful and lusty, and as free 
As the free chase they follow, do not spurn me : 
Our milk has been the same. 

Bert. As is the hedgehog's, 

Which sucks at midnight from (he wholesome dam 
Of the young bull, until the milkmaid finds 
The nipple next day sore and udder dry. 
Call not thy brothers brethren ! Call me not 
Mother; for if I brought thee forth, it was 
As foolish hens at times hatch vipers, by 
Silting upon strange eggs. Out, urchin, out ! 

[Exit Bertha. 
Arn. {solus). Oh mother ! She is gone, and I 

must do 
Her bidding ; — wearily but willingly 
I would fulfil it, could I only hope 
A kind word in return. What shall I do ? 

[Arnold begins to cut wood : in doing this he 
wounds one of his hands. 
My labour for the day is over now. 
Accursed be this blood that flows so fast ; 
For double curses will be my meed now 
At home — What home ? I have no home, no kin, 
No kind — not made like other creatures, or 
To share their sports or pleasures. Must I bleed too 
Like them ? Oh that each drop which falls to earth 
Would rise a snake to sting them, as they have stung me! 
Or that the devil, to whom they liken me. 
Would aid his likeness ! If I must partake 
His form, ^^•hy not his power ? Is it because 
I have not his will too ? For one kind word 
From her who bore me would still reconcile me 
Even to this hateful aspect. Let me wash 
The wound. 

[Arnold goes to a spring, and stoops to wash 
his hand : he starts back. 
They are right ,• and Nature's mirror shows me, • 
What she hath made me. I will not look on it 
Again, and icarce dare think on 't. Hideous wretch 
That I am ! The very waiers mock me with 
My horrid shadow — like a demon placed 
Deep in the fountain to scare back the cattle 
From drinkiiig therein. [He pauses. 

And sh-\ll I live on, 
A burden to the earth, myself, and shame 
Unto what brought me info life ! Thou blood. 
Which flowest so freely from a scratch, let me 
Try if thou wilt not in a fuller stream 
Pour f rlh my woes for ever with thyself 
On earth, to which I will restore at once 
This ha'eful compound of her atoms, and 
Resolve back to her elements, and take 
The shape of any reptile sive myself, 
And make a world for myriads of new worms ! 
This knife ! now let me prove if it will sever 
This wither'd slip of nature's nightshade — my 
Vile form — from the creation, as it hath 
The green bous^h fiom the forest. 

[Arnold places the knije in the ground, With \ 
the point upwards. 



IMMH 



iM^doiM^ 



390 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED: [Part I. 



Now 't is set, 
And I can fall upon it. Yet one glance 
On the fair day, which sees no foul thing like 
Myself, and the sweet sun which warni'd nie, but 
In vain. The birds — how joyously they sing ! 
So let them, for I would not be lamented : 
But let their merriest notes be Arnold's knell j 
The fallen leaves my monument ; ihe murmur 
Of the near fountain my sole elegy. 
Now, knife, stand firmly, as I fain would fall ! 

[As he riLshes to throw himself upon ihe knife, 
his eye is suddenly caught by the fountain^ 
which seems in m.otion. 
The fountain moves wi bout a wind : but shall 
The ripple of a spring change my resolve ? 
No. Yet it moves again ! The waters stir. 
Not as with air, but by some subterrane 
And rocking power of the eternal world. 
What 's here ? A mist ! No more ? — 

[A. cloud comes from the fountain. He stands 
gazing upon it : it is dispelled, and a tall 
black man comes towards him. 

Am. What would you ? Speak ! 

Spirit or man? 

Stran, As man is both, why not 

Say both in one ? 

Arn. Your form is man's, and yet 

You may be devil. 

Stran. So many men are that 

Which is so call'd or thought, that you may add me 
To which you please, without much wrong to either. 
But come: you wish to kill yourself j — pursue 
Your purpose. 

Am. You have interrupted me. 

Stran. What is that resolution which can e'er 
Be interrupted ? If I be the devil 
You deem, a single moment would have made you 
Mine, and for ever, by your suicide j 
And yet my coming saves you. 

Am. ' I said not 

You were the demon, but that your approach 
Was like one. 

Stran. Unless you keep company 

With him (and you seem scarce used to such high 
Society) you cm't tell how he approaches ; 
And for his aspect, look upon the fountain. 
And then on me, and judge which of us twain 
Look likest what the boors believe to be 
Their cloven-footed terror. 

Arn. Do you — dare you 

To taunt me with my born deformity ? 

Stran. Were I to taunt a buffalo with this 
Cloven foot of thine, or the swift dromedary 
With thy sublime of humps, the animals 
Would revel in Ihe compliment. And yet 
Both beings are more swift, more strong,' more mighty, 
In action and endurance than thyself, 
And all the fierce and fair of the same kind 
With thee. Thy form is natural : 't was only 
Nature's mistaken largess to bestow 
The gifts which are of others upon man. 

Arn. Give me the strength then of the buffalo's foot, 
When he spurs high the dust, beholding his 
Near enemy ; or let me have the long 
And patient swiftness of the desert ship. 
The helmless dromedary ! — and I '11 bear 
Thy fiendish sarcasm with a SAintly patience. 

Stra'n. I will. 
"* Am. {with surprise). Thou canst ? 

Stran. Perhaps. Would you aught else ? 

Am. Thou mockest me. 

Stran. Not I. Why should I mock 

What all are mocking? That 's poor sport, methinks, 
To talk to thee in human language (for 
Thou canst not yet speak mine), the forester 
Hunts not the wrelched coney, but the boar, 
Or wolf, or lion, leaving paltry game 
To petty burghers, who leave once a year 
Their w ills, to fill their household caldrons with 
Such scullion prey. The meanest gibe at thee,— 
Now I can mock the mightiest. 



Am. Then waste not 

Thy time on me : I seek thee not. 

Stran. Your thoughts 

Are not far from me. Do not send me back : 
I 'm not so easily recall'd to do 
Good service. 
Am. What wilt thou do for me ? 

Stran. Change 

Shapes with you, if you will, since yours so irks you ; 
Or form you to your wish in any shape. 

Arn. Oh ! then you are indeed the demon, for 
Nought else would wittingly wear mine. 

Stran. I '11 show thee 

The brightest which the world e'er bore, and give thee 
Thy choice. 
Arn. On what condition ? 

Stran. There 's a question ! 

An hour ago you would have given your soul 
To look like other men, and now you pause 
To wear the form of heroes. 

Arn. No; I will not. 

I must not compromise my soul. 

Stran. What soul, 

Worth naming so, would dwell in such a carcass ? 

Arn. 'T is an aspiring one, whafe'er the tenement 
In which it is mislodged. But name your compact: 
Must it be sign'd in blood ? 
Stran. Not in your own. 

Arn. Whose blood then ? 

Stran. We will talk of that hereafter. 

But I '11 be moderate with you, for I see 
Great things within you. You shall have no bond 
But your own will, no contract save your deeds. 
Are you content ? 
Arn. I take thee at thy word. 

Stran. Now then ! — 

[The Stranger approaches the fountain, and 
turns to Arnold. 

A little of your blood. 
Am. For what ? 

Stran. To mingle with the magic of the waters. 
And make the charm effective. 
Arn. (holding out his wounded arm). Take it all. 
Stran. Not now. A few drops will suffice for this. 
[The Stranger takes some of ArnoWs blood in 
his hand, and casts it into the fountain. 
Stian. Shadows of beauty ! 
Shadows of power ! 
Rise to your duty — 
This is the hour ! 
Walk lovely and pliant 

From the depth of this fountain, 
As the cloud-shapen giant 

Bestrides the Hartz Mountain.i 
Come as ye were. 

That our eyes may behold 
The model in air 

Of the form I will mould, 
Bright as the Iris 

When ether is spann'd ; — 
Such his desire is, [Pointing to Arnold. 

Such my command ! 
Demons heroic — 

Demons who wore 
The form of the stoic 

Or sophist of yore — 
Or the shape of each victor. 

From Macedon's boy, 
To each high Roman's picture. 
Who breathed to destroy — 



1 This is a well-known German superstition — a gigan- 
tic shadow produced by reflection on the Brocken. [The 
Brorken is the name of the loftiest of the Hartz Moun- 
tains, a picturesque range which lies in the kingdom of 
Hanover. From the earliest periods of uuthentic history, 
the Brocken has been the seat of the marvellous. For a 
description of the phenomenon alluded to by IjOrd Byron, 
see Sir David Brewster's "Natural Magic," p. 128. -—E.] 



^ 



I 



Scene I.] 



A DRAMA. 



391 



Shadows of beauty ! 

Shadows of power ! 
Up to your duty — 
This ii the hour I 
[Varioiis Phantoms arise from the waters, and 
pass 171 succtssio7i before the Stranger and 
Arnold. 

Am. What do I see? 

Stran. The black-eyed Roman, with 

The eagle's beak between those eyes which ne'er 
Beheld a conqueror, or look'd along 
The land he ninde not Rome's, while Rome became 
His, and all theirs who heir'd his very name. 

Am. The phantom's bald: my quest is beauty. 
Could I 
Inherit but his fame with his defects! 

Stran. His brow was girt with laurels more than 
hairs. 
You see his aspect — choose it, or reject. 
I can but promise you his form ; his fame 
Must be long sought and fought for. 

Am. I will fight too, 

But not as a mock Cassar. Let him pass ; 
His aspect may be fair, but suits me not. 

Stran. Then you are far more difficult to please 
Than Cato's sister, or than Brutus' mother, 
Or Cleopatra at sixteen — an age 
When love is not less in the eye than heart. 
But be it so ! Shadow, pass on ! 

[The phantom of Julius Cxsar disappears. 

Am. And can it 

Be, that the man who shook the earth is gone, 
And left no footstep ? 

Straii. There you err. His substance 

Left graves enough, and woes enough, and fame 
More than enough to track his memory ; 
But for his shadow, 'tis no more than yours, 
Except a little longer and less crook'd 
I' the sun. Behold another ! 

lA second phantom passes. 

Am. Who is he? 

Stran. He was the fairest and the bravest of 
Athenians. Look upon him well. 

Am. He is 

More lovely than the last. How beautiful ! 

Stran. Such was the curled son of Clinias ;— wouldst 
thou 
Invest thee with his form ? 

Am. W^ould that I had 

Been born with it ! But since I may choose further, 
I will look further. 

[The shade of Alcibiades disappears, 

Stran. Lo ! behold again ! 

Am. What ! that low, swarthy, short-nosed, round- 
eyed satyr, 
With the wide nostrils and Silertus' aspect, 
The splay feet and low stature ! I had better 
Remain that which I am. 

Stran. And yet he was 

The earth's perfection of all mental beauty, 
And personification of all virtue. 
But you reject him? 

Am. If his form could bring me 

That which redeem'd it— no. 

Stran. I have no power 

To promise that ; but you may try, and find it 
Easier in such a form, or in your "own. 

Am. No. I was not born for philosophy, 
Though I have that about me which has need on 't. 
Let him fleet on. 

Stran. Be air, thou hemlock-drinker ! 

[The shadow of Socrates disappears : another rises. 

Am. What's here? whose broad brow and whose 
curly beard 
And manly aspect look like Hercules, 
Save that his jocund eye hath more of Bacchus 
Than the sad purger of the infernal world, 
Leaning dejected on his club of conquest, 
As if he knew the worthlessness of those 
For whom he had fought. 



Stran. It was the man who lost 

The ancient world for love. 

Arn. I cannot blame him. 

Since I have risk'd my soul because I find not 
That which he exchanged the earth for. 

Stran. Since so far 

You seem congenial, will you wear his features ? 

Am. No. As you leave me choice, I am difficult, 
If but to see the heroes I should ne'er 
Have seen else on the side of this dim shore 
Whence they float back before us. 

Stran, Hence, triumvir, 

Thy Cleopntra 's waiting. 

[The shade of Antony disappears : another rises, 

Arn. Who is this ? 

Who truly looketh like a demigod, 
Blooming and bright, with golden hair, and stature. 
If not more high than mortal, yet immortal 
In all that nameless bearing of his limbs. 
Which he wears as the sun his rays — a something 
Which shines from him, and yet is but the flashing 
Emanation of a thing more glorious still. 
Was he e'er human only ? 

Stran. Let the earth speak. 

If there be atoms of him left, or even 
Of the more solid gold that form'd his urn. 

Arn. Who was this glory of mankind ? 

Sir an. The shame 

Of Greece in peace, her thunderbolt in war — 
Demetrius the Macedonian, and 
Taker of cities. 

Arn. Yet one shadow more. 

Stran. (addressing the shadow). Get thee to La- 
mia's lap ! 
[The shade of Demetrius Poliorcetes vanishes : 
another rises. 

I '11 fit you still. 
Fear not, my hunchback : if the shadows of 
That which existed please not your nice taste, 
I '11 animate the ideal marble, till 
Your soul be reconciled to her new garment. 

Arn. Content ! I will fix here. 

Stra7i. 1 must commend 

Your choice. The godlike son of the sea-goddess, 
The unshorn boy of Peleus, with his locks 
As beautiful and clear as the amber waves 
Of rich Pactolus, rolTd o'er sands of gold, 
Soften'd by intervening crystal, and 
Rippled like flowing waters by the wind, 
All vow'd to Sperchius as they were — behold them 
And him — as he stood by Polixena, 
With sanction'd and with soflen'd love, before 
The altar, gazing on his Trojan bride. 
With some remorse within for Hector slain 
And Priam weeping, mingled with deep passion 
For the sweet downcast virgin, whose young hand 
Trembled in his who slew her brother. So 
He stood i' the temple ! Look upon him as 
Greece look'd her last upon her best, the instant 
Ere Paris' arrow flew. 

Arn. I gaze upon him 

As if I were his soul, whose form shall soon 
Envelope mine. 

Stran. You have done well. The greatest 

Deformity should only barter with 
The extremest beauty, if the proverb's true 
Of mortals, that extremes meet. 

Arn. Come ! Be quick ! 

I am impatient. 

Stran. As a youthful beauty 

Before her glass. You loth see what is not, 
But dream it is what must be. 

Am. Must I wait? 

Stran. No ; that were a pity. But a word or two : 
His stature is twelve cubits ; would you so far 
Outstep these times, and be a Titan ? Or 
(To talk canonically) wax a son 
Of Anak? 

Ar7i. Why not ? 

Stran. Glorious ambition ! 

I love thee most in dwarfs! A mortal of 



__ll^_^ 



392 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED: [Part I. 



Philistine stature would have gladly pared 

His own Goliath down to a slight David : 

But thou, my manuikin, wouldst soar a show, 

Rather than hero. Thou shalt be indulged, 

If such be thy desire ; and yet, by being 

A little less removed from present men 

In fignre, thou canst swny them mo; e ; for all 

Would rise against thee now, as if to hunt 

A new-found mammoth : and their cursed engines, 

Their culverins, and so forth, would find way 

Through our friend's armour there, with greater ease 

Than the adulterer's arrow through his heel. 

Which Thetis had forgotten to baptise 

In Styx. 

Am. Then let it be as thou deem'sl best. 

Stran. Thou shalt be beauteous as the thing thou 
seest, 
And strong as what it was, and 

Jim. I ask not 

For valour, since deformity is daring. 
It is its essence to o'ertake mankind 
By heart and soul, and make itself the equal — 
i Ay, the superior of the rest. There is 
j A spur in its halt movements, to become 
All that the others cannot, in such things 
As still are free to both, to compensate 
For stepdame Nature's avarice at first. 
They woo with fearless deeds the smiles of fortune, 
And oft, like Timour the lame Tartar, win them. 

Stran. Well spoken ! And thou doubtless wilt remain 
Form'd as thou art. I may dismiss the mould 
Of shadow, which must turn to flesh, to incase 
This daring soul, which could achieve no less 
Without it. 

Am. Had no power presented me 

The possibility of change, I v.ould 
Have done the best which spirit may to make 
Its way with all deformity's dull, deadly, 
Discouraging weight upon me, like a mountain, 
In feeling, on my heart as on my shouldeis — 
An hateful and unsightly molehill, to 
The eyes of happier man. I would have look'd 
On beauty in that sex which is the type 
Of all we know or dream of beautiful 
Beyond the world they brighten, with a sigh — 
Not of love, but despair ; nor sought to win. 
Though to a he irt all love, what could not love me 
In turn, because of this vile crooked clog. 
Which makes me lonely. Nay, I could have bornp 
It all, had not my mosher spum'd me from her. 
The she-bear licks her cubs into a sort 
Of shape ; — my dam beheld my shape was hopeless. 
Had she exposed me, like the Spartan, ere 
I knew the passionate part of life, I had 
Been a clod of the valley,— happier nothing 
Than what I am. Rut even thus, the lowest, 
Ugliest, and meanest of mankind, what courage 
And perseverance could have done, perchance 
Had made me something — as it has m>de heroes 
Of the same mould as mine. You lately saw me 
Master of my own life, and quick to quit it j 
And he who is so is the master of 
Whatever dreads to die. 

Stran. Decide between 

What you have been, or will be. 

Am. I have done so. 

You have open'd brighter prospects to my eyes, 
And sweeter to my heart. As I am now, 
I might be fear'd, admired, resf)ected, loved 
Of all sive those next to me, of whom I 
Would be beloved. As thou showest me 
A choice of forms, I take the one I view. 
Haste ! haste ! 

Stran. And what shall I wear ? 

Am. Surely, he 

Who can command all forms will choose the highest. 
Something superior even to that which was 
Pelides now before us. Perhaps his 
Who slew him, that of Paris: or — still higher — 
The poet's god, clothed in such limbs as are 
Themselves a poetry. 



Stran. Less will content me ; 

For I, too, love a change. 

Arn. Your aspect is 

Dusky, but not uncomely. 

Stran. If I chose, 

I might be whiter ; but I have a penchant 
For black — it is so honest, and besides 
Can neither blush with shame nor pale with fear; 
But I have worn it long enough of late. 
And now I '11 take your figure. 
Arn. Mine ! 

Stran. Yes. You 

Shall change with Thetis' son, and I with Bertha 
Your mother's offspring. People have their tastes ; 
You have yours — 1 mine. 
Aj-n. Despatch ! despitch ! 

Stran. Even so. 

[The Stranger takes some earth and moulds it 
along the turf, and then addresses the phan- 
tom of Achilles. 
Beautiful shadow 

Of Thetis's boy ! 
Who sleeps in the meadow 

Whose grass grows o'er Troy : 
From the red earth, like Adam,i 

Thy likeness I shape. 
As the being who made him. 

Whose actions I ape. 
Thou clay, be all glowing, 

Till the rose in his cheek 
Be as fair, as when blowing, 

It wears its first streak ! 
Ye violets, I scatter, 

Now turn into eyes ! 
And thou, sunshiny water. 
Of blood take the guise ! 
Let these hyacinth boughs 
Be his long flowing hair. 
And wave o'er his brows, 
As thou wavest in air ! 
Let his heart be this marble 

I tear from the rock ! 
But his voice as the warble 

Of bi ds on yon oak ! 
Let his flesh be the purest 

Of mould, in which grew 
The lily-root surest, 

And drank the best dew ! 
Let his limbs be the lightest 

Which clay can compound ! 
And his aspect the brightest 

On earth to be found 1 
Elements, near me. 

Be mingled and stirr'd. 
Know me, and hear me. 
And leap to my word ! 
Sunbeams, awaken 

This earth's animation ! 
'T is done ! He hath taken 
His stand in creation ! 
[Arnold falls se^iseless ; his soul passes into the 
shape of Achilles, which rises from the ground; 
while the phantom has disappeared, part by 
part, as the figure was formed from the earth. 
Arn. (in his new form). 1 love, and I shall be be- 
loved ! Oh life! 
At last I feel thee ! Glorious spirit. 

Stran. Stop ! 

What shall become of your abandon'd garment, 
Yon hump, and lump, and clod of ugliness, 
Which late you wore, or were ? 

Am. Who cares ? Let wolves 

And vultures take i*, if they will. 

Stran. And if 

They do, and are not scared by it, you 'II say 
It must be peace-time, and no better fare 
Abroad i' the fields. 



1 Adam means " red earth," from which the first mao 

was formed. 



I" 



Scene I.] 



A DRAMA. 



393 



Am. Let us but leave it there j 

No matter what becomes on 't. 

Stran. That 's ungracious, 

If not ungrateful. Whatsoe'er it be, 
It hath sustaln'd your soul full many a day. 

Am. Ay, as the dunghill may conceal a gem 
Which is now set in gold, as jewels should be. 
Stran. Bu if I^ive another form, it must be 
By fair exchange, not robbery. For they 
Who make men without women's aid have long 
Had patents for the same, and do not love 
Your interlopers. The devil may take men, 
Not make them,— though he reap the benefit 
Of the original workmanship : — and therefore 
Some one must be found to assume the shape 
You have quitted. 
Am. Who would do so ? 

Slran. That I know not, 

And therefore I must. 
Am. You ! 

Stran. I said it ere 

You inhabited your present dome of beauty. 

Am. True. I forget all things in the new joy 
Of this immortal change. 

Stran, In a few moments 

I will be as you were, and you shall see 
Yourself for ever by you, as your shadow. 
Am. I would be spared this. 
Stran. But it cannot be. 

What ! shrink already, being what you are, 
From seeing what you were ? 
Am. Do as thou wilt. 

Stran. (to the late form of Arnold, extended on 
the earth.) 
Clay ! not dead, but soulless ! 

Though no man would choose thee, 
An immortal no less 

Deigns not to refuse thee. 
Clay thou art ; and unto spirit 
All clay is of equal merit. 
Fire 1 without which nought can live; 
Fire ! but in which nought can live. 
Save the fabled salamander, 
Or immortal souls, which wander, 
Praying what doth not forgive, 
Howling for a drop of water, 

Burning in a quenchless lot: 
Fire ! the only element 

Where nor fish, beast, bird, nor worm, 

Save the worm which dieth not, 
Can preserve a moment's form, 
But must \vith thyself be blent : 
Fire ! man's safeguard and his slaughter: 
Fire! Creation's first-born daughter. 
And Destruction's threaten'd son, 
When heaven with the world hath done: 
Fire! assist me to renew 
Life in what lies in my view 

Stiff and cold ! 
His resurrection rests with me and you ! 
One little, marshy spark of flame — 
And he again shall seem the same ; 
But I his spirit's place shall hold ! 
\An ignis-fatuus flits through the wood and rests 
on the brow of the body. The Stranger dis- 
appears : the body rists. 
Am. {in his new form). Oh I horrible ! 
Stran. (in Arnold's late shape). What! tremblest 

thou? 
Am. Not so — 

I merely shudder. Where is fled the shape 
Thou lately worest ? 

Stran. To the world of shadows. 

But let us thread the present. Whither wilt thou? 
Am. Must thou be my companion ? 
Stran. Wherefore not ? 

Your belters keep worse company. 
Am. My betters ! 

Stran. Oh ! you wax proud, I see, of your new 
form : 
I 'm glad of that. Ungrateful too ! That 's well ; 



You improve apace ; — two changes in an instant, 
And you are old in the world's ways already. 
But bear with me: indeed you '11 find me useful 
Upon your pilgrimage. But come, pronounce 
Where shall we now be errant? 

Am. Where the world 

Is thickest, that I may behold it in 
Its workings. 

Stran. That 's to say, where there is war 

And woman in activity. Let 's see ! 
Spain — Iialy — the new Atlantic world — 
Afric, with all its Moors, In very truth, 
There is small choice : the whole race are just now 
Tugging as usu.sl at each other's hearts. 

Am. I have heard great things of Rome. 

Stran. A goodly choice — - 

And scarce a better to be found on earth, 
Since Sodom was put out. The field is wide too j 
For now the Fiank, and Hun, and Spanish scion 
Of the old Vandals, are at play along 
The sunny shores of the world's garden. 

Am. How 

Shall we proceed? 

Stran. Like gallants, on good coursers. 

What ho ! my chargers ! Never yet were better, 
Since Phaeton was upset into the Po. 
Our pages too ! 

Enter two Pages, with four coal-blach horses. 

Am. A noble sight ! 

Stran. And of 

A nobler breed. Match me in Barbary, 
Or your Kochlini race of Araby, 
With these ! 

Am. The mighty steam, which volumes high 

From their proud nostrils, burns the very air; 
And sparks of fiame, like dancing fire-flies, wheel 
Around their manes, as common insects swarm 
Round common steeds towards sunset. 

Stran. Mount, my lord : 

They and I are your servitors. 

Arn. And these 

Our dark-eyed pages — what may be their names ? 

Sii'an. You shall baptize them. 

Arn. What I in holy water ? 

Stran. Why not ? The deeper sinner, better saint. 

Arn. They are beautiful, and cannot, sure, be de- 
mons. 

Stran. True ; the devil 's always ugly ; and your 
beauty 
Is never diabolical. 

Arn. I '11 call him 

W^ho bears the golden horn, and wears such bright 
And blooming aspect, Huon ; for he looks 
Like to the lovely boy lost in the forest, 
And never found'till now. And for the other 
And darker, and more thoughtful, who smiles not, 
But looks as serious though serene as night, 
He shall be Memnon, from the Ethiop king 
Whose statue turns a harper once a day. 
And you ? 

Stran. I have ten thousand names, and twice 
As many attributes ; but as I wear 
A human shape, will take a human name. 

Arn. More human than the shape (though it was 
mine once) 
I trust. 

Stra7i. Then call me Csesar. 
• Arn. Why, that name 

Belnijgs to empires, and has been but borne 
By the world's lords. 

Stran. And therefore fittest for 

The devil in disguise — since so you deem me. 
Unless you call me pope instead. 

Arn. Well, then, 

Caesar thou shall be. For myself, my name 
Shall be plain Arnold still. 

Cses. We'll add a title — 

" Count Arnold : " it hath no ungracious sound, 
And will look well upon a billet-doux. 

Arn. Or in an order for a battle-field. 



394 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED: [Part I. 



Cxs. (sings). To horse ! to horse ! my coal-black 
steed 
Paws the ground and snuffs the air I 

There 's not a foal of Arab's breed 
More knows whom he must bear j 

On the hill he will not tire, 

Swifter as it waxes higher ; 

In the marsh he will not slacken, 

On the plain be overtaken ; 

In the wave he will not sink, 

Nor pause at the brook's side to drink ; 

In the race he will not pant, 

In the combat he '11 not faint ; 

On the stones he will i;ot stumble. 

Time nor toil shall make him humble; 

In the stall he will not stiffen, 

But be winged as a griffin, 

Only flying with his feet : 

And will not such a voyage be sweet? 

Merrily ! merrily ! never unsound, 

Shall our bonny black horses skim over the ground ! 
From the Alps to the Caucasus, ride we, or fly ! 
For we '11 leave them behind in the glance of an eye. 
[They mount their horses, and disappear. 

SCENE II. 

A Camp before the Walls of Rome. 

Arnold and Csesar. 

Cms. You are well entered now. 
Am. Ay ; but my path 

Has been o'er carcasses : mine eyes are full 
Of blood. 

Cxs. Then wipe them, and see clearly. Why ! 
Thou art a conqueror ; the chosen knight 
And free companion of the gallant Bourbon, 
Late constable of France : and now to be 
Lord of the city which hath been earth's lord 
Under its emperors, and — changing sex, 
Not sceptre, an hermaphrodite of empire — 
Lady of the old world. 

Am. How old ? What ! are there 

New worlds ? 

Css. To you. You '11 find there are such shortly, 
By its rich harvests, new disease, and gold ; 
From one half of the world named a whole new one, 
Because you know no better than the dull 
And dubious notice of your eyes and ears. 
Am. I 'II trust them. 

CsRS. Do ! They will deceive you sweetly, 

And that is better than the bitter truth. 
Am. Dog! 
Cxs. Man ! 

Am. Devil ! 

Cxs. Your obedient humble servant. 

Am. Say master rather. Thou hast lured me on, 
Through scenes of blood and lust, till I am here. 
Cxs. And where wouldst thou be ? 
Am. Oh, at peace — in peace. 

Csss. And where is that which is so ? From the star 
To the winding worm, all life is motion j and 
In life commotion is the extremest point 
Of life. The planet wheels till it becomes 
A comet, and destroying as it sweeps 
The stars, goes out. The poor worm winds its way, 
Living upon the death of other things, 
But still, like them, must live and die, the subject 
Of something which has mide it live and die. 
You must obey what all obey, the rule 
Of fix'd necessity : against her edict 
Rebellion prospers not. 

Am. And when it prospers 

Cxs. 'T is no rebellion. 

Arn. Will it prosper now ? 

Caes. The Bourbon hath given orders for the assault, 
And by the dawn there will be work. 

Arn. Alas ! 

And shall the city yield ? I see the giant 
Abode of the true God, and his true saint, 
Saint Peter, rear its dome and cross into 



That sky whence Christ ascended from the cross, 
Which his blood made a badge of glory and 
Of joy (as once of torture unto him, 
God and God's Son, man's sole and only refuge). 
Cxs. 'T is there, and shall be. 
Am. What? 

CsEs. The crucifix 

Above, and many altar shrines below — 
Also some culverins upon the walls. 
And harquebusses, and what not; besides 
The men who are to kindle them to death 
Of other men. 

A7-n. And those scarce mortal arches. 

Pile above pile of everlasting wall, 
The theatre where emperors and their subjects 
(Those subjects Romans) stood at gaze upon 
The battles of the monarchs of the wild 
And wood, the lion and his tusky rebels 
Of the then untamed desert, brought to joust 
In the arena (as right well they might, 
When they had left no human foe unconquer'd) ; 
Made even the forest pay its tribute of 
Life to their amphitheatre, as well 
As Dacia men to die the eternal death 
For a sole instant's pastime, and " Pass on 
To a new gladiator ! -' — Must it fall ? 

Caw. The city, or the amphitheatre? 
The church, or one, or all ? for you confound 
Both them and me. 

Arn. To-morrow sounds the assault 

With the first cock-crow. 

Cxs. Which, if it end with 

The evening's first nightingale, will be 
Something new in the annals of great sieges ; 
For men must have their prey after long toil. 

Arn. The sun goes down as calmly, and perhaps 
More beautifully, than he did on Rome 
On the day Remus leapt her wall. 
Cxs. I saw him. 

Am. You ! 

Cxs. Yes, sir. You forget I am or was 

Spirit, till I took up vvith your cast shape. 
And a worse name. I 'm Csesar and a hunch-back 
Now. Weil ! the first of Cassars was a bald-head, 
And loved his laurels better as a wig 
(So history says) than as a glory. Thus 
The world runs on, but we '11 be merry still. 
I saw your R- mulus (simple as I am) 
Slay his own twin, quick-born of the same womb, 
Because he leapt a diich ('t was then no wall, 
Whate'er it now be) ; and Rome's earliest cement 
Was brothers blood ; and if its nalive blood 
Be spilt till the choked Tiber be as red 
As e'er 't was yellow, it will never wear 
The deep hue of the ocean and the earth, 
Which the great robber sons of fratricide 
Have made their never-ceasing scene of slaughter 
For ages. 

A7n. But what have these done, their far 
Remote descendants, who have lived in peace. 
The peace of heaven, and in her sunshine of 
Piety ? 

Cxs. And what had they done, whom the old 
Romans o'erswept ? — Hark ! 

Arn. They are soldiers singing 

A reckless roundelay, upon the eve 
Of many deaths, it may be of their own. 

Cxs. And why should they not sing as well as swans? 
They are black ones, to be sure. 

Am. So, you are learn'd, 

I see, too ? 

Cxs. In my grammar, certes. I 
Was educated fora monk of all times. 
And once I was well versed in the forgotten 
Etruscan letters, and — were I so minded — 
Could make their hieroglyphics plainer than 
Your alphabet. 
Am. And wherefore do you not ? 

Cxs. It answers better to resolve the alphabet 
Back into hieroglyphics. Like your statesman, 
And prophet, pontiff, doctor, alchymist, 



Scene II.] 



A DRAMA. 



395 



Philosopher, and what not, they have built | 

More Babels, without new dispersion, than l 

The stammering young ones of the flood's dull ooze, 
Who fiil'd and fled each other. Why? why, marry, 
Because no man could understand his neighbour. 
They are wiser now, and will not separate 
For nonsense. Nay, it is their brotherhood. 
Their Shibboleth, their Koran, Talmud, their 
Cabala ; their best brick-work, wherewithal 
They build more 

Arri. {interrupting him). Oh, thou everlasting 
sneerer ! 
Be silent ? How the soldiers' rough strain seems 
Soften 'd by distance to a hymn-like cadence ! 
Listen ! 

Cxs. Yes. I have heard the angels sing. 

Am, And demons howl. 

Caw. And man too. Let us listen : 

I love all music. 

Song of the Soldier-i within. 

The black bands came over 

The Alps and their snow; 
With Bourbon, the rover, 

They pass'd the broad Po. 
We have beaten all foemen, 

We have captured a king, 
We have turn'd back on no men, 

And so let us sing ! 
Here 's the Bourbon for ever ! 

Though penniless all. 
We '11 have one more endeavour 

At yonder old wall. 
With the Bourbon we '11 gather 

At day-dawn before 
The gates, and together 

Or break or climb o'er 
The wall : on the ladder 

As mounts each firm foot, 
Our shout shall grow gladder, 

And death only be mute. 
With the Bourbon we '11 mount o'er 

The walls of old Rome, 
And who then shall count o'er 

The spoils of each dome ? 
Up ! up with the lily ! 

And down with the keys ! 
In old Rome, the seven-hilly, 

We'll revel at ease. 
Her streets shall be gory, 

Her Tiber all red, 
And her temples so hoary 

Shall elms: with our tread. 
Oh, the Bourbon ! the Bourbon ! 

The Bourbon for aye ! 
Of our song bear the burden ! 

And fire, fire away ! 
With Spain for the vanguard. 

Our varied host comes; 
And next to the Spaniard 

Beat Germany's drums ; 
And Italy's lances 

Are couch'd at their mother ; 
But our leader from France is, 

Who warr'd with his brother. 
Oh, the Bourbon ! the Bourbon ! 

Sans country or home. 
We '11 follow the Bourbon, 

To plunder old Rome. 
Css. An indifferent song 

For those within the walls, methinks, to hear. 
Am. Yes, if they keep to their chorus. But here 
comes 
The general with his chiefs and men of trust. 
A goodly rebel ! 
Enter the Constable Bourbon i " cv.m 5uw," <^c. ^-c. 

Phil. How now, noble prince. 

You are not cheerful ? 



1 Charles of Bourbon was cousin to Francis I.« and 



Bourb. Why should I be so ? 

Phil. Upon the eve of conquest, such as ours. 
Most men would be so. 

Bourb. If I were secure ! 

Phil. Doubt not our soldiers. Were the walls ada- 
mant, 
They 'd crack them. Hunger is a sharp artillery. 

Bourb. That they will falter is my least of fears. 
That they will be repulsed, with Bourbon for 
Their chief, and all their kindled appetites 
To marshal them on — were those hoary walls 
Mountains, and those who guard them like the gods 
Of the old fables, 1 would trust my Titans ; — 
But now 

Phil. They are but men who war with mortals. 

Bourb. True : but those walls have girded in great 
ages, 
And sent forth mighty spirits. The past earth 
And present phantom of imperious Rome 
Is peopled with those warriors ; and methinks 
They flit along the eternal city's rampart. 
And stretch their glorious, gory, shadowy hands. 
And beckon me away I 

Phil. So let them ! Wilt thou 

Turn back from shadowy menaces of shadows? 

Bourb. They do not menace me. I could have 
faced, 
Methinks, a Sylla's menace ; but they clasp, 
And raise, and wring their dim and deathlike hands, 
And with their thin aspen faces and fix'd eyes 
Fascinate mine. Look there ! 

Phil. I look upon 

A lofty battlement. 

Bourb. And there ! 

Phil. Not even 

A guard in sight ; they wisely keep below, 
Shelter'd by the grey parapet from some 
Stray bullet of our lansquenets, who might 
Practise in the cool twilight. 

Bourb. You are blind. 

Phil. If seeing nothing more than may be seen 
Be so. 

Bourb. A thousand years have mann'd the walls 
With all their heroes,— the last Caio stands 
And tears his bowels, rather than survive 
The liberty of that I would enslave. 
And the first Caesar w^ith his triumphs flits 
From battlement to battlement. 

Phil. Then conquer 

The walls for which he conquer'd, and be greater ! 

Bourb. True : so I will, or perish. 

Phil. You can not. 

In such an enterprise to die is rather 
The dawn of an eternal day, than death. 

[Coimt Arnold and Csesar advance. 

Cass. And the mere men — do they too sweat beneath 
The noon of this same ever-scorching glory ? 

Bourb. Ah ! 

Welcome the bitter hunchback ! and his master, 
The beauty of our host, and brave as beauteous, 
And generous as lovely. We shall find 
Work for you both ere morning. 

Cxs. You will find, 

So please your highness, no less for yourself. 

Bourb. And if I do, there will not be a labourer 
More forward, hunchback ! 

Cses. You may well say so, 

For you have seen that back — as general. 
Placed in the rear in action — but your foes 
Have never seen it. 

Bourb. That 's a fair retort. 

For I provoked it : — but the Bourbon's breast 
Has been, and ever shall be, far advanced 
In danger's face as yours, were you the devil. 

Cxs. And if I were, I might have saved myself 
The toil of coming here. 



Constable of France. Being bitterly persecuted by the 
queen-mother for having declined the honour of her hand, 
and also by the king, he transferred his services to the 
Emperor Charles V. — E. 



396 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED: [Part 1. 1 



PhiL Why so ? 

Cos. One half 

Of your brave bands of their own bold accord 
Will go 10 him, the other half be sent, 
More "swiftly, not less surely. 

Bourb. Arnold, your 

Slis:ht crooked friend 's as snake like in his words 
As liis deeds. 

Cxs. Your highness much mistakes me. 

The tirst snake was a Batterer— I am none; 
And tor my deeds, 1 only stinsj when s ung. 

JBourb. You are bi av'e, and that 's enough for me ; 
and quick 
In speech as sharp in action — and that 's more. 
I am not alone the soldier, but the soldiers' 
Comrade. 

Cses. They are but bad company, your highness j 
And worse even for their friends than toes, as being 
More permanent acquaintance. 

Phil. How now, fellow ! 

Thou waxest insolent, beyond the privilege 
Of a buffoon. 

Cxs. You mean I speak the truth. 

I '11 lie — it is as easy : then you '11 praise me 
For calling you a hero. 

Bourb. Philibert ! 

Let him alone ; he 's brave, and ever has 
Been lirst, with that swart face and mountain shoulder, 
In field or storm, and patient in starva ion ; 
And for his tongue, the cmip is full of license, 
And the sharp stinging of a lively rogue 
Is, to my mind, far preferable to 
The gro'^^s, dull, heavy, gloomy execration 
Of a niere famishM, sullen, grumbling slave, 
Whom nothing can convince save a full meal, 
And wine, and sleep, and a few maravedis. 
With which he deems him rich. 

Cies. It would be well 

If the earth's princes ask'd no more. 

Bourb, Be silent ! 

Cies. Ay, but not idle. Work yourself with words ! 
You have few to speak. 

PhiL What means the audacious prater ? 

Cxs. To prate, like other prophets. 

Bourb. Philibert ! 

Why will you vex him ? Have we not enough 
To think on ? Arnold ! I will lead the attack 
To-morrow. 

Jlni. I have heard as much, my lord. 

Bourb. And you will follow ? 

^rn. Since I must not lead. 

Bourb. 'T is necessary for the further daring 
Of our too needy army, that their chief 
Plant the tirst foot upon the foremost ladder's 
First step. 

Cxs. Upon its topmost, let us hope : 
So shall he have his full deserts. 

Bourb. The world's 

Great capital perchance f^ ours to-morrow. 
Throuiiti every change the seven hill'd city hath 
Retain'd her sway o'er nations, and the Cocsars 
But yielded to the Alarics, the Alaiics 
Unto' the pontitls. Roman, Goth, or piiest, 
Still the world's masters ! Civilised, barbxrian, 
Or saintly, still the walls of Romulus 
Have been the circus of an empire. Well I 
'T W.1S their turn— now 't is ours ; and let us hope 
That we will iijht as well, and rule much better. 

Cas. No doubt, the camp's the school of civic 
rights. 
What would you make of Rome? 

Bourb. That which it was. 

Cxs. In Alaric's time ? 

Bourb. No, slave ! in the first Cssar'si, 
Whose name you bear like other curs 

Cits. And kings ! 

'T is a great name for blood-hounds. 

Bourb. There 's a demon 

In that fierce rattlesnake thy tongue. Wilt never 
Be serious ? 

Cses. On the eve of battle, no ; — 



That were not soldier-like. "T is for the general 

To be more pensive : we adventurers 

Must be more cheerful. Wherefore should we think? 

Our tutelar deity, in a leader's shape, 

'lakes care of us. Keep thought aloof from hosts ! 

If the kn ives take to ihinking, you will have 

To crack those walls alone. 

Bourb. You may sneer, since 

'T IS lucky for you that you fight no worse for 't. 

Caes. I thank you for the freedom ; 't is the only 
Pay 1 have taken in your highness' service. 

Bmirb. Well, sir, to-moninv you shall pay yourself. 
Look on those tow eis ; they hold my treasury : 
But, Philibert, we '11 in to council. Arnold, 
We would request your presence. 

.4m. Prince ! my service 

Is yours, as in the field. 

Bourb. In both we prize it, 

And yours will be a post of trust at day-break. 

Vies. And mine? 

Bourb. To follow glory with the Bourbon. 

Good night ! 

Ani. (to Csesar). Piepare our armour for the as- 
sault. 
And wait within my tent. 

[Exnait Bmrbtm, .Arnold, Philibert, ^-c. 

Csgs. {solus). Within thy tent ! 

Think'st thou that I pass from thee with my pre- 
sence ? 
Or that this crooked coffer, which contain'd 
Thy principle of life, is anght to me 
Except a mask ? And these are men, forsooth ! 
Heroes and chiefs, the tlower of Adam's bastards ! 
This is the consequence of giving matter 
The power of thought. It is a stubborn substance, 
And thinks chaotically, as if acts. 
Ever relapsing into its first elements. 
Well ! 1 must play with these poor puppets : 't is 
The spirit's pastime in his idler hours. 
Wiien 1 grow weary of it, I have business 
Amongst the stars, which these poor creatures deem 
Were made for thens to lock at. 'T were a jest now 
To bring one down amongst them, and set fire 
Unto their anthill ; how the pismires then i 
Would scamper o'er the scilding soil, and, ceasing 
From tearing down each other's nests, pipe forth 
One universal orison ! Ha ! ha ! [Exit Cxsar. 



PART H. 

SCENE I 

Before the walls of Rome. — The assault : the army 
in motic7i, with ladders to scale the untlls ; Bour- 
hm, with a white scarf over his armour^ /ore- 
most. 

Chants of Spirits in the air. 
1. 

'T is the morn, but dim and dark. 
Whither tlies the silent lark? 
Whither shrinks the clouded sun ? 
Is the day indeed besun ? 
Nature's eye is melancholy 
O'er the city hish and holy : 
But without there is a din 
Should arouse the saints within, 
And revive the heroic ashes 
Round which yellow Tiber dashes. 
Oh ye seven hilN ! awaken. 
Ere your very base be shaken ! 



Hearken to the steady stamp ! 
Mars is in their every tramp ! 
Not a step is out of tune. 
As the tides obey the moon ! 



Scene I.] 



A DRAMA. 



397 



On they march, though to self-slaughter, 
Regular as rolling water, 
"Whose high waves o'ersueep the border 
Of huge moles, but keep their order, 
Breaking only rank by rank. 
Hearken to the armour's clank ! 
Look down o er each frowrjing warrior, 
How he glares upon the barrier: 
Look on each slep of each ladder, 
As the stripes that streak an adder, 

3. 

Look upon the bristling wall, 
Mann'd without an interval ! 
Round and round, and tier on tier, 
Cannon's black mouih, shining spear, 
Lit match, bell-moutli'd musquetoon: 
Gaping to be murderous soon. 
All the warlike gear of old, 
Mix'd with what we now behold, 
In this strife 't vvixt old and new. 
Gather like a locust's crew. 
Shade of Remus ! '( is a time 
Awful as thy brother's crime ! 
Christians war against Christ's shrine : — 
Must its lot be like to thine ? 

4. 
Near — and near — and nearer still. 
As the earthquake saps the hill, 
First with trembling, hollow motion. 
Like a scarce awaken'd ocean. 
Then with stronger shock and louder, 
Till the rocks are crush'd to powder, — 
Onward sweeps the rolling host ! 
Heroes of the immortal boast ! 
Mighty chiefs! eternal shadows! 
First flowers of the bloody meadows 
Which encompass Rome, the mother 
Of a people without brother! 
Will you sleep when nations' quarrels 
Plough the root up of your laurels ? 
Ye who weep o'er Carthage burning. 
Weep not — strike ! for Rome is mourning 1 1 

5. 
Onward sweep the varied nations ! 
Famine long hath dealt their rations. 
To the wall, with hate and hunger, 
Numerous as wolves, and stronger, 
On they sweep. Oh ! glorious city. 
Must thou be a theme for pity ? 
Fight, like your first sire, each Roman — 
Alaric was a gentle foeman, 
Match'd with Bourbon's black banditti ! 
Rouse thee, thou eternal city ; 
Rouse thee ! Raiher give the torch 
With thy own hind to thy porch. 
Than behold such hosts pollute 
Your worst dwelling with their foot. 

6. 

Ah ! behold yon bleedinz spectre ! 
Ilion's children find no Hector; 
Priam's offspring loved their brother j 
Rome's great sire forgot his mother. 
When he slew his gallant twin. 
With inexpiable sin. 
See the giant shadow stride 
O'er the ramparts high and wide ! 
When the first o'erleapt thy wall, 
Its foundation mourn'd thy fall. 
Now, though towering like a Babel, 
Who to stop his steps are able ? 
Stalking o'er thy highest dome, 
Remus claims his vengeance, Rome ! 



1 Scipio, the senond Africanus, is said to have repeated 
a verse of Homer, and wept over the burning of Car- 
thage. He had better have granted it a capitulation- 



7. 
Now they reach thee in their anger: 
Fire and smoke and hellish clangour 
Are around thee, thou world's wonder! 
Death is in thy walls and under. 
Now the meeting steel first clashes, 
Downward then the ladder crashes. 
With its iron loid all gleaming, 
Lying at its foot blispheming! 
Up again ! for every warrior 
Slain, another climbs the barrier. 
Thicker grows the strife : thy ditches 
Europe's mingling gore enriches. 
Rome ! although thy wall may perish, 
Such manure thy fields will cherish, 
Making gay the harvest-home ; 
But thy hearths, alas ! oh, Rome ! — 
Yet be Rome amidst thine anguish. 
Fight as thou wast wont to vanquish ! 



Yet once more, ye old Penates ! 

Let not your quench'd hearths be Ates ! 

Yet again, ye shadov\y heroes. 

Yield not to these stranger Neros! 

Though the son who slew his mother 

Shed Rome's blood, he was your brother: 

'T was the Roman curb'd the Roman j — 

Brennus was a batiied foeman. 

Yet again, ye saints and martyrs, 

Rise ! for yours are holier charters I 

Mighty gods of temples falling, 

Yet in ruin still appalling! 

Mightier founders of those altars, 

True and Christian, — strike the assaulters ! 

Tiber! Tiber! let thy torrent 

Show even nafute's self abhorrent. 

Let each bieathiug heart dilated 

Turn, as doth the lion baited ! 

Rome be crush'd to one wide tomb, 

But be still the Remans Rome ! 

Bourbon, Arnold, desar, and others, arrive at the 

foot of the wall. Arnold is about to plant his 

ladder, 

Bourb. Hold, Arnold ! I am first. 

Am. Not so, my lord. 

Bourb. Hold, sir, I charge you ! Follow ! I am proud 
Of such a follower, but will brook no leader. 

[Bourbon plants his ladder, and begins to mount. 
Now, boys ! On ! on ! 

[A shot strikes him, and Bourbon falls. 

Cses. And off'! 

Am. Eternal powers ! 

The host will be appall'd, — but vengeance ! vengeance! 

Bourb. 'T is nothing — lend me your hand. 

[Bourbon takes Arnold by the hand, and rises; 
but as he puis his foot on the sitp, falls again. 
Arnold I I am sped. 
Conceal my fall — all will go well — conceal it ! 
Fling my cloak o'er what will be dust anon ; 
Let not the soldiers see it. 

Ar7i. You must be 

Removed ; (he aid of 

Bourb. No, my gallant boy : 

Death is upon me. But what is one life ? 
The Bourbon's spirit shall conmiand them still. 
Keep them yet ignorant that I am but clay. 
Till they are conquerors — then do as you may. 

Cses. Would not your highness choose to kiss the 
cross ? 
We have no priest here, but the hilt of sword 
May serve instead : — it did the same for Bayard. 

Bourb. Thou bitter slave ! to name him at this time : 
But I deserve it. 

Am. (to Cxsar). Villain, hold your peace! 

Cses. What, when a Christian dies? Shall I not 
offer 
A Christian " Vade in pace?" 

Am. Silence! Oh! 



34 



398 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED: [Part II. 



Those eyes are glazing which o'erlook'd the world, 
And saw no equal. 
Eourh. Arnold, shouldst thou see 

France But hark ! hark ! the assault grows warmer 

— Oh! 
For but an hour, a minute more of life, 
To die within the wall ! Hence, Arnold, hence ! 
You lose time — they will conquer Rome without thee. 
Am. And without thee. 

Bourb. Not so ; I '11 lead them still 

In spirit. Cover up my dust, aud breathe not 
That I have ceased to breathe. Away ! and be 
Victorious ! 
Am. But I must not leave thee thus. 
Bourb. You must — farewell — Up ! up ! the world 
is winning. [Bourbon dies. 

Czs. {to Arnold). Come, count, to business. 
Arn. - True. I '11 weep hereafter. 

\Arnold covers Bourbon's body with a mantle, 
mounts the laddtr, crying 
The Bourbon ! Bourbon ! On, boys ! Rome is ours 1 
' Cxs. Good night, lord constable ! thou wert a man. 
iCxsnr follows Arnold ; they reach the battle- 
ment ; Arnold and Cxsar are struck down. 
Cses. A precious somerset ! Is your countship in- 
jured ? 
Arn. No. [Remou7its the ladder. 

Cxs. A rare blood-hound, when his own is heated ! 
And 't is no boy's play. Now he strikes them down ! 
His hind is on the battlement— he grasps it 
As though it were an altar ; now his foot 

Is on it, and What have we here ? — a Roman ? 

[A man falls. 
The first bird of the covey I he has fallen 
On the outside of the nest. Why, how now, fellow ? 
^''ounded Man. A drop of water ! 
Cxs. Blood 's the only liquid 

Nearer than Tiber. 

Wounded Man. I have died for Rome. [Dies. 
Cxs. And so did Bourbon, in another sense. 
Oh these immortal men ! and their great motives ! 
But I must after my young charge. He is 
By this time i' the forum. Charge ! charge! 

[Cxsar mounts the ladder ; the scene closes. 

SCENE II. 

The City.— Combats between the Besiegers and Be- 
sieged in the streets. Inhabitants flying in con- 
fusion. 

Enter Cxsar. 
Cxs. I cannot find my hero ; he is mix'd 
With the heroic crowd that now pursue 
The fugitives, or battle with the desperate. 
What have we here ? A cardinal or two, 
That do not seem in love with martyrdom. 
How the old red-shanks scamper ! Could they dofif 
Their hose as they have doff'd their hats, 't would be 
A blessing, as a mark the less for plunder. 
But let ftiem fly ; the crimson kennels now 
Will not much stain their stockings, since the mire 
Is of the self-same purple hue. 

Enter a Party fighting — Arnold at the head of the 
Besiegers. 

He comes. 
Hand in hand with the mild twins — Gore and Glory ! 
Holla! hold, count! 

Arn. Away ! they must not rally. 

Cxs. I tell thee, be not rash ; a golden bridge 
Is for a flying enemy. I gave thee 
A form of beauty, and an 
Exemption from some maladies of body, 
But not of mind, which is not mine to give. 
But though I gave the form of Thetis' son, 
I dipt ihee not in Styx ; and 'gainst a foe 
I would not warrant thy chivalric heart 
More than Pelides' heel ; why then, be cautious, 
And know thyself a mortal still. 

Arn. And who 

With aught of soul would combat if he were 



Invulnerable ? That were pretty sport. 

Think 'st thou I beat for hares when lions roar ? 

[Arnold rushes into the combat. 
Cxs. A precious sample of humanity ! 
Well, his blood 's up ; and if a little 's shed, 
'T will serve to curb bis fever. 

[Arnold engages with a Roman, who retires 
towards a portico. 
Arn. Yield thee, slave ! 

I promise quarter. 
Rom. That 's soon said. 

Am. And done — 

My word is known. 
Rom. So shall be my deeds. 

[They re-engage. Cttsar comes forward. 
Cxs. Why, Arnold ! hold thine own : thou hast in 
hand 
A famous artisan, a cunning sculptor; 
Also a dealer in the sword and dagger. 
Not so, my musqueteer ; 't was he who slew 
The Bourbon from the wall. 

Am. Ay, did he so ? 

Then he hath carved his monument. 

Rom. I yet 

May live to carve your better's. 

Cxs. Well said, my man of marble I Benvenuto, 
Thou hast some practice in both ways ; and he 
VVho slays Cellini will have work'd as hard 
As e'er thou didst upon Carrara's blocks. 

[Arnold disarms avd wounds Cellini, but 

slightly : the latter draws a pistol, and 

fires ; then retires, and disappears through 

the portico. 

Cxs. How fareit thou ? Thou hast a taste, methinks, 

Of red Bellona's banquet. 

Arn, (staggers). 'T is a scratch. 

Lend me thy scarf. He shall not 'scape me thus. 
Cxs. Where is it ? 

Arn. In the shoulder, not the sword-arm — 

And that 's enough. I am thirsty : would I had 
A helm of water ! 

Cxs, That 's a liquid now 

In requisition, but by no means easiest 
To come at. 

Arn. And my thirst increases ; — but 

I '11 find a way to quench it. 

Cxs. Or be quench 'd 

Thyself. 

Arn. The chance is even ; we will throw 
The dice thereon. But I lose time in prating; 
Prithee be quick. [Cxsar binds on the scarf. 

And what dost thou so idly ? 
Why dost not strike ? 

Cxs. Your old philosophers 

Beheld mankind, as mere spectators of 
The Olympic games. When I behold a prize 
Worth wrestling for, I may be found a Milo. 
Arn. Ay, 'gainst an oak. 

Cxs. A forest, when it suits me : 

I combat with a mass, or not at all. 
Meantime, pursue thy sport as I do mine ; 
Which is just now to gaze, since all these labourers 
Will reap my harvest gratis. 

Am. Thou art still 

A fiend ! 

Cxs. And thou — a man. 
Arn. Why, such I fain would show me. 
Cxs. True — as men are. 

Arn. And what is that ? 

Cxs. Thou feelest and thou see'sf. 

[Exit Arnold, joining in the combat which still 
continues between detached parties. The 
scene closes. 

SCENE III. 

St. Peter^s— The Interior of the Church— The Pope 
at the Altar — Priests, ffC. crowding in confusion, 
and Citizens flying for refuge, pursued ly Sol- 
diery. 



Scene III.] 



A DRAMA. 



399 



Enter Cxsar. 

A Spanish Soldier. Down with them, comrades! 
seize upon those lamps ! 
Cleave yon bald-pated shaveling to the chine ! 
His rosary 's of gold ! 

LiUheran Soiditr. Revenge ! revenge ! 
Plunder hereafter, but for vengeance now — 
Yonder stands Anti-Christ ! 

Cass, (interposing). How now, schismatic ? 
What would'st thou ? 

Luth. Sold. In the holy name of Christ, 

Destroy proud Anti-Christ. I am a Christian. 

Cses. Yea, a disciple that would make the founder 
Of your belief renounce it, could he see 
Such proselytes. Best stint ihyself to plunder. 

Luth. Sold. I say he is the devil. 

Cms. Hush ! keep that secret, 

Lest he should recognize you for his own. 

Luth. Sold. Why would you save him ? I repeat he is 
The devil, or the devil's vicar upon earth. 

Cxs. And that 's the reason : would you make a 
quarrel 
With your best friends ? You had far best be quiet: 
His hour is not vet come. 

Luth. Sold. ' That shall be seen ! 

[The Lutheran Soldier rushes forward: a shot 
strikes him from one of the Papers Guards, 
a7id he falls at the foot of the Altar. 

Cxs. (to the Lutheran). I told you so. 

Luth. Sold. And will you not avenge me ? 

C3es. Not I ! You know that " Vengeance is the 
Lord's : » 
You see he loves no interlopers. 

Luth. Sold, (dying). Oh ! 

Had 1 but slain him, I had gone on high, 
Crown'd with eternal glory ! Heaven, forgive 
My feebleness of arm that reach'd him not. 
And take thy servant to thy mercy. 'T is 
A glorious triumph still ; proud Babylon 's 
No more ; the Harlot of the Seven Hills 
Hath changed her scarlet raiment for sackcloth 
And ashes ! [The Lutheran dies. 

Cses. Yes, thine own amidst the rest. 
Well done, old Babel ! 

[The Guards defend themselves desperately, while 
the Pontiff escapes, by a private passage, to 
the Vatican and the Castle of St. Angela.^ 

Cses. Ha ! right nobly baitled ! 

Now, priest ! now, soldier ! the two great professions. 
Together by the ears and hearts ! I tiave not 
Seen a more comic pantomime since Titus 
Took Jewry. But the Romans had the best then ; 
Now they must take their turn. 

Soldiers. He hath escaped ! 

Follow ! 

Another Sold. They have barr'd the narrow pas- 
sage up. 
And it is clogg'd with dead even to the door. 

Cass. I am glad he hath escaped : he may thank me 
for't 
In part. I would not have his bulls abolish'd — 
'T were worth one-half our empire : his indulgences 
Demand some in return ; — no, no, he must not 
Fall ; — and besides, his now escipe may furnish 
A future miracle, in future proof 
Of his infallibility. [To the Spanish Soldiery. 

Well, cut-throats ! 
What do you pause for ? If you make not haste, 
There will not be a link of pious gold left. 
And you, too, Catholics ! Would ye return 
From such a pilgrimage without a relic ? 

1 The castle of St. Angelo was besieged from the 6th 
of May, to the 5th of June, during which time, slaughter 
and desoLition, accompanied with every excess of im- 
piety, rapine, and lust, on the side of the imperialists, 
devastated the city of Rome. For this picture of horrors, 
see especially the " Sackage of Rome," by Jacopo Buona- 
parte, " gentiluomo Samminiate^^e, che vi se trovo pre- 
sente," and "Life of Cellini," vol. i. p. 124. — E. 



I The very Lutherans have more true devotion : 
See how they strip the shrines ! 

Soldiers. By holy Peter ! 

He speaks the truth j the heretics will bear 
The best away. 

Cses. And that were shame ! Go to ! 

Assist in their conversion. 

[The Soldiers disperse; many quit the Church, 
others enter. 

Cses. They are gone, 

And others come : so flows the wave on wave 
Of what these creatures call eternity, 
Deeming themselves the breakers of the ocean, 
While they are but its bubbles, ignorant 
That foam is their foundation. So, another I 

Enter Olimpia, flying from the pursuit— She springs 
upon the Altar. 

Sold. She 's mine ! 

Another Sold, (opposing the former). You lie, I 
track'd her first; and were she 
The Pope's niece, I '11 not yield her. [They fight. 

3d Sold, (advancing towards Olimpia). You may 
settle 
Your claims ; I 'II make mine good. 

Olimp. Infernal slave ! 

You touch me not alive. 
3d Sold. Alive or dead ! 

Olimp. (embracing a massive crucifix). Respect 

your God ! 
3d Sold. Yes, when he shines in gold. 

Girl, you but grasp your dowry. 

[As he advances, Olimpia, with a strong and 
sudden effort, casts down the crucifix: it 
strikes the Soldier, who falls. 
3d Sold. Oh, great God ! 

Olimp. Ah ! now you recognize him. 
3d Sold. My brain 's crush'd ! 

Comrades, help, ho ! All 's darkness ! [He dies. 

Other Soldiers (coming up). Slay her, although 
she had a thousand lives: 
She hath kill'd our comrade. 

Olimp. Welcome such a death ! 

You have no life to give, which the worst slave 
Would take. Great God 1 through thy redeeming Son, 
And thy Son's Mother, now receive me as 
I would approach thee, worthy her, and him, and thee ! 

Enter Arnold. 

Am. What do I see ? Accursed jackals ! 
Forbear. 

Cses. (aside, and laughing). Ha ! ha ! here 's equity! 
The dogs 
Have as much right as he. But to the issue ! 

Soldiers. Count, she hath slain our comrade. 

Am. With what weapon? 

Sold. The cross, beneath which he is crush'd; be- 
hold him 
Lie there, more like a worm than man ; she cast it 
Upon his head. 

Am. Even so ; there is a woman 

Worthy a brave man's liking. Were ye such. 
Ye would have honnur'd her. But get ye hence, 
And thank your meanness, other God you have none, 
For your existence. Had you touch'd a hair 
Of those dishevell'd locks, I would have thinn'd 
Your ranks more than the enemy. Away ! 
Ye jackals ! gnaw the bones the lion leaves. 
But not even these till he permits. 

A Sold, (murmuring). The lion 

i Might conquer for himself then. 



Am. (cuts him down). 



Mutineer ! 



Rebel in bell — you shall obey on earth ! 
j [The Soldiers assault Ai-nold. 

Am. Come on ! I 'm glad on 't ! I will show you, 
I slaves. 

How you should be commanded, and who led you 
I First o'er the wall you were so shy to scale. 



400 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. [Part II. 



Until I waved my banners from its height, 
As you are bold wiihin it. 

[Arnold mows down the foremost ; the rest 
throw down their arms. 

Soldiers. Mercy ! mercy ! 

Am. Then learn to grant it. Have I taught you 
who 
Led you o'er Rome's eternal battlements ? 

Soldiers. We saw it, and we know it ; yet forgive 
A moment's error in the heat of conquest — 
The conquest which you led to. 

Arn. Get you hence ! 

Hence to your quarters ! you will find them fix'd 
In the Colonna palace, 

Olimp. {aside). In my father's 
House ! 

Arn. (to the Soldiers). Leave your arms ; ye have 
no further need 
Of such : the city 's render'd. And mark well 
You keep your hands clean, or I '11 find out a stream 
As red as Tiber now runs, for your baptism. 

Soldiers (deposing their arms and departing). We 
obey ! 

Arn. (to Olimpia). Lady, you are safe. 

Olimp. I should be so, 

Had I a knife even ; but it matters not — 
Death huh a thousand gates ; and on the marble, 
Even at the altar foot, whence I look down 
Upon destruction, shall my hend be dash'd, 
Ere thou ascend it. God forgive thee, man ! 

Arn. I wish to merit his forgiveness, and 
Thine own, although I have not injured ihee. 

Olimp. No ! Thou hast only sack'd my native land, — 
No injury ! — and made my father's house 
A den of thieves ! No inj ury ! — this temple — 
Slippery wiih Roman and with holy gore — 
No injury ! And now thou wouldst preserve me, 

To be but that shall never be ! 

[She raises her eyes to Heaven, folds her robe 
round her, and prepares to dash herself 
down on the side of the Altar opposite to 
that where Arnold stands. 

Arn. Hold! hold! 

I swear. 

Olimp. Spare thine already forfeit soul 
A perjury for which even hell would loathe thee. 
I know thee. 

Arn. No, thou know'st me not ; I am not 
Of these men, though 

Olimp. I judge thee by thy mates ; 

It is for God to judge thee as thou art. 
I see thee purple with the blood of Rome ; 
Take mine, 't is all thou e'er shalt have of me, 
And here, upon the marble of this temple, 
Where (he baptismal font baptized me God's, 
I offer him a blood less holy 
But not less pure (pure as it left me then, 
A redeem'd infant) than the holy water 
The saints have sanctified ! 

[Olimpia waves her hand to Arnold with dis- 
dain, and dashes herself on the pavement 
from the Altar. 

Arn. Eternal God ! 

I feel thee now ! Help ! help ! She 's gone. 

Cses. (approaches). I am here. 

Arn. Thou ! but oh, snve her ! 

Cass, (assisting him to raise Olimpia). She hath 
done it well ! 
The leap was serious. 

Arn. Oh ! she is lifeless ! 

Cxs. If 

She be so, I have nought to do with that : 
The resurrection is beyond me. 

Arn. Slave ! 

Cxs. Ay, slave or master, 't is all one: methinks 
Good words, however, are as well at times. 

Arn. Words ! — Canst thou aid her ? 
Cies. I will try. A sprinkling 

Of that same holy water may be useful. 

[He brings some in his helmet from the font. 



Arn. 'T is mix'd with blood. 

Cses. There is no cleaner now 

In Rome. 

Arn. How pale ! how beautiful ! how lifeless! 
Alive or dead, thou essence of all beauty, 
I love but thee ! 

Cies. Even so Achilles loved 

Penthesilea: with his form it seems 
You have his heart, and yet it was no soft one. 

Am. She breathes ! But no, 't was nothing, or the 
last 
Faint flutter life disputes with death. 

Cxs. > She breathes. 

Arn. Thou say'st it ? Then 't is truth. 

Cxs. You do me ^'ight — 

The devil speaks truth much oflener than be 's 

deem'd: 
He hath an ignorant audience. 

Arn. (without attending to him). Yes ! her heart 
beats. 
Alas ! that the first beat of the only heart 
I ever wish'd to beat with mine should vibrate 
To an assassin's pulse. 

Cxs. A sage reflection, 

But somewhat late i' the day. Where shall we bear 

her? 
I say she lives. 

Arn. And will she live ? 

Cies. As much 

As dust can. 

Arn. Then she is dead ! 

Cxs. Bah ! bah ! You are so, 

And do not know it. She will come to life — 
Such as you think so, such as you now are; 
But we must work by human means. 

Arn. We will 

Convey her unto the Colonna palace. 
Where I have pitch'd my banner. 

Cxs. Come then ! raise her up ! 

Arn. Softly! 

Cxs. As softly as they bear the dead, 

Perhaps because they cannot feel the jolting. 

Arn. But doth she live indeed ? 

Cxs. Nay, never fear ! 

But, if you rue it after, blame not me. 

A)"n. Let her but live ! 

Cxs. The spirit of her life 

Is yet within her breast, and may revive. 
Coun* ! count ! I am your servant in all things. 
And this is a new office : — 't is not oft 
I am employ"d in such ; but you perceive ' 
How staunch a friend is what you call a fiend. 
On earth you have often only fiends for friends ; 
Now / desert not mine. Soft ! bear her hence, 
The beautiful half-clay, and nearly spirit ! 
I am almost enamour'd of her, as 
Of old the angels of her earliest sex. 

Arn. Thou ! 

Cxs. I ! But fear not. I '11 not be your rival. 

Arn. Rival I 

Cxs. I could be one right formidable; 

But since I slew the seven husbands of 
Tobias' future bride (and after all 
'T was suck'd out by some incense), I have laid 
Aside intrigue : 't is rarely worth the trouble 
Of gaining, or — what is more difficult — 
Getting rid of your prize again ; for there 's 
The rub ! at least to mortals. 

Am. Prithee, peace ! 

Softly ! methinks her lips move, her eyes open ! 

Cxs. Like stars, no doubt ; for that 's a metaphor 
For Lucifer and Venus. 

Arn. To the palace 

Colonna, as I told you ! 

Cxs. Oh ! I know 

My way through Rome. 

Am. Now onward, onward ! Gently. 

[Exeunt, hearing Olimpia. The sceiie closes. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



401 



PART III. 

SCENE I. 

A Castle in the Apennines, surrounded by a wild but 
smiling country. Chorus of Peasants singing 
befoie the Gates. 

CHORUS. 

1. 

The wars are over, 

The spring is come ; 
The bride and her lover 
Have sought their home : 
They are happy, we rejoice ; 
Let their hearts have an echo in every voice ! 



The spring is come ; the violet 's gone^ 

The first-born child of the early sun : 

With us she is but a winter's flower. 

The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower, 

And she lifts up her dewy eye of blue 

To the youngest sky of the self-same hue. 

3. 

And when the spring comes with- her host 
Of flowers, that flower beloved the most 
Shrinks from the crowd that may confuse 
Her heavenly odour and virgin hues. 

4. 
Pluck the others, but still remember 
Their herald out of dim December — 
The morning star of all the flowers, 
The pledge of day-light's lengthen'd hours; 
Nor, 'midst the roses, e'er forget 
The virgin, virgin violet. 

Enter Caesar. 

CaM. (singing). The wars are all over, 

Our swords are all idle, 

The steed bites the bridle. 
The casque 's on the wall. 
There 's rest for the rover ; 



But his armour is rusty. 

And the veteran grows crusty, 
As he yawns in the hall. 

He drinks — but what 's drinking ? 

A mere pause from thinking ! 
No bugle awakes him with life-and-death call. 

CHORUS. 

But the hound bayeth loudly, 

The boar's in the wood. 
And the falcon longs proudly 

To spring from her hood : 
On the wrist of the noble 

She sits like a crest, 
And the air is in trouble 

With birds from their nest. 

Cass. Oh ! shadovir of glory ! 

Dim image of war ! 
But the chase hath no story, 

Her hero no star, 
Since Nimrod, the founder 

Of empire and chase, 
Who made the woods wonder 

And quake for their race. 
When the lion was young. 

In the pride of his might. 
Then 't was sport for the strong 

To embrace him in fight; 
To go forth, with a pine 

For a spear, 'gainst the mammoth, 
Or strike through the ravine 

At the foaming behemoth ; 
While man was in stature 

As towers in our time. 
The first-born of Nature, 

And, like her, sublime ! 

CHORUS. 

But the wars are over. 
The spring is come; 
The bride and her lover 
Have sought their home : 
They are happy, and we rejoice ; 
Let their hearts have an echo from every voice ! 

[Exeunt the Peasantry, singing. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE: 

A ROMAUNT. 



L'univers est une espece de livre, dont on n'a lu que la premiere page quand on n'a vu que son pays. J'en ai 
feuillete un assez grand nombre, que j'ai trouve egalement mauvaises. Get examen ne m'a point ete infructueux. 
Je haissais ma patrie. Toutes les impertinences des peuples divers, parmi lesquels j'ai vecu, m'ont reconcilie avec 
elle. Quand je n'aurais tire d'autre benefice de mes voyages que celui-la, je n'en regretteraie ni les frais ni les 
fatigues. LE COSMOPOLITE. 



PREFACE 
[to the FIRST AND SECOND CANTOS]. 



The following poem was written, for the most part, 
amidst the scenes which it attempts to describe. It 
was begun in Albania ; and the parts relative to Spain 
and Portugal were composed from the author's obser- 
vations in those countries. Thus much it may be 
necessary to state for the correctness of the descrip- 
tions. The scenes attempted to be sketched are in 
Spain, Portugal, Epirus, Acarnania, and Greece. 
There, for the present, the poem stops : its reception 
will determine whether the author may venture to 
conduct his readers to the capital of the East, through 
Ionia and Phrygia : these two cantos are merely ex- 
perimental. 



I A fictitious character is introduced for the sake of 
giving some connection to the piece; which, however, 
makes no pretension to regularity. It has been sug- 
gested to me by friends, on whose opinions I set a 
high value, that in this fictitious character, "Childe 
Harold," I may incur the suspicionof having intended 
some real personage : this I beg leave, once for all, to 
disdain* — Harold is the child of imagination, for the 
purpose I have stated. In some very trivial particu- 
lars, and those merely local, there might be grounds 
for such a notion ; but in the main points, I should 
hope, none whatever. 

It is almost superfluous to mention that the appella- 
tion " Childe," as " Childe Waters," " Childe Chil- 
ders," &c., is used as more consonant with the old 
structure of versification which I have adopted. The 
''Good Night," in the beginning of the first canto. 



34* 



26 



402 



CHILD HAROLD'S 



was suga;e3ted by "Lord Maxwell's Good Night," in 
the Border Minstrelsy, edited by Mr. Scott. 

With the ditfereut poems which have been publish- 
ed on Spanish subjects, there may be found someslight 
coincidence in the first part, which treats of the Penin- 
sula, but it can only be casual ; as, with the exception 
of a few concluding stanzas, the whole of this poem 
was written in the Levant. 

The stanza of Spenser, a<;cordiug to one of our most 
successful poets, admits of every variety. Dr. Beattie 
makes the following observation : — " Not long ago, I 
began a poem in the style and stanza of Spenser, in 
which I propose to give full scope to my inclination, 
and be either droll or pathetic, descriptive or senti- 
mental, tender or satirical, as the humour striljes me ; 
for, if I mistake not, the nneasure which I have adopt- 
ed admits equally of all the^e kinds of composition." i 
— Strengthened in my opinion by such authority, and 
by the example of some in the highest order of Italian 
poets, I shall make no apology for attempts at similar 
variations in the following composition ; satisfied that 
if they are unsuccessful, their failure must be in the 
execution, rather than in the design sanctioned by the 
practice of Ariosto, Thomson, and Beattie. 

London, February, 1812. 



ADDITION TO THE PREFACE. 

I have now waited till almost all our periodical 
journals have distributed their usual portion of criti- 
cism. To the justice of the generality of their criti- 
cisms I have nothing to object : it would ill become 
me to quarrel with their very slight degree of cen- 
sure, when, perhaps, if they had been less kind they 
had been more candid. Returning, therefore, to all 
and each my best thanks for their liberality, on one 
point alone shall I venture an observation. Amongst 
the many objections justly urged to the very indiffer- 
ent character of the " vagrant Childe " (whom, not- 
withstanding many hints to the contrary, I still main- 
tain to be a fictitious personage), it has been s'ated, 
that, besides the anachronism, he is very unknightly, 
as the times of the Knights were times of Love, 
Honour, and So forth. Now, it so happens that the 
good old times, when " I'amour du bon vieux tems, 
I'amour antique" flourished, were the most profligate 
of all possible centuries. Those who have any doubts 
on this subject may consult Sainte-Palaye, passim, and 
more particularly, vol. ii, p, 69. The vows of chival- 
ry were no better kept than any other vows whatso- 
ever ; and the songs of the Troubadours were not 
more decent, and certainly were much less refined, 
than those of Ovid. The " Cours d'amour, parlemens 
d'amour, ou de courtesie et de gentilesse" had much 
more of love than of courtesy or gentleness. See 
Roland on the same subject with Sainte-Palaye. What- 
ever other objection may be urged to that most un- 
amiable personage Childe Harold, he was so far per- 
fectly knightly in his attributes — " No waiter, but a 
knight templar." 2 By the by, I fear that Sir Tris- 
trem and Sir Lancelot were no better than they should 
be, although very poetical personages and true knights 
"sans peur." though not "sans reproche." If the 
story of the institution of the " Garter " be not a fable, 
the knights of that order have for several centuries 
borne the badge of a Countess of Salisbury, of indif- 
ferent memory. So much for chivalry. Burke need 
not have regretted that its days are over, though 
Marie-Antoinette was quite as chaste as most of those 
in whose honours lances were shivered, and knights 
unhorsed. 

Before the days of Bayard, and down to those of 
Sir Joseph Banks (the most chaste and celebrated of 



1 Beattie's Letters. 

2 The Rovers, or the Double Arrangement. — [By 
Messrs. Canning and Frere; first published in the Auti- 
jacobin, or Weekly Examiner. — E.] 



ancient and modern times), few exceptions will be 
found to this statement ; and 1 fear a little investiga- 
tion will teach us not to regret these monstrous mum- 
meries of the middle ages. 

I now leave " Childe Harold " to live his day, such 
as he is ; it had been more agreeable, and certainly 
more easy, to have drawn an amiable character. It 
had been easy to varnish over his faults, to make him 
do more and express less, but he never was intended as 
an example, further than to show, that early perver- 
sion of mind and morals leads to satiety of pa-t plea- 
sures and disappointment in new ones, and that even 
the beauties of nature, and the stimulus of travel (ex- 
cept ambition, the most powerful of all excitements) 
are lost on a soul so constituted, or rather misdirected. 
Had I proceeded with the poem, this character would 
have deepened as he drew to the close ; for the outline 
which I once meant to fill up for him was, with some 
exceptions, the sketch of a modern Timon, perhaps a 
poetical Zeluco. 

London, 1813. 



TO IANTHE.3 

Not in those climes where I have late been straying, 
Though Beauty long hath there been matchless 

deem'd ; 
Not in those visions to the heart displaying 
Forms which it sighs but to have only dream'd, 
Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seem'd. 
Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek 
To paint those charms which varied as they beam'd — 
To such as see thee not my words were weak ; 
To those who gaze on thee what language could they 
speak? 

Ah ! may'st thou ever be what now thou art, 
Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring. 
As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart, 
Love's image upon earth without his wing, 
And guileless beyond Hope's imagining ! 
And surely she who now so fondly rears 
Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening, 
Beholds the rainbow of her future years, 
Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears. 

Young Peri 4 of the West ! — 't is well for me 
My years already doubly number thine; 
My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee, 
And safely view thy ripening beauties shine ; 
Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline ; 
Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed, 
Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign 
To those whose admiration shall succeed. 
But mix'd with pangs to Love's even loveliest hours 
decreed. 

Ohl let that eye, which, wild as the Gazelle's, 5 
Now brightly bold or beautifully shy, 
Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells, 
Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny 
That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh 
Could I to thee be ever more than friend : 
This much, dear maid, accord ; nor question why 
To one so young my strain I would commend. 
But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend. 



3 The Lady Charlotte Harley, second daughter of Ed- 
ward fifth Earl of Oxford (now Lady Charlotte Bacon), in 
the autumn of 1812, when these lines were addressed to 
her, had not completed her eleventh year. Mr. Westall's 
portrait of the juvenile beauty, painted at Lord Byron's 
request, is engraved in " Finden's Illustrations of the 
Life and Works of Lord Byron." — E. 

4 Peri, the Persian term for a beautiful intermediate 
order of bein°s, is generally supposed to be another form 
of our own word Fairy, — E. 

5 A species of the antelope. " You have the eyes of a 
gazelle." is considered all over the East as the greatest 
compliment that can be paid to a woman. — - E. 



Canto I.] 



PILGRIMAGE. 



403 



Such is thy name with this my verse entwined ; 
And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast 
On Harold's page, lanthe's here enshrined 
Sha'l thus be first beheld, forgotten last : 
My days once number'd, should this homage past 
Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre 
Of him who hail'd thee, loveliest as thou wast, 
Such is the most my memory may desire ; 
Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship 
less require ? 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



CANTO THE FIRST. 



Oh, thou ! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth, 
Muse ! form'd or fabled at the minstrel's will ! 
Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth, 
•Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill : 
Yet there I 've wander'd by thy vaunted rill ; 
Yes ! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long "deserted shrine,*- 
Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still j 
Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine 
To grace so plain a tale — this lowly lay of mine. 

II. 

Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth, 
"Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight ; 
But spent his days in riot most uncouth. 
And vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of Night. 
Ah me ! in sooth he was a shameless wight. 
Sore given to revel and ungodly glee ; 
Few earthly things found favour in his sight 
Save concubines and carnal companie. 
And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree. 

III. 

Childe Harold was he hight : — but whence his 
name 

And lineage long, it suits me not to say ; 

Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame. 

And had been glorious in another day : 

But one sad losel soils a name for aye, 

However mighty in the olden time ; 

Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, 

Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme, 
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. 
IV. 

Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide sun. 

Disporting there like any other fly ; 

Nor deem'd before his little day was done 

One blast might chill him into misery. 

But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by. 

Worse than adversity the Childe befell ; 

He felt the fulness of satiety : 

Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, 
Which seem'd to him more lone than Eremite'is sad 
cell. 

V. 

For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run. 

Nor made atonement when he did amiss, 



1 The little village of Castri stands partly on the site of 
Delphi. Along the path of the mountain, from Chrysso, 
are the remains of sepulchres hewn in and from the rock. 
"One," said the guide, " of a king who broke his neck 
hunting." His majesty had certainly chosen the fittest 
spot for such an achievement. A litUe above Castri is a 
cave, supposed the Pythian, of immense depth; the upper 
part of it is paved, and now a cow-house. On the other 
side of Castri stands a Greek monastery; some way above 
which is the cleft in the rock, with a range of caverns 
difficult of ascent, and apparently leading to the interior 
of the mountain ; probably to the Corycian Cavern men- 
tioned by Pausanias. From this part descend the foun- 
tain and the " Dews of Castalie." 



Had sigh'd to many though he loved but one, 
And that loved one, alas ! could ne'er be his. 
Ah, happy she ! to 'scape from him whose kiss 
Had been pollution unto aught so chaste ; 
Who soon had left her charins for vulgar bliss, 
And spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his waste, 
Nor calm domestic peace had ever deign'd to taste. 

VI. 

And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart, 
And from his fellow bacchanals would fiee; 
'T is said, at times the sullen tear would start. 
But Pride congeal'd the drop within his ee: 
Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie. 
And from his native land resolved to go, 
And visit scorching climes beyond the sea; 
With pleasure drugg'd, he almost long'd for woe, 
And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades 
below. 

VII. 

The Childe departed from his fathers' hall : 
It was a vast and venerable pile; 
So old, it seemed only not to fall, 
Yet strength was pillar'd in each massy aisle. 
Monastic dome ! condemn'd to uses vile ! 
Where Superstition once had made her den 
Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile; 
And monks might deem their time was come agen. 
If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men. 

VIII. 

Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood 
Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's 

brow. 
As if the memory of some deadly feud 
Or disappointed passion lurk'd below : 
But this none knew, nor haply cared to know ; 
For his was not that open, artless soul 
That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow, 
Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, 
Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not con- 
trol. 

IX. 

And none did love him — though to hall and bower 
He gather'd revellers from far and near, 
He knew them flatt'rers of the festal hour ; 
The heartless parasites of present cheer. 
Yea ! none did love him — not his lemans dear — 
But pomp and power alone are woman's care. 
And where these are light Eros finds a feere ; 
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare. 
And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might 
despair. 

X, 

Childe Harold had a mother — not forgot, 
Though parting from that mother he did shun ; 
A sister whom he loved, but saw her not 
Before his weary pilgrimage begun : 
If friends he had, he bade adieu to none. 
Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel : 
Ye, who have known what 't is to dote upon 
A few dear objects, will in sadness feel 
Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal. 

XL 

His house, his home, his heritage, his lands. 
The laughing dames in whom he did delight. 
Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy bands. 
Might shake the saintship of an anchorite. 
And long had fed his youthful appetite; 
His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine. 
And all that mote to luxury invite. 
Without a sigh he left, to cross the brine. 
And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's central 
line, a 



2 Lord Byron originally intended to visit India.— E. 



m^tim 



404 



CHILDE HAROLD'S 



[Canto I. 



XII. 

The sails were fiU'd, and fair the light winds blew, 
As glad to waft him from his native home ; 
And fast the white rocks faded from his view, 
And soon were lost in circumambient foam : 
And then, it may be, of his wish to roam 
Repented he, but in his bosom slept 
The silent thought, nor from his lips did come 
One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept, 
And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept. 

XIII. 
But when the sun was sinking in the sea 
He seized his harp, which he at times could string, 
And strike, albeit with untaught melody. 
When deem'd he no strange ear was listening : 
And now his fingers o'er it he did fling, 
And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight. 
While flew the vessel on her snowy wing. 
And fleeting shores receded from his sight. 
Thus to the elements he pour'd his last " Good Night." 

1. 

" Adieu, adieu ! my native shore 

Fades o'er the waters blue ; 
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, 

And shrieks the wild sea-mew. 
Yon sun that sets upon the sea 

We follow in his flight ; 
Farewell awhile to him and thee. 

My native Land — Good Night ! 

2. 
" A few short hours and he will rise 

To give the morrow birth ; 
And I shall hail the main and skies, 

But not my mother earth. 
Deserted is my own good hall, 

Its hearth is desolate ; 
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall ; 

My dog howls at the gate. 
3. 
" Come hither, hither, my little page ! i 

Why dost thou weep and wail ? 
Or dost thou dread the billows' rage, 

Or tremble at the gale ? 
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye j 

Our ship is swift and strong : 
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly 

More merrily along." 



' Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, 

I fear not waves nor wind : 
Yet marvel not. Sir Childe, that I 

Am sorrowful in mind ; 2 
For I have from my father gone, 

A mother whom I love. 
And have no friend, save these alone, 

But thee — and one above. 



1 This "little page" was Robert Rushton, the son of 
one of Lord Byron's tenants. "Robert I take with me," 
says the poet, in a letter to his mother; " I like him, be- 
cause, like myself, he seems a friendless animal : tell hig 
father he is well, and doing well." — E. 

2 Seeing that the boy was •* sorrowful " at the separa- 
tion from his parents, Lord Byron, on reaching Gibraltar, 
sent him back to England, nnder the care of his old ser- 
vant Joe Murray. " Pray," he says to his mother, " show 
the lad every kindness, as he is my great favourite." He 
also wrote a letter to the father of the boy, which leaves 
a most favourable impression of his thoughtfulness and 
kindliness. "I have," he says, "sent Robert home, be^ 
cause the country which I am about to travel through is 
in a state which renders it unsafe, particularly for one so 
young. I allow you to deduct from your rent five and 
twenty pounds a year for his education, for three years, 
provided I do not return before that time; and I desire 
he may be considered as in my service. He has behaved 
extremely well." — E. 



' My father bless'd me fervently, 

Yet did not much complain ; 
But sorely will my mother sigh 

Till I come back again.' — 
" Enough, enough, my little lad ! 

Such tears become thine eyej 
If I thy guileless bosom had,' 

Mine own would not be dry." 
6. 
" Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,a 

Why dost thou look so pale ? 
Or dost thou dread a French foeman ? 

Or shiver at the gale ? " — 
' Deem'st thou 1 tremble for my life ? 

Sir Childe, I 'm not so weak; 
But thinking on an absetjt wife 

Will blanch a faithful cheek. 
7. 
< My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, 

Along the bordering lake. 
And when they on their father call, 

What answer shall she make ? ' — 
"Enough, enough, my yeoman good, 

Thy grief let none gainsay ; 
But I, who am of lighter mood. 

Will laugh to flee away. 

8. 
" For who would trust the seeming sighs 

Of wife or paramour? 
Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes 

We late saw streaming o'er. 
For pleasures past I do not grieve. 

Nor perils gathering near ; 
My greatest grief is that I leave 

No thing that claims a tear. 



" And now I 'm in the world alone, 

Upon the wide, wide sea: 
But why should I for others groan, 

When none will sigh for me ? 
Perchance my dog will whine in vain, 

Till fed by stranger hands ; 
But long ere I come back again, 

He 'd tear me where he stands. 
10. 
" With thee, my bark, I '11 swiftly go 

Athwart the foaming brine ; 
Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, 

So not again to mine. 
Welcome, welcome, ye dark -blue waves ! 

And when you fail my sight. 
Welcome, ye'deserts, and ye caves ! 

My native Land — Good Night ! " 

XIV. 

On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone, 
And winds are rude in Biscay's sleepless bay. 
Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon, 
New shores descried make every bosom gay ; 
And C intra 's mountain greets them on their way. 
And Tagus dashing onward to the deep, 
His fabled golden tribute bent to pay ; 
And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap, 
And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics 
reap. 

X\'. 
Oh, Christ ! it is a goodly sight to see 
What Heaven hath done for this delicious land ! 



3 William Fletcher, the faithful valet:— who, after a 
service of twenty years, ("during which," he says, "hie 
Lord was more to him than a father,") received the Pt7- 
grim's last words at Missolonehi, and did not quit his re- I 
mains, until he had seen them deposited in the family j 
vault at Hucknall. Fletcher died in 1840. — E. 



Canto I.] 



PILGRIMAGE. 



40i 



What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree ! 
What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand ! 
But man would mar them wi(h an impious hand : 
And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge 
'Gainst those who most transgress his high command, 
With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge 

Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foemen 
purge. 

XVI. 
What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold ! 
Her image floating on that noble tide, 
Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold, 
But now whereon a thousand keels did ride 
Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied, 
And to the Lusians did her aid afford : 
A nation swoln with ignorance and pride, 
Who lick yet loathe the hand that waves the sword 

To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing 
lord. 

XVII. 
But whoso enfereth within this town, 
That, sheening far, celestial seems to be, 
Disconsolate will wander up and down, 
'Mid many things unsightly to strange ee : 
For hut and palace show like filthily : 
The dingy denizens are rear'd in dirt ; 
No personage of high or mean degree 
Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt, 

Though shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, un- 
wash'd, unhurt. 

XVIII. 

Poor, paltry slaves ! yet born 'midst noblest scenes- 
Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men ? 
Lo ! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes 
In variegated maze of mount and glen. 
Ah, me ! what hand can pencil guide, or pen, 
To follow half on which the eye dilates 
Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken 
Than those whereof such things the bard relates. 
Who to the awe-struck world unlock'd Elysium's 
gates ? 

XIX. 

The horrid crags, by toppling convent crown'd, 
The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep, 
The mountain-moss by scorching skies imbrown'd. 
The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep, 
The tender azure of the unruffled deep, 
The orange tints that gild the greenest bough. 
The torrents that from cliff to valley leap. 
The vine on high, the willow branch below, 
Mix'd in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow. 

XX. 

Then slowly climb the many winding way. 
And frequent turn to linger as you go. 
From loftier rocks new loveliness survey, 
And rest ye at " Our Lady's house of woe ; " i 
Where frugal monks their little relics show. 
And sundry legends to the stranger tell : 
Here impious men have punish'd been, and lo ! 
Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell. 
In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a Hell. 



1 The convent of " Our Lady of Punishment," iVbssa 
Senora de Pena, on the summit of the rock. Below, at 
some distance, is the Cork Convent, where St. Honorius 
dug his den, over which is his epitaph. From the hills, 
the sea adds to the beauty of the view. — Note to 1st Edi- 
tion. — Since the publication of this poem, 1 have been 
informed of the misapprehension of the term JVossa Se- 
nora de Pena. It was owing to the want of the tilde or 
mark over the n, which alters the signification of the 
word: with it, Pena 8igni.*ie8 a rock; without it, Pena 
has the sense I adopted. / do not think it necessary to 
alter the passage ; as though the common acceptation af- 
fixed to it is " Our Lady of the Rock," I may well as- 
sume the other sense from the severities practised there. 
—Note to 2d Edition. 



XXI. 

And here and there, as up the crags you spring, 
Mark many rude-carved crosses near the path : 
Yet deem not these devotion's ofifering — 
These are memorials frail of murderous wrath: 
For wheresoe'er the shrieking victim hath 
Pour'd forth his blood beneath the assassin's knife, 
Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath ; 
And grove and glen with thousand such are rife 
Throughout this purple land, where law secures not 
life. 2 

XXII. 

On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath. 
Are domes where whilome kings did make repair; 
But now the wild flowers round them only breathe j 
Yet ruin'd splendour still is lingering there. 
And yonder towers the Prince's palace fair : 
There thou too, Vathek ! England's wealthiest son. 
Once form'd thy Paradise, as not aware 
When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath done. 
Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to shun. 

XXIII. 

Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure plan. 
Beneath yon mountain's ever beauteous brow : 
But now, as if a thing unblest by Man, 
Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as thou ! 
Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow 
To halls deserted, portals gaping wide : 
Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how 
Vain are the pleasaunces on earth supplied ; 
Swept into wrecks anon by Time's ungentle tide ! 

XXIV. 
Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened ! 3 
Oh ! dome displeasing unto British eye ! 
With diadem hight foolscap, lo ! a fiend, 
A little fiend that scoffs incessantly. 
There sits in parchment robe array'd, and by 
His side is hung a seal and sable scroll, 
Where blazon'd glare names known to chivalry, 
And sundry signatures adorn the roll, 
Whereat the Urchin points and laughs with all his 
soul. 

XXV. 

Convention is the dwarfish demon styled 
That foil'd the knights in Marialva's dome : 
Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled. 
And turn'd a nation's shallow joy to gloom. 
Here Folly dash'd to earth the victor's plume. 
And Policy regain'd what arms had lost : 
For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom ! 
Woe to the conqu'ring, not the conquer'd host, 
Since batHed Triumph droops on Lusitania's coast ! 

XXVI. 

And ever since that martial synod met, 

Britannia sickens, Cinfra ! at thy name ; 

And folks in oflSce at the mention fret, 

And fain would blush, if blush they could,for shame. 



2 It is a well-known fact, that in the year 1809, the as- 
sassinations in the streets of Lisbon, and its vicinity, were 
not confined by the Portuguese, to their countrymen ; but 
that Englishmen were daily butchered: and so far from 
redress being obtained, we were requested not to interfere 
if we perceived any compatriot defending himself against 
his allies. I was once stopped in the way to the theatre, 
at eight o'clock, in the evening, when the streets were 
not more empty than they generally are at that hour, 
opposite to an open shop, and in a carriage with a friend : 
had we not fortunately been armed, I have not the least 
doubt that we should have "adorned a tale" instead of 
telling one. The crime of assassination is not confined to 
Portugal : in Sicily and Malta, we are knocked on the 
head at a handsome average nightly, and not a Sicilian or 
Maltese is ever punished. 

3 The Convention of Cintra was signed in the palace of 
the Marchese Marialva. 



406 



CHILDE HAROLD'S 



[Canto I. 



How will posterity the deed proclaim ! 
Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer, 
To view these champions cheated of their fame, 
By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here, 
Where Scorn her linger points through many a com- 
ing year ? 

XXVII. 

So deem'd the Childe, as o'er the mountains he 
Did take his way in solitary guise : 
Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to fiee, 
More restless than the swallow in the skies : 
Though here awhile he learn'd to moralize, 
For Meditation fix'd at times on him ; 
And conscious Reason whisper'd to despise 
His early youth, misspent in maddest whim ; 
But as he gazed on truth his aching eyes grew dim. 

XXVIII. 

To horse ! to horse ! he quits, for ever quits 
A scene of peace, though soothing to his soul : 
Again he rouses from his moping fits, 
But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl. 
Onward he fiies, nor fix'd as yet the goal 
Where he shall rest him on his pilgrimage; 
And o'er him many changing scenes must roll 
Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuage. 
Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience sage. 

XXIX. 
Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay. 
Where dwelt of yore the Lusians' luckless queen ; i 
And church and court did mingle their array, 
And mass and revel were alternate seen ; 
Lordlings and freres — ill-sorted fry I ween ! 
But here the Babylonian whore hath built 2 
A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious sheen. 
That men forget the blood which she hath spilt. 
And bow the knee to Pomp that loves to varnish guilt. 

XXX. 

O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills, 
(Oh, that such hills upheld a freeborn race !) 
Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills, 
Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant 

place. 
Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase, 
And marvel men should quit their easy chair. 
The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace. 
Oh ! there is sweetness in the mountain air. 
And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share. 

XXXI. 

More bleak to view the hills at length recede. 

And, le^ luxuriant, smoother vales extend; 

Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed ! 

Far as the eye discerns, withouten end, 

Spain's realms appear whereon her shepherds tend 

Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader 

knows — 
Now must the pastor's arm his lambs defend : 
For Spain is compass'd by unyielding foes. 
And all must shield their all, or share Subjection's 



1 " Her luckless Majesty went subsequently mad ; and 
Dr. Willis, who so dexterously cudgelled kingly pericra- 
niums, could make nothing of hers."— Syrore MS. [The 
queen laboured under a melancholy kind of derangement, 
from which she never recovered. She died at the Brazils, 
in 1816.— E.] 

2 The extent of Mafra is prodigious : it contains a 
palace, convent, and most superb church. The six organs 
are the most beautiful I ever beheld, in point of decora- 
tion: we did not hear them, but were told that their 
tones were correspondent to their splendour. Mafra is 
termed the Escurial of Portugal. [Mafra was erected by 
John v., in pursuance of a vow, made in a dangerous fit 
of illness, to found a convent for the use of the poorest 
friary in the kingdom. Upon inquiry, this poorest was 
found at Mafra; where twelve Franciscans lived together 
in a hut. There is a magnificent view of the existing 
edifice in Finden's " Illustrations. "~E.] 



XXXII. 

Where Lusitania and her Sister meet, 

Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide ? 

Or ere the jealous queens of nations greet. 

Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide ? 

Or dark Sierras rise in craggy pride ? 

Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall ? — 

Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide, 

Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall, 

Rise like the rocks that part Hispania's land from 
Gaul: 

XXXIII. 
But these between a silver streamlet glides, 
And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook, 
Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides. 
Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook, 
And vacant on the rippling waves doth look, 
That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest foemen flow ; 
For proud each peasant as the noblest duke : 
Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know 

'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low. ^ 

XXXIV. 
But ere the mingling bounds have far been pass'd, 
Dark Guadiana rolls his power along 
In sullen billows, murmuring and vast, 
So noted ancient roundelays among. 
Whilome upon his banks did legions throng 
Of Moor and Knight, in mailed splendour drest : 
Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk the 

strong ; 
The Paynim turban and the Christian crest 
Mix'd on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts op- 



XXXV. 

Oh, lovely Spain ! renown'd, romantic land ! 
Where is that standard which Pelagio bore, 
When Cava's traitor-sire first calPd the band 
That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic gore ? * 
Where are those bloody banners which of yore 
Waved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale, 
And drove at last the spoilers to their shore ? 
Red gleam'd the cross, and waned the crescent pale, 

While Afric's echoes thrill'd with Moorish matrons' 
wail. 

XXXVI. 
Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale? 
Ah ! such, alas ! the" hero's amplest fate ! 
When granite moulders and when records fail, 
A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date. 
Pride ! bend thine eye from heaven to thine estate, 
See how the Mighty shrink into a song ! 
Can Volume, Pillar, Pile, preserve thee great? 
Or must thou trust Tradition's simple tongue, 

When Flattery sleeps with thee, and History does thee 
wrong ? 

XXXVII. 
Awake, ye sons of Spain ! awake ! advance I 
Lo ! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries; 
But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance. 
Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies : 
Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies. 
And speaks in thunder through yon engine's roar: 
In every peal she calls — " Awake ! arise ! " 
Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore, 

When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's shore ? 

3 Ab I found the Portuguese, so I have characterised 
them. That they are since improved, at least io courage, 
is evident. The late exploits of Lord Wellington, have 
effaced the follies of Cintra. He has, indeed, done won- 

' ders : he has, perhaps, changed the character of a nation, 
I reconciled rival superstitions, and baffled an enemy who 
I never retreated before his predecessors. — 1812. 

4 Count Julian's daughter, the Helen of Spain. Pela- 
gius preserved his independence in the fastnesses of the 
Asturias, and the descendants of his followers, after some 
centuries, completed their struggle by the conquest of 
Granada. 



Canto I.] 



PILGRIMAGE. 



407 



XXXVIII. 
Hark ! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note ? 
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath ? 
Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote ; 
Nor saved your brethren ere tliey sank beneath 
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves ?— the fires of death, 
The b >le-fires flash on high : — from rock to rock 
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe j 
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, 
Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock. 

XXXIX. 

Lo ! where the Giant on the mountain stands, 
His blood-red tresses deep'iiingin the sun, 
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands, 
And eye that s-corctieth ail it glares upon; 
Restless it rolls, now fix'd, and now anon 
Flashing afar,— and at his iron feet 
Destruction cowers, to m irk what deeds are done; 
For on this morn three potent nations meet. 
To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most 
sweet. 

XL. 

By Heaven ! it is a splendid sight to see 
(For one who hath no friend, no brother there) 
Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery. 
Their various arms that glitter in the air ! 
What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair, 
And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey ! 
All join the chase, but few the triumph share j 
The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, 
And Havoc scarce for joy can number their array. 

XLI. 

Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice ; 
Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high; 
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies ; 
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory ! 
The foe, the victim, and the fond ally 
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain. 
Are met — as if at home they could not die — 
To feed the crow on Talavera's plain, 
And fertilize the field that each pretends to gaiu. 

XLII. 

There shall they rot —Ambition's honour'd fools ! 
Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay ! 
Vain Sophistry ! in these behold the tools, 
The broken fools, that tyrants cast away 
By myriads, wtien they dare to pave their way 
With human hearls — to what ? — a dream alone. 
Can despots compass aught that hails their sway ? 
Or call with truth one span of earth tlieir own. 
Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone ? 

XLIII. 

Oh, Albuera, glorious field of grief! 
As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim prick'd his steed, 
Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief, 
A scene where minzling foes should boast and bleed ! 
Peace to the perish'd ! may the warrior's meed 
And tears of triumph their reward prolong ! 
Till others fill where other chieftains lead. 
Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng, 
And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient 
song. 

XLIV. 

Enough of Battle's minions ! let them play 
Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame : 
Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay. 
Though thousands fall lo deck some single name. 
In sooth 't were sad to ihwart their noble aim 
Who strike, bles' hirelings! for their country's good. 
And die, that living might have proved her shame j 
Perish'd, perchance, in some domestic feud. 
Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path pursued. 



XLV. 

Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way 
Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued : 
Yet is she free — the spoiler's wish'dfor prey ! 
SootJ, soon shall Conquest's fiery foot intrude, 
Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude. 
Inevitable hour ! "Gainst fate to strive 
Where Desolation plants her famish'd brood 
Is vain, or llion. Tyre might yet survive. 
And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to thrive. 

XLVI, 
But all unconscious of the coming doom. 
The feast, the song, the revel here abounds ; 
Strange modes of merriment the hours consume, 
Nor bleed these patriots with their country's wounds: 
Nor here War's clarion, but Love's rebeck i sounds ; 
Here Folly still his votaries enthralls; 
And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight 

rounds : 
Girt with the silent crimes of Capitals, 
Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tott'ring walls. 

XLVIL 

Not so the rustic — with his trembling mate 
He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar, 
Lest he should view his vineyard desolate, 
Blasted below the dun hot breath of war. 
No more beneath soft Eve's consenting star 
Fandango twirls his jocund Castanet : 
Ah, monarchs ! could ye taste the mirth ye mar, 
Not in the tnils of Glory would ye fret ; 

The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be happy 
yet! 

XLVIIL 
How carols now the lusty muleteer? 
Of love, romance, devotion is his lay, 
As vvhilome he was wont the leagues to cheer, 
His quick bells wildly jingling on the way ? 
No ! as he speeds, he chants " Viva el Rey ! " 3i 
And checks his song to execrate Godoy, 
The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day 
When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed boy, 

And gore-faced Treason sprung from her adulterate joy. 

XLIX. 

On yon long, level plain, at distance crown'd 
With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest, 
Wide scalter'd hoof-marks dint the wounded ground ; 
And, scathed by fire, the greensward's darken'd vest 
Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest : 
Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host, 
Here the bold peasant storm 'd the dragon's nest; 
Still does he mark it with triumphant boast. 
And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and 
lost. 

L. 
And whomsoe'er along the path you meet 
Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue. 
Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet : 3 
Woe to the man that walks in public view. 



1 A kind of fiddle, with only two strings, played on by 
a bow, said to have been brought by the Moors into 
Spain.— E. 

2 " Viva el Rey Fernando!" Long live King Ferdi- 
nand ! is the chorus of most of the Spanieh patriotic 
Rongs. They are chiefly in dispraise of the old king 
Chiirlea, the Queen, and the Prince of Peace. I have 
heard many of them : some of the airs are beautiful. 
Don Manuel Godoy, the Principe de la Pas, of an an- 
cient but decayed family, was bnrn at Badajoz, on the 
frontiers of Portugal, and was originally in the ranks of 
the Spanish guards; till his person attracted the queen's 
eyes, and raised him to the dukedom of Alcudla, <fec. Sec, 
It Is to this man that the Spaniards universally impute 
the ruin of their country. ~ [See, for ample particulars 
concerning the flagitious court of Charles IV., Southey's 
History of the Peninsular War, vol. i. — E.] 

3 The red cockade, with " Fernando Septimo," in the 
centre. 



408 



CHILDE HAROLD'S 



[Canto I. 



Without of loyalty this token true : 
Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke; 
And sorely would the Gallic foeman rue, 
If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloak, 
Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's 
80ioke. 

LI. 

At every turn Morena's dusky height 
Sustains aloft the battery's iron load ; 
And, far as mortal eye can compass sight, 
The mountain-howitzer, the broken road. 
The bristling palisade, the fosse o'erfloWd, 
The station'd bunds, the never-vacaut watch. 
The magazine in rocky durance stow'd. 
The bolstered steed beneath the shed of thatch, 
The ball-piled pyramid, i the ever-blazing match, 

LII. 

Portend the deeds to come : — but he whose nod 
Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway, 
A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod ; 
A little moment deigneth to delay : 
Soon will his legions sweep through these their way ; 
The West must own the Scourger of the world. 
Ah ! Spain ! how sad will be thy reckoning-day, 
When soars Gaul's Vulture, with his wings unfurl'd. 
And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades hurl'd. 

LIII. 

And must they fall ? the young, the proud, the brave, 
To swell one bloated Chiefs unwholesome reign? 
No step between submission and a grave ? 
The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain ? 
And doth the Power that man adores ordain 
Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal ? 
Is all that desperate Valour acts in vain ? 
And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal, 

The Veteran's skill. Youth's fire, and Manhood's heart 
of steel ? 

LIV. 
Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, 
Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, 
And, all unsex'd, the anlace hath espoused, 
Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war? 
And she, whom once the semblance of a scar 
Appall'd, an owlet's larum chill'd with dread. 
Now views the column-scattering bay'net jar, 
The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead 

Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might quake 
to tread. 

LV. 
Ye who shall marvel when you he^r her tale. 
Oh ! had you known her in her softer hour, 
Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil, 
Heard her light, lively tones in Lady's bower, 
Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power, 
Her fairy form, with more than female grace. 
Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower 
Beheld her smile in Danger's gorgon face. 

Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's fearful chase. 

LVI. 

Her lover sinks — she sheds no ill-timed fear; 
Her chief is slain — she fills his fatal post ; 
Her fellows flee — she checks their base career; 
The foe retires — she heads the sallying host: 
Who can appease like her a lover's ghost ? 
Who can avenge so well a leader's fall ? 
What maid retrieve when mans flush'd hope is lost ? 
Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, 
Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a batter'd wall ? 2 

1 All who have seen a battery will recollect the pyra- 
midal form in which shot and shells are piled. The 
Sierra Morena was fortified in every defile through which 
I passed in my way to Seville. 

2 Such were the exploits of the Maid of Saragoza, who 
by her valour elevated herself to the highest rank of 



LVII. 

Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons, 
But form'd for all the witching arts of love: 
Though thus in arms they emulate her sons, 
And in the horrid phalanx dare to move, 
'T is but the tender fierceness of the dove, 
Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate : 
In softness as in firmness far above 
Remoter females, famed for sickening prate ; 
Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as great. 

LVIII. 

The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impress'd 
Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch: 
Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest. 
Bid man be valiant ere he merit such : 
Her glance how wildly beautiful ! how much 
Hath Phoebus woo'd in vain to spoil her cheek, 
Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch ! 
Who round the North for paler dames would seek ? 
How poor their forms appear ! how languid, wan, and 
weak! 

LIX. 

Match me, ye climes ! which poets love to laud ; 
Match me, ye harems of the land ! where now 3 
I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud 
Beauties that ev'n a cynic must avow; 
Match me those Houries, whom ye scarce allow 
To taste the gale lest Love should ride the wind, 
With Spain's dark-glancing daughters — deign to 

know, 
There your wise Prophet's paradise we find, 
His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind. 

LX. 

Oh, thou Parnassus ! 4 whom I now survey, 
Not in the phrensy of a dreamer's eye, 
Not in the fabled landscape of a lay, 
But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky, 
In the wild pomp of mountain-majesty! 
What marvel if I thus essay to sing ? 
The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by 
Would gladly woo thine Echoes with his string, 
Though from thy heights no more one Muse will wave 
her wing. 

LXL 

Oft have I dream'd of Thee ! whose glorious name 
Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore: 
And now I view thee, 't is, alas ! with shame 
That I in feeblest accents must adore. 
When I recount thy worshippers of yore 
I tremble, and can only bend the knee ; 
Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, 
But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy 
In silent joy to think at last I look on Thee ! 

LXII. 

Hnppier in this than mightiest bards have been. 
Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot. 
Shall I unmoved behold the hallow'd scene, 
Which others rave of, though they know it not ? 



heroines. When the author was at Seville, she walked 
daily on the Prado, decorated with medals and orders, by 
command of the Junta.— [The exploits of Augustina, the 
famous heroine of both the sieges of Saragoza, are record- 
ed at length in one of the most splendid chapters of Soii- 
they's History of the Peninsular War. At the time 
when she first attracted notice, by mounting a battery 
where her lover had fallen, and working a gun in his 
room, she was in her twenty-second year, exceedingly 
pretty, and in a soft feminine style of beauty. She has 
further had the honour to be painted by Wilkie, and al- 
luded to in Wordsworth's Dissertation on the Convention 
(misnamed) of Cintro. — E.] 

3 This stanza was written in Turkey. 

4 These stanzas were written in Castri (Delphoe), at 
the foot of Parnassus, now called Liakura, Dec. 1609. 



Canto I.] 



PILGRIMAGE. 



409 



Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot, 
And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their grave, 
Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot. 
Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave, 
And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave. 

LXIII. 
Of thee hereafter.— Ev'n amidst my strain 
I turn'd aside to pay my homage here ; 
Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain j 
Her fate, to every freeborn bosom dear ; 
And hail'd thee, not perchance without a tear. 
Now to my theme — but from thy holy haunt 
Let me some remnant, some memorial bear ; 
Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant, 
Nor let thy votary's hope be deem'd an idle vaunt. 

LXIV. 
But ne'er didst thou, fair Mount ! when Greece was 

young. 
See round thy giant base a brighter choir. 
Nor e'er did Delphi, when her priestess sung 
The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fire, 
Behold a train more fitting to inspire 
The song of love than Andalusia's maids, 
Nurst in the glowing lap of soft desire : 
Ah ! that to these were given such peaceful shades 
As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly her glades. 

LXV. 

Fair is proud Seville ; let her country boast 
Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days ; i 
But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast. 
Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise. 
Ah, Vice ! how soft are thy voluptuous ways ! 
While boyish blood is mantling, who can 'scape 
The fascination of thy magic gaze ? 
A Cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape. 
And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape. 

LXVI. 

When Paphos fell by time — accursed Time ! 
The Queen who conquers all must yield to thee — 
The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime ; 
And Venus, constant to her native sea, 
To nought else constant, hither deign'd to flee ; 
And fix'd her shrine within these walls of white ; 
Though not to one dome circumscribeth she 
Her worship, but, devoted to her rite, 
A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright. 

LXVII. 

From morn till night, from night till startled Morn 
Peeps blushing on the revel's laughing crew, 
The song is heard, the rosy garland worn j 
Devices quaint, and frolics ever new, 
Tread on each other's kibes. A long adieu 
He bids to sober joy that here sojourns : 
Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu 
Of true devotion monkish incense burns, 
And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour by turns. 

LXVIII. 

The Sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest : 
What hallows it upon this Christian shore ? 
Lo ! it is sacred to a solemn feast : 
Hark ! heard you not the forest monarch's roar? 
Crashing the lance, he snufis the spouting gore 
Of man and steed, o'erthrovvn beneath his horn ; 
The throng'd arena shakes with shouts for more ; 
Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn. 
Nor shrinks the female eye, nor ev'n atiects to mourn. 

LXIX. 

The seventh day this ; the jubilee of man. 
London ! right well thou know'st the day of prayer : 
Then thy spruce citizen, vvash'd artisan, 
And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air : 



1 Seville was the Hispalis of the Romans. 



Thy co^ch of hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair, 
And humblest gig through sundry suburbs whirl j 
To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow make repair j 
Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl, 
Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl. 

LXX. 

Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribbon'd fair, 

Others along the safer turnpike fly ; 

Some Richmond-hill ascend, some scud to Ware, 

And many to the steep of Highgate hie. 

Ask ye, Boeotian shades ! the reason why ?a 

'T is to the worship of the solemn Horn, 

Grasp'd in the holy hand of Mystery, 

In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn, 

And consecrate the oath with draught, and dance till 
morn. 

LXXL 
All have their fooleries — not alike are thine, 
Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark-blue sea ! 
Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine. 
Thy saint adorers count the rosary : 
Much is the Virgin teased to shrive them free 
(Well do I ween the only virgin there) 
From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be j 
Then to the crowded circus forth they fare : 

Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion share, 

Lxxn. 

The lists are oped, the spacious area clear'd. 
Thousands on thousands piled are seated round ; 
Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard, 
Ne vacant space for lated wight is found ; 
Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound, 
Skill'd in the ogle of a roguish eye. 
Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound ; 
None through their cold disdain are doom'd to die, 
As moon-struck bards complain, by Love's sad archery. 

LXXHL 

Hush'd is the din of tongues — on gallant steeds. 
With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-poised 

lance, 
Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds, 
And lowly bending to the lists advance ; 
Rich are their scarfs, their chargers feafly prance : 
If in the dangerous game they shine to-day. 
The crowd's loud shout and ladies' lovely glance, 
Best prize of belter acts, they bear away, 
And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils repay. 

LXXIV. 

In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array 'd, 
But all afoot, the light-limb'd Matadors 
Stands in the centre, eager to invade 
The lord of lowing herds; but not before 
The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er, 
Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed : 
His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more 
Can man achieve without his friendly steed — 
Alas ! too oft condemn'd for him to bear and bleed. 

LXXV. 

Thrice sounds the clarion ; lo ! the signal falls, 
The den expands, and Expectation mute 
Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls. 
Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute, 
And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot. 
The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe : 
Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit 
His first attack, wide waving to and fro 
His angry tail ; red rolls his eye's dilated glow. 
LXXVI. 
Sudden he stops ; his eye is fix'd : away, 
Away, thou heedless boy ! prepare the spear : 

2 This was written at Thebes, and consequently in the 
best situation for asking and answering such a question ; 
not as the birthplace of Pindar, but as the capital of 
Beotia, where the first riddle was propounded and Bolved. 



410 



CHILDE HAROLD'S 



[Canto I. 



Now is thy time, to perish, or display 
The skill that yet may check his mad career. 
With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer; 
On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes; 
Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear: 
He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes ; 
Dart follows dart ; lance, lance ; loud bellowings speak 
his woes. 

LXXA^I. 
Again he comes ; nor dart nor lance avail, 
Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse ; 
Though man and man's avenging arms assail, 
Vain are his weapons, vaineris his force. 
One gallant steed is stretch'd a mangled corse ; 
Another, hideous sight ! nnseam'd appears, 
His gory chest unveils life's panting source ; 
Though death-struck, s'ill his feeble frame he rears ; 
Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharra'd he 
bears. 

LXXVIII. 

Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last. 

Full in the centre stands the bull at bay, 

'Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast, 

And foes disabled in the brutal fray : 

And now the Matadores around him play. 

Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand : 

Once more through all he bursts his thundering 

way — 
Vain rage ! the mantle quits the conynge hand, 
Wraps his fierce eye — 'tis past — he sinks upon the 

sand ! 

LXXIX. 

Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine, 
Sheathed in his form the deadfy weapon lies. 
He stops — he starts — disdaining to decline : 
Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries, 
Without a groan, without a struggle dies. 
The decorated car appears — on high 
The corse is piled — sweet sight for vulgar eyes — 
Four steeds Ihit spurn the rein, as swift as shy. 
Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing by. 

LXXX. 

Such the ungentle sport that oft invites 
The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain. 
Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights 
In vengeance, gloating on another's pain. 
What private feuds the troubled village stain ! 
Though now one phalanx'd host should meet the foe, 
Enough, alas ! in humbler homes remain. 
To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow. 
For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's warm 
stream must flow. 

LXXXI. 

But Jealousy has fled : his bars, his bolts, 
His wither'd sentinel, Duenna sage ! 
And all whereat the generous soul revolts, 
Which the sfern dotard deem'd he could encage, 
Have pass'd to darkness with the vanish'd age. 
Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen, 
(Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage,) 
With braided tresses bounding o'er the green, 
While on the gay dance shone Night's lover-loving 
Queen ? 

LXXXII. 

Oh ! many a time and oft, had Harold loved, 
Or dream'd he loved, since rapture is a dream ; 
But now his wayward bosom was unmoved, 
For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream ; 
And lately had he learn'd with truth to deem 
Love has no gift so grateful as his wings : 
How fair, how young, how soft soe'er he seem, 
Full from the fount of Joy's delicious springs 
Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom 
flings. 



Lxxxin. 

Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind, 
Though now it moved him as it moves the wise; 
Not that Philosophy on such a mind 
E'er deign'd to bend her chastely-awful eyes : 
But Passion raves itself to rest, or flies ; 
And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb. 
Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise : 
Pleasure's pall'd victim! life-abhorring gloom 
Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's unresting doom. 

LXXXIV. 

Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng; 
But view'd them not with misanihropic hate : 
Fain would he now have join'd the dance, the song ; 
But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate? 
Nought that he saw his sadness could abate : 
Yet once he struggled 'gainst the demon's sway. 
And as in Beauty's bower he pensive sate, 
Pour'd forth this unpremeditated lay, 
To charms as fair as those that soothed his happier 
day. 

TO INEZ. 
1. 

Nay, smile not at my sullen browj 

Alas ! I cannot smile again : 
Yet Heaven avert that ever thou 

Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain. 

2. 

And dost thou ask what secret woe 

I bear, corroding joy and youth? 
And wilt thou vainly seek to know 

A pang, ev'n thou must fail to soothe ? 

3. 

It Is not love, it is not hate, 

Nor low Ambition's honours lost, 

That bids me loathe my present state, 
And fly from all I prized the most : 



It is that weariness which springs 
From all I meet, or hear, or see : 

To me no pleasure Beauty brings ; 
Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me. 



It is that settled, ceaseless gloom 
The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore ; 

That will not look beyond the tomb, 
But cannot hope for rest before. 

6. 

What Exile from himself can flee ? 

To zones though more and more remote, 
Still, still pursues, where'er I be. 

The blight of life — the demon Thought. 



Yet others rapt in pleasure seem, 
And taste of all that I forsake ; 

Oh ! may they still of transport dream, 
And ne'er, at least like me, awake ! 

8. 
Through many a clime 'tis mine to go, 

With many a retrospection curst ; 
And all my solace is to know, 

Whate'er betides, I've known the worst. 



What is that worst ? Nay do not ask — 
In pity from the search forbear : 



itfk 



am 



Canto L] 



PILGRIMAGE. 



411 



Smile on — nor venture to unmask 
Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there.i 

LXXXV. 

Adieu, fair Cadiz ! yea, a long adieu ! 
Who may forget how well thy walls have stood ? 
"When all were changing thou alone wert true, 
First to be free and last to be subdued : 
And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude, 
Some native blood was seen thy streets to dye j 
A traitor only fell beneath the feud: a 
Here all were noble, save Nobility ; 
None hugg'd a conqueror's chain, save fallen Chivalry 



1 In place of this song, which was written at Athens, 
January 25, 1810, and which contains, as Moore says, 
"some of the dreariest touches of sadness that ever | 
Byron's pen let fall," we find, in the first draught of the 
Canto, the following : — 

1. 
Oh never talk again to me 

Of northern climes and British ladies; 
It has not been your lot to see. 

Like me, the lovely girl of Cadiz. 
Although her eye be not of blue. 

Nor fair her locks, like English lasses, 
How far its own expressive hue 
The languid azure eye surpasses I 
52. 
Prometheus-like, from heaven she stole 

The fire, that through those silken lashea 
In darkest glances seems to roll. 

From eyes that cannot hide their flashes: 
And as along her bosom steal 

In lengthen'd flow her raven tresses, 
You'd swear each clustering lock could feel, 
And curl'd to give her neck caresses. 



Our English maids are long to woo, 

And frigid even in possession; 
And if their charms be fair to view. 

Their lips are slow at Love's confession: 
But born beneath a brighter sun. 

For love ordain'd the Spanish maid is. 
And who,— when fondly, fairly won, — 

Enchants you like the Girl of Cadiz? 

4. 

The Spanish maid is no coquette, 

Nor joys to see a lover tremble, 
And if she love, or if she hate. 

Alike she knows not to dissemble. 
Her heart can ne'er be bought or sold — 

Howe'er it beats, it beats sincerely; 
And, though it will not bend to gold, 

'T will love you long and love you dearly. 
6. 
The Spanish girl that meets your love 

Ne'er taunts you with a mock denial, 
For every thought is bent to prove 

Her passion in the hour of trial. 
When thr'>nging foemen menace Spain, 

She dares the deed and shares the danger; 
And should her lover press the plain. 

She hurls the spear, her love's avenger. 



And when, beneath the evening star, 

She mingles in the gay Bolero, 
Or sings to her attuned guitar 

Of Christian knight or Moorish hero, 
Or counts her beads with fairy hand 

Beneath the twinkling rays of Hesper, 
- Or joins devotion's choral band. 

To chaunt the sweet and hallow'd vesper; — 

7. 
In each her charms the heart must move 

Of all who venture to behold her; 
Then let not maids less fair reprove 
Because her bosom is not colder : 
Through many a clime 'tis mine to roam 

Where many a soft and melting maid is. 
But none abroad, and few at home. 

May match the dark-eyed Girl of Cadiz. 
2 Alluding to the conduct and death of Solano, the 
governor of Cadiz, in May, 1809. 



LXXXVI. 

Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate ! 
They fight for freedom who were never free; 
A kingless people for a nerveless state, 
Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee. 
True to the veriest shves of Treachery: 
Fond of a land which gave them nought but life, 
Pride points the path that leads to Liberty ; 
Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife, 
War, war is still the cry, " War even to the knife ! " 3 

LXXXVII. 

Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know, 
Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife : 
Whate'er keen Vengeance urged on foreign foe 
Can act, is acting there against man's life : 
From flashing scimitar lo secret knife, 
War mouldeth there each weapon to his need — 
So may he guard the sister and the wife, 
So may he make each curst oppressor bleed — 
So may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed ! 

LXXXVIII. 

Flows there a tear of pity for the dead ? 

Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain ; 

Look on the hands with female slaughter red ; 

Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain. 

Then to the vulture let each corse remain ; 

Albeit unworthy of the prey -bird's maw. 

Let their bleach"d bones, and blood's unbleaching 

stain, 
Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe : 
Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw ! 

LXXXIX. 

Nor yet, alas ! the dreadful work is done j 
Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees : 
It deepens still, the work is scarce begun, 
Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees. 
Fall'n nations gaze on Spain j if freed, she frees 
More than her fell Pizarros once enchain'd : 
Strange retribution ! now Colombia's ease 
Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustain'd, 
While o'er the parent clime prowls Murder unre- 
strain'd. 

XC. 

Not all the blood at Talavera shed. 
Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight, 
Not Albuera lavish of the dead, 
Have won for Spain her well asserted right. 
When shall her Olive-Branch be free from blight ? 
When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil ? 
How many a doubtful day shall sink in night, 
Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil. 
And Freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the soil ! 

XCL 
And thou, my friend ! * — since unavailing woe 
Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain — 
Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low. 
Pride might forbid e'en Friendship to complain : 



8 "War to the knife." Palafox's answer to the French 
general at the siege of Saragoza. [In his proclamations, 
also, he stated, that, should the French (ommit any rob- 
beries, devastations, and murders, no quarter should be 
given them. The dogs by whom he was beset, he said, 
scarcely left him time lo clean his sword from their blood, 
but they still found their grave at Saragoza. All his ad- 
dresses were in the same spirit. "His language," says 
Mr. Southey, "had the high tone, and something of the 
inflation of Spanish romance, suiting the character of 
those to whom it was directed." See History of the 
Peninsular War, vol. iii. p. 152.— E.] 

4 The Honourable John Wingfield, of the Guards, who 
died of a fever at Coimbra, (May 14, 1811). I had known 
him ten years, the better half of his life, and the hap- 
piest part of mine. In the short space of one month, I 
have lost her who gave me being, and most of those who 



412 



CHILDE HAROLD'S 



[Canto II. 



But thus unlaurel'd to descend in vain, 
By all forgotten, save the lonely breast, 
And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain, 
"While Glory crowns so many a meaner crest ! 
What hadst thou done to sink so peacefully to rest ? 

XCII. 

Oh, known the earliest, and esteem'd the most ! 
Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear ! 
Though to my hopeless days for ever lost, 
In dreams deny me not to see thee here ! 
And Morn in secret shall renew the tear 
Of Consciousness awakmg to her woes, 
And Fancy hover o'ei thy bloodless bier, 
Till my frail frame return to whence it rose, 
And mourn'd and mourner lie united in repose. 

XCIII. 
Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage : 
Ye who of him may further seek to know, 
Shall find some tidings in a future page. 
If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe. 
Is this too much ? stern Critic ! say not so : 
Patience ! and ye shall hear what he beheld 
In other lands, where he was doom'd to go : 
Lands that contain the monuments of Eld, 
Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were 
quell'd. 



CANTO THE SECOND. 



Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven ! — but thou, alas ! 
Didst never yet one mortal song inspire — 
Goddess of Wisdom ! here thy temple was, 
And is, despite of war and wasting fire,i 
And years, that bade thy worship to expire : 
But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow, 
Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire 
Of men who never felt the sacred glow 
That thoughts of thee and thine on polish'd breasts 
bestow. 



had made that being tolerable. To me the lines of Young 

are no fiction : — 

" Insatiate archer '. could not one suffice 7 
Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain. 
And thrice ere thrice yon moon had fill'd her horn." 

I should have ventured a verse to the memory of the late 
Charles Skinner Matthews, Fellow of Downing College, 
Cambridee, were he not too much above all praise of 
mine. His powers of mind, shown iu the attainment of 
greater honours, against the ablest candidates, than those 
of any graduate on record at Cambridge, have suflBciently 
established his fame on the spot where it was acquired ; 
while his softer qualities live in the recollection of friends 
who loved him too well to envy his superiority. — [This 
and the following stanza were added in August, 1811. In 
one of his school-boy poems, entitled "Childish Recollec- 
tions," Lord Byron has thus drawn the portrait of young 
Wingfleld : — 

" Alonzo ! beat and dearest of my friends, 
Thy name ennobles him who thus commends : 
From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise; 
The praise is his who now that tribute pays. 
Oh 1 in the promise of thy early youth, 
If hope anticipates the words of truth, 
Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious name, 
To build his own upon thy deathless fame. 
Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list 
Of those with whom I lived supremely blest, 
Oft have we drain'd the font of ancient lore, 
Though drinking deeply, thirsting still for more; 
Yet when confinement's lingering hour was done, 
Our sports, our studies, and our souls were one. 
In every element, unchanged, the same, 
All, all that brothers should be, but the name." 
Matthews, the idol of Lord Byron at college, was drown- 
ed, while bathing in the Cam, on the 2d of August.— E.] 
1 Part of the Acropolis was destroyed by the explosion 
of a magazine during the Venetian siege. 



II. 

Ancient of days ! august Athena ! 2 where. 
Where are thy men of might ? thy grand in soul ? 
Gone — glimmering through the dream of things 

that were : 
First in the race that led to Glory's goal. 
They won, and pass'd away — is this the whole ? 
A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour ! 
The warrior's weapon and the sophi.=t's stole 
Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering tower, 
Dim \vith"the mist of years, grey flits the shade of 

power. 

III. 

Son of the morning, rise ! approach you here ! 
Come — but molest not yon defenceless urn : 
Look on this spot — a nation's sepulchre ! 
Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn. 
Even gods must yield — religions take their turn : 
'T was Jove's — 't is Mahomet's — and other creeds 
Will rise with other years, till man shall learn 
Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds; 
Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built 
on reeds. 

IV. 

Bound to the earth, he lifts his eye to heaven — 
Is 't not enough, unhappy thing ! to know 
Thou art? Is this a bonn so kindly given, 
That being, thou would'st be again, and go. 
Thou know'st not, reck'st not to what region, so 
On earth no more, but mingled with the skies ? 
Still wilt thou dream on future joy and woe? 
Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies : 
That little urn saith more than thousand homilies. 

V. 

Or burst the banish "d Hero's lofty mound ; 
Far on the solitary shore he sleeps : 3 
He fell, and falling nations mourn'd around ; 
But now not one of saddening thousands weeps, 



2 We can all feel, or imagine, the regret with which 
the ruins of cities, once the capitals of empires, are be- 
held: the reflections suggested by such objects are too 
trite to require recapitulation. But never did the little- 
ness of man, and the vanity of his very best virtues, of 
patriotism to exalt, and of valour to defend his country, 
appeur more conspicuous than in the record of what 
Athens was, and the certainty of what she now is. This 
theatre of contention between mighty factions, of the 
struggles of orators, the exaltation and deposition of 
tyrants, the triumph and punishment of generals, is now 
become a scene of petty intrigue and perpetual disturb- 
ance, between the bickering agents of certain British 
nobility and gentry. " The wild foxes, the owls and ser- 
pents in the ruins of Babylon," were surely less degrading 
than such inhabitants. The Turks have the plea of con- 
quest for their tyranny, and the Greeks have only suffer- 
ed the fortune of war, incidental to the bravest; but how 
are the mighty fallen, when two painters contest the 
privilege of plundering the Parthenon, and triumph in 
turn, according to the tenor of each succeeding firman I 
Sylla could but punish, Philip subdue, and Xerxes burn 
Athens; but it remained for the paltry antiquarian, and 
his despicable agents, to render her contemptible as him- 
self and his pursuits. The Parthenon, before its destruc- 
tion in part, by Are during the Venetian siege, had been 
a temple, a church, and a mosque. In each point of view 
it is an object of regard: it changed its worshippers; but 
still it was a place of worship thrice sacred to devotion: 
its violation is a triple sacrifice. But — 

"Man, proud man, 
Drest in a little brief authority, 
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven 
As make the angels weep." 

3 It was not always the custom of the Greeks to burn 
their dead; the greater Ajax, in particular, was interred 
entire. Almost all the chiefs became gods after their de- 
cease; and he was indeed neglected, who had not annual 
games near his tomb, or festivals in honour of his me- 
mory by his countrymen, as Achilles, Brasidaa, Sec, and 
at last even Antinous, whose death was as heroic as his 
life was infamous. 



Canto II.] 



PILGRIMAGE. 



413 



Nor warlike-worshipper his vigil keeps 
Where demi-gods appear'd, as records tell. 
Remove yon skull from out the scatter'd heaps : 
Is that a temple where a God may dwell ? 
Why ev'n the worm at last disdains her shatter'd cell ! 

VI. 

Look on its broken arch, its ruin'd wall, 
Its chambers desolate, and portals foul : 
Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall, 
The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul : 
Behold through each lack lustre, eyeless hole, 
The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit 
And Passion's host, that never brook'd control : 
Can all saint, sage, or sophist ever writ, 
People this lonely tower, this tenement refit? 

VII. 

Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son ! 
" All that we know is, nothing can be known." 
Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun ? 
Each hath his pang, but feeble sufferers groan 
With brain-born dreams of evil all their own. 
Pursue what Chmce or Fate proclaimeth best J 
Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron ! 
There no forced banquet claims the sated guest. 
But Silence spreads the couch of ever-welcome rest. 

VIII. 

Yet if, as holiest men have deem'd, there be 
A land of souls beyond that sable shore. 
To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee 
And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore ; 
How sweet it were in concert to adore 
With those who made our mortal labours light ! 
To hear each voice we fear'd to hear no more ! 
Behold each mighty shade reveal'd to sight. 
The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the 
right J 

IX. 

There, thou ! — whose love and life together fled, 
Have left me here to love and live in vain — 
Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee dead 
When busy Memory flashes on my brain ? 
Well — I will dream that we may meet again, 
And woo the vision to my vacant breast : 
If aught of young Remembrance then remain, 
Be as it may Futurity's behest. 
For me't were bliss enough to know thy spirit blest! i 



Here let me sit upon this massy stone, 
The marble column's yet unshaken base ; 
Here, son of Saturn 1 was thy fav'rife throne: 2 
Mightiest of many such ! Hence let me trace 
The latent grandeur of thy dwelling-place. 
It may not be : nor ev'n can F^mcy's eye 
Restore what Time hath labour'd lo deface. 
Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh ; 
Unmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek carols by. 

XI. 

But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane 
On high, where Pallas linger'd, loth to flee 
The latest relic of her ancient reign ; 
The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he ? 



1 Lord Byron wrote this stanza at Newstead, inOctobpr, 
1811, on hearing of the death of his Cambridge friend, 
young Kddlestone ; " making," he says, *' the sixth, within 
four months, of friends and relations that I have lost be- 
tween May and the end of August." ~E. 

2 The temple of Jupiter Olympius, of which sixteen 
columns, entirely of marble, yet survive: originally there 
were one hundred and fifty. These columns, however, 
are by many supposed to have belonged to the Pantheon. 

35* 



Blush, Caledonia ! such thy son could be ! 
England ! I joy no child he was of thine : 
Thy free born men should spare what once was free ; 
Yet they could violate each saddening shrine. 
And bear these altars o'er the long-reluctant brinc.3 

XII. 

But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast. 

To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath 

spared : 4 
Cold as the crags upon his native coast, 
His mind as barren and his heart as hard. 
Is he whose head conceived, whose hand prepared, 
Aught to displace Athena's poor remains : 
Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard, 
Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains,s 
And never knew, till then, the weight of Despot's 
chains. 

XIII. 

What ! shall it e'er be said by British tongue, 
Albion was happy in Athena's tears? 
Though in thy name the slave her bosom wrung, 
Tell not the deed to blushing Europe's ears ; 
The ocean queen, the free Britannia, bears 
The last poor plunder from a bleeding land : 
Yes, she, whose gen'rous aid her name endears. 
Tore down those remnants with a harpy's hand. 
Which envious Eld forbore, and tyrants left to stand. 

XIV. 

Where was thine ^gis, Pallas ! that appall'd 
Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way ? 6 
Where Peleus' son ? whom Hell in vain enthrall'd, 
His shade from Hades upon that dread day 
Bursting to light in terrible amy ! 
What ! could not Pluto spare the chief once more, 
To scare a second robber from his prey ? 
Idly he wander'd on the Stygian shore. 
Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield before. 

XV. 

Cold is the heart, fair Greece ! that looks on thee, 
Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved; 
Dull is the eye that will not weep to see 
Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines removed 
By British hands, which it had best behoved 
To guard those relics ne'er to be restored. 
Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved, 
And once again thy hapless bosom gored. 
And snalch'd thy shrinking Gods to northern climes 
abhorr'd ! 

XVI. 

But where is Harold ? shall I then forget 

To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave ? 

Little reck'd he of all that men regret; 

No loved-one now in feign'd lament could rave ; 



3 The ship was wrecked in the Archipelago. 

4 See Appendix, Note A, for some strictures on the re- 
moval of the works of art from Athens. 

51 cannot resist availing myself of the permission of 
my friend Dr. Clarke, whose name requires no comment 
with the public, but whose sanction will add tenfold 
weight to my testimony, to insert the following extract 
from a very obliging letter of his to me, as a note to the 
above lines : — " When the last of the Metopes was taken 
from the Parthenon, and, in moving of it, great part of 
the superstructure with one of the triglyphs was thrown 
down by the workmen whom Lord Elgin employed, the 
Disdar, who beheld the mischief done to the building, 
took his pipe from his mo-uth, dropped a tear, and, in a 
supplicating tone of voice, said to Lusierl, TiXog ! — I 
was present." The Disdar alluded to was the father of 
the present Disdar. 

6 According to Zosimus, Minerva and Achilles frighten- 
ed Alaric from the Acropolis; but others relate that the 
Gothic king was nearly as mischievous as the Scottish 
peer. — See Chandler. 



414 



CHILDE HAROLD'S 



[Canto II. 



No friend the parting hand extended gave, 
Ere the cold stranger pass'd to other climes : 
Hard is his heart whom charms may not enslave ; 
But Harold felt not as in other times, 
And left without a sigh the land of war and crimes. 

XVII. 
He that has sail'd upon the dark-blue sea 
Has view'd at times, I ween, a full fair sight; 
When the fiesh breeze is fiir as breeze may be, 
The white sail set, the gallant frigate tight ; 
Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right, 
The glorious main expanding o'er the bow, 
The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight. 
The dullest sailer wearing bravely now, 
So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow. 

XVIII. 

And oh, the little warlike world within ! 
The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy,* 
The hoarse command, the busy humming din, 
When, at a word, the tops are mann'd on high : 
Hark, to the Boatswain's call, the cheering cry ! 
While through the seaman's hand the tackle glides; 
Or schoolboy Midshipman that, standing by, 
Strains his shrill pipe As good or ill betides. 
And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides. 

XIX. 

White is the glassy deck, without a stain, 
Where on the watch the staid Lieutenant walks: 
Look on that part which sacred doth remain 
For the lone chieftain, who majestic stalks, 
Silent and fear'd by all — not oft he talks 
With aught beneath him, if he would preserve 
That strict restraint, which broken, ever balks 
Conquest and Fame: but Britons rarely swerve 

From law, however stern, which tends their strength 
to nerve. 

XX. 
Blow ! swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale ! 
Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray j 
Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail. 
That lagging barks may make their lazy way. 
Ah ! grievance sore, and listless dull delay, 
To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze ! 
What leagues are lost, before the dawn of day, 
Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas, 

The flapping sail haul'd down to halt for logs like 
these ! 

XXI. 
The moon is up ; by Heaven, a lovely eve ! 
Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand ; 
Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe : 
Such be our fate whenvve return to land ! 
Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand 
Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love j 
A circle there of merry listeners stand. 
Or to some well-known measure featly move, 

Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to rove. 

XXIL 

Through Calpe's straits survey the steepy shore j 
Europe and Afric on each o'her gaze ! 
Lands of the dark-eyed Maid and dusky Moor 
Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze: 
How softly on the Spanish shore she plays, 
Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown, 
Distinct, though darkening with her waning phase ; 
But Mauritania's giant-shadows frown, 
From mountain-cliftto coast descending sombre down. 

XXIII. 

'T is night, when Meditation bids us feel 
We once have loved, though love is at an end : 
The heart, lone mourner of its ba filed zeal. 
Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend. 



Who with the weight of years would wish to bend, 
When Youth itself survives young Love and Joy ? 
Alas ! when mingling souls forget to blend, 
Death hath but little left him to destroy : 
Ah ! happy years ! once more who would not be a boy ? 

XXIV. 

Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side. 
To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere. 
The soul forgets her schemes of Hope and Pride, 
And flies unconscious o'er each backward year. 
None are so desolate but something dear. 
Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd 
A thought, and claims the homage of a tear ; 
A flashing pang ! of which the vVeary breast 
Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest. 

XXV. 

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, 
To slowly truce the forest's shady scene. 
Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, 
And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been ; 
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen. 
With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; 
Alone o'er steeps and foaming fails to lean ; 
This is not solitude ; 't is but to hold 

Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores 
unroU'd. 

XXVL 
But 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men. 
To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess. 
And roam along, the world's tired denizen, 
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless ; 
Minions of splendour shrinking from distress ! 
None that, with kindred consciousness endued, 
If we were not, would seem to smile the less, 
Of all that flafter'd, follow'd, sought, and suedj 

This is to be alone ; this, this is solitude ! 

XXVII. 

More blest the life of godly eremite, 
Such as on lonely Athos may be >een,3 
Watching at eve upon the giant height. 
Which looks o'er waves so blue, skies so serene, 
That he who there at such an hour hath been 
Will wistful linger on that hallow'd spot ; 
Then slowly tear him from the 'witching scene, 
Sigh forth one wish that such had been his lot. 
Then turn to hate a world he had almost forgot. 

xxvin. 

Pass we the long, unvarying course, the track 
Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind ; 
Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack. 
And each well-known caprice of wave and wind; 
Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find, 
Coop'd in their winged sea-girt citadel; 
The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind, 
As breezes rise and fall and billows swell, 
Till on some jocund morn — lo, land ! and all is well : 

XXIX. 

But not in silence pass Calypso's isles,3 
The sister tenant^ of the middle deep; 
There for the weary still a haven smiles, 
Though the fair goddess long hath ceased to weep, 



1 To prevent blocks or eplinters from falling on deck 
during action. 



2 One of Lord Byron's chief delights was, as he himself 
states in one of his journals, after bathing in some re- 
tired spot, to seat himself on a high rock above the sea, 
and there remain for hours, gazing upon the sky and the 
waters. " He led the life," says Sir Egerton Brydges, 
" as he wrote the strains, of a true poet. He could sleep, 
and very frequently did sleep, wrapped up in his rough 
great-coat, on the hard boards of a deck, while the winds 
and the waves were roaring round him on every side, and 
could subsist on a crust and a glass of water. It would 
be difficult to persuade me, that he who is a coxcomb in 
his manners, and artificial in his habits of life, could 
write good poetry." — E. 

8 Goza is said to have been the island of Calypso, 



Canto II.] 



PILGRIMAGE. 



415 



And o'er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep 
For him who dared prefer a mortal bride : 
Here, too, his boy essay'd the dreadful leap 
Stern Mentor urged from high to yonder tide ; 

While thus of both bereft, the uymph-queen doubly 
sigh'd. 

XXX. 
Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone : 
But trust not this; too easy youth, beware! 
A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous throne, 
And thou may'st find a new Calypso there. 
Sweet Florence ! could anolher ever share 
This wayward, loveless heart, it would be thine: 
But check'd by every tie, I may not dare 
To cast a worthless offering at thy shrine, 

Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for mine. 

XXXI. 

Thus Harold deem'd, as on that lady's eye 
He look'd, and met its beam without a thought, 
Save Admiration glancing harmless by : 
Love kept aloof, albeit not far remote. 
Who knew his votary often lost and caught. 
But knew him as his worshipper no more, 
And ne'er again the boy his bosom sought : 
Since now he vainly urged him to adore, 
Well deem'd the little god his ancient sway was o'er. 

xxxn. 

Fair Florence i found, in sooth with some amaze, 
One who, 't was said, still sigh'd to all he saw. 
Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze, 
Which others hail'd with real or mimic awe, 
Their hope, their doom, their punishment, their law ; 
All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen claims: 
And much she marvell'd that a youth so raw 
Nor felt, nor feign'd at least, the"oft-told flames, 
Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarely an- 
ger dames. 

XXXIII. 

Little knew she that seeming marble heart, 
Now mask'd in silence or withheld by pride, 
Was not unskilful in the spoiler's art. 
And spread its snares licentious far and wide; 
Nor from the base pursuit had turn'd aside, 
As long as aught was worthy to pursue : 
But Harold on such arts no more relied ; 
And had he doted on those eyes so blue, 
Yet never would he join the lover's whining crew. 

XXXIV. 

Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's breast. 
Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs ; 
What careth she for hearts when once possess'd ? 
Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes ; 
But not too humbly, or she will despise 
Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes: 
Disguise ev'n tenderness, if thou art wise ; 
Brisk Confidence still best with woman copes: 
Pique her and soothe in turn, soon Tassion crowns 
thy hopes, 

XXXV. 

'T is an old lesson ; Time approves it true, 
And those who know it best, deplore it most; 
When all is won that all desire to woo. 
The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost : 
Youth wasted, minds degraded, honour lost. 
These are thy fruits, successful Passion ! these ! 
If, kindly cruel, early Hope is crost, 
Still to the last it rankles, a disease. 
Not to be cured when Love itself forgets to please. 



1 For an account of this accomplished but eccentric 
lady, whose acquaintance the noel formed at Malta, see 
Miscellaneous Poems, Sept., 1809, "To Florence."— E. 



XXXVI. 
Away ! nor let me loiter in my song. 
For we have many a mountain-path to tread, 
And many a varied shore to sail along. 
By pensive Sadness, not by Fiction, led — 
Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head 
Imagined in its little schemes of thought; 
Or e'er in new Utopias vv ere read. 
To teach man what he might be, or he ought ; 
If that corrupted thing could ever such be taught. 

XXXVII. 
Dear Nature is the kindest mother still, 
Though always changing, in her aspect mild; 
From her bare bosom let me take my fill, 
Her never-vvean'd, though not her favour'd child. 
Oh ! she is fairest in her features wild, 
Where nothing polish"d dares pollute her path : 
To me by day or night she ever smiled. 
Though I have mark'd her when none other hath. 
And sought her more and more, and loved her best in 
wrath. 

XXXVIII. 

Land of Albania ! where Iskander rose. 
Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise. 
And he his namesake, whose oft-baffled foes 
Shrunk from his deeds of chivalrous emprize : 
Land of Albania ! 2 let me bend mine eyes 
On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men ! 
The cross descends, thy minarets arise. 
And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen, 
Through many a cypress grove within each city's ken. 

XXXIX. 

Childe Harold sail'd, and pass'd the barren spot. 
Where sad Penelope o'erlook'd the wave ; 3 
And onward view'd the mount, not yet forgot. 
The lover's refuge, and the Lesbian's grave. 
Dark Sappho ! could not verse immortal save 
That breast imbued with such immortal fire? 
Could she not live who life eternal gave ? 
If life eternal may await the lyre, 

That only Heaven to which Earth's children may 
aspire. 

XL. 
'T was on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve 
Childe Harold hail'd Leucadia's cape afar ; * 
A spot he long'd to see, nor cared to leave : 
Oft did he mark the scenes of vanish'd war, 
Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar; 6 
Mark them unmoved, for he would not delight 
(Born beneath some remote inglorious star) 
In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight, 

But loathed the bravo's trade, and laugh'd at martial 
wight. 

XLL 
But when he saw the evening star above 
Leucadia's far-projecting rock of woe. 
And hail'd the last resort of fruitless love, 
He felt, or deem'd he felt, no common glow : 
And as the stately vessel glided slow 
Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount, 
He watch'd the billows' melancholy flow. 
And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont. 

More placid seem'd his eye, and smooth his pallid 
front, 

XLIL 
Morn dawns; and with it stern Albania's hills, 
Dark Siili's rocks, and Pindus' inland peak. 
Robed half in mist, bedew'd with snowy rills, 
Array'd in many a dun and purple streak. 



2 See Appendix, Note [B]. 8 Ithaca. 

4 Leucadia, now Santa Maura. From the promontory 
(the Lover's Leap) Sappho is said to have thrown herself. 

5 Actium and Trafalgar need no further mention. The 
battle of Lepanto, equally bloody and considerable, but 
less known, was fought in the Gulf of Patras. Here the 
author of Don Quixote lost his left hand. 



416 



CHILDE HAROLD'S 



[Canto II. 



Arise ; and, as Ihe clouds along them break, 
Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer : 
Here roams the wolf, the eagle whets his beak, 
Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder men appear. 
And gathering storms around convulse the closing year. 

XLIII. 

Now Harold felt himself at length alone, 
And bade to Christian tongues a long adieu ; 
Now he adventured on a shore unknown, 
Which all admire, but man}' dread to view : 
His breast was arm'd 'gainst fate, his wants were few; 
Peril he sought not, but ne'er shrank to meet : 
The scene was savage, but the scene was new ; 
This made the ceaseless foil of travel sweet, 
Bpat back keen winter's blast, and welcomed sum- 
mer's heat. 

XLIV. 
Here the red cross, for still the cross is here, 
Though sadly scoff'd at by the circumcised, 
Forgets that pride to paniper'd priesthood dear; 
Churchman and votary alike despised. 
Foul Superstition ! howsoe'er disguised. 
Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross, 
For whatsoever symbol thou art prized, 
Thou sacerdotal gain, but general loss ! 
Who from true worship's gold can separate thy dross ? 

XLV. 

Ambracia's gulf behold, where once was lost 
A world for woman, lovely, harmless thing ! 
In yonder rippling bay, their naval host 
Did many a Roman chief and Asian king ^ 
To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter bring: 
Look where the second Caesar's trophies rose : 2 
Now, like the hands that rear'd them, withering : 
Imperial anarchs, doubling human woes ! 
God ! was thy globe ordain'd for such to win and lose ? 

XLVI. 

From the dark barriers of that rugged clime, 
Ev'n to the centre of Illyria's vales, 
Childe Harold pass'd o'er many a mount sublime. 
Through lands scarce noticed in historic tales ; 
Yet in famed Attica such lovely dales 
Are rarely seen ; nor can fair Tempe boast 
A charm they know not ; loved Parnassus fails, 
Though classic ground and consecrated most. 
To match some spots that lurk within this lowering 
coast. 

XLVII. 

He pass'd bleak Pindus, Acherusia's lake,3 
And left the primal city of the land, 
And onwards did his further journey take 
To greet Albania's chief,* whose dread command 
Is lawless law ; for with a bloody hand 
He sways a nation, turbulent and bold : 
Yet here and there some daring mountain-band 
Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold 
Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold. 6 

1 It is said, that, on the day previous to the battle of 
Actium, Antony had thirteen kings at his levee. 

2 Nicopolis, whose ruins are most extensive, is at some 
distance from Actium, where the wall of the Hippodrome 
survives in a few fragments. These ruins are large 
masses of brickwork, the bricks of which are joined by 
interstices of mortar, as large as the bricks themselves, 
and equally durable. 

3 According to Pouqueville, the lake of Yanina : but 
Pouqueville is always out. 

4 The celebrated Ali Pacha. Of this extraordinary 
man there is an incorrect account in Pouqueville'e Tra- 
vels. 

5 Five thousand Suliotes, among the rocks and in the 
castle of Suli, withstood thirty thousand Albanians for 
eighteen years; the castle at last was taken by bribery. 
In this contest there were several acts performed not un- 
worthy of the better days of Greece. 



XLVIII. 

Monastic Zitza ! 6 from thy shady brow, 
Thou small, but favoured spot of holy ground ! 
Where'er we gaze, around, above, below. 
What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found ! 
Rock, river, forest, mountain, all abound. 
And bluest skies that harmonise the whole : 
Beneath, the distant torrent's rushing sound 
Tells where the volumed cataract doth roll 
Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet please 
the soul. 

XLIX. 

Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted hill. 
Which, were it not for many a mountain nigh 
Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still. 
Might well itself be deenvd of dignity. 
The convent's white walls glisten fair on high : 
Here dwells the caloyer,T nor rude is he. 
Nor niggard of his cheer ; the passer by 
Is welcome still ; nor heedless will he flee 
From hence, if he delight kind Nature's sheen to see. 

L. 

Here in the sultriest season let him rest. 
Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees ; 
Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his breast, 
From heaven itself he may inhale the breeze : 
The plain is far beneath — oh ! let him seize 
Pure pleasure while he can ; the scorching ray 
Here pierceth not, impregnate with disease: 
Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lay, 
And gaze, untired, the morn, the noon, the eve away. 

LI. 

Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight, 

Nature's volcanic amphitheatre, 8 

Chimaera's alps extend from left to right; 

Beneath, a living valley seems to stir ; 

Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the moun- 
tain-fir 

Nodding above; behold black Acheron ! s 

Once consecrated to the sepulchre. 

Pluto ! if this be hell I look upon. 
Close shamed Elysium's gates, my shade shall seek 
for none. , 

LII. 

Ne city's towers pollute the lovely view ; 
Unseen is Yanina, though not remote, 
Veil'd by the screen of hills : here men are few, 
Scanty the hamlet, rare the lonely cot : 
But, peering down each precipice, the goat 
Browseth ; and, pensive o'er his scatter'd flock, 
The little shepherd in his white capote lO 
Doth lean his boyish form along the rock. 
Or in his cave awaits the tempest's short-lived shock. 

LIH. 

Oh ! where, Dodona ! is thine aged grove, 
Prophetic fount, and oracle divine? 
What valley echo'd the response of Jove ? 
What trace remaineth of the Thunderer's shrine ? 



6 The convent and village of Zitza are four hours' jour- 
ney from Joannina, or Yanina, the capital of the Pacha- 
lick. In the valley the river Kalamas(once the Acheron) 
flows, and, not far frotn Zitza, forms a fine cataract. The 
situation is perhaps the finest in Greece, though the ap- 
proach to Delvinachi and parts of Acarnania and Atolia 
may contest the palm. Delphi, Parnassus, and, in Attica 
even Cape Colonua and Port Raphti, are very inferior; 
as also every scene in Ionia, or the Troad: I am almost, 
inclined to add the approach to Constantinople; but, from 
the diiTerent features of the last, a comparison can hardly 
be made. 

7 The Greek monks are so called. 

8 The Chimariot mountains appear to have been toK 
canic. 

9 Now called Kalamaa. 

10 Albanese cloak. 



Canto II.] 



PILGRIMAGE. 



417 



All, all forgotten — and shall man repine 
That his frail bonds to fleeting life are broke? 
Cease, fool ! the fate of gods may well be thine : 
Wouldst thou survive the marble or the oak ? 
When nations, tongues, and worlds must sink beneath 
the stroke ! 

LIV. 
Epirus' bounds recede, and mountains fail ; 
Tired of up-gazing still, the wearied eye 
Reposes gladly on as smooth a vale 
As ever Spring yclad in grassy dye: 
Ev'n on a plain'no humble beauties lie. 
Where some bold river breaks the long expanse, 
And woods along the banks are waving high, 
Whose shadows in the glassy waters dance, 
Or with the moonbeam sleep in midnight's solemn 
trance. 

LV. 

The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit,i 
And Laos wide and fierce came roaring by; 2 
The shades of wonted night were gathering yet. 
When, down (he steep banks winding warily, 
Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the sky. 
The glittering minarets of Tepalen, 
Whose walls o'erlook the stream ; nnd drawing nigh. 
He heard the busy hum of warrior-men 
Swelling the breeze that sigh'd along the lengthening 
glen. 

LVI. 

He pass'd the sacred Harem's silent tower, 
And underneath the wide o'erarching gate 
Survey'd the dwelling of this chief of power, 
Where all around proclaim'd his high estate. 
Amidst no common pomp the despot sate. 
While busy preparation shook the court, 
Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers, guests, and santons vpait; 
Within, a jjalace, and without, a fort : 
Here men of every clime appear to make resort. 

LVII. 

Richly caparison'd, a ready row 
Of armed horse, and many a watrlike store, 
Circled the wide extending court below ; 
Above, strange groups adorn'd the corridore ; 
And oft-times through the area's echoing door. 
Some high-capp'd Tartar spurr'd his steed away : 
The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, and the Moor, 
Here mingled in their many-hued array. 
While the deep war-drum's sound announced the 
close of day. 

LVIII. 

The wild Albanian kirtled to his knee, 
With shawl-girt head and ornamented gun. 
And gold-embroider'd garments, fair to see; 
The crimson-scarfed men of Macedon ; 
The Delhi with his cap of terror on, 
And crooked glaive ; the lively, supple Greek; 
And swarthy Nubia's mutilated son ; 
The bearded Turk, that rarely deigns to speak. 
Master of all around, too potent to be meek, 

LIX. 

Are mix'd conspicuous : some recline in groups. 
Scanning the motley scene th it varies round ; 
There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops, 
And some that smoke, and some that play, are found ; 



1 Anciently Mount Tomarus. 

2 The river Laos was full at the time the author passed 
it; and, immediately above Tepalen, was to the eye as 
wide as the Thames at Westminster; at least in the 
opinion of the author and his fellow-traveller. In the 
summer it must be much narrower. It certainly is the , 
finest river in the Levant ; neither Achelous, Alpheus, 
Acheron, Scamander, nor Cayster, approached it in 
breadth or beauty. | 



Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground ; 
Half whispering there the Greek is heard to prate; 
Hark ! from the mosque the nightly solemn sound. 
The Muezzin's call doth shake the minaret, 
" There is no god but God ! — to prayer — lo ! God is 
great 1 " 

LX. 

Just at this season Ramazani's fast 
Through the long day its penance did maintain: 
But when the lingering twilight hour was past, 
Revel and feast assumed the rule again : 
Now all was bustle, and the menial train 
Prepared and spread the plenteous board within; 
The vacant gallery now seem'd made in vain, 
But from the chambers came the mingling din. 
As page and slave anon were passing out an^ in. 

LXI. 

Here woman's voice is never heard : apart, 
And scarce permitted, guarded, veil'd, to move, 
She yields to one her person and her heart, 
Tamed to her c;ige, nor feels a wish to rove: 
For, not unhappy in her master's love, 
And joyful in a mother's gentlest cares, 
Blest cares! all other feelings far above ! 
Herself more sweetly rears the babe she bears, 
Who never quits the breast, no meaner passion shares. 

LXII. 

In marble-paved pavilion, where a spring 
Of living water from the centre rose. 
Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling. 
And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose, 
Alt reclined, a man of war and woes : 
Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace. 
While Gentleness her milder radiance throws 
Along that aged venerable face, 
The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with dis- 
grace. 

Lxni. 

It is not that yon hoary lengthening beard 
111 suits the passions which belong to youth ; 
Love conquers age — so Hafiz hath averr'd. 
So sings the Teian, and he sings in sooth — 
But crimes that scorn the tender voice of truth, 
Beseeming all men ill, but most the man 
In ye.irs, have mark'd him with a tiger's tooth ; 
Blood follows blood, and, through their mortal span, 
In bloodier acts conclude those who with blood began.3 

LXIV. 

'Mid many things most new to ear and eye 
The pilgrim rested here his weary feet, 
And gazed around on Moslem luxury. 
Till quickly wearied with that spacious seat 
Of Wealth and Wantonness, the choice retreat 
Of sited Grandeur from the city's noise : 
And were it humbler it in sooth were sweet; 
But Peace abhorreth artificial joys, 
And Pleasure, leagued with Pomp, the zest of both 
destroys. 

LXV. 

Fierce are Albania's children, yet they lack 
Not virtues, were those virtues more mature. 
Where is the foe that ever saw their back ? 
Who can so well the toil of war endure ? 



3 The fate of Ali was precisely such as the poet antici- 
pated. His head was sent to Constantinople, and exhibited 
at the gates of the seraglio. As the name of Ali had 
made a considerable noise in England, in consequence of 
his negotiations with Sir Thomas Maitland, and still 
more, perhaps, these stanzas of Lord Byron, a merchant 
of Constantinople thought it would be no bad speculation 
to purchase the head and consign it to a London show- 
man ; but this scheme was defeated by the piety of an old 
servant of the Pacha, who bribed the executioner with a 
higher price, and bestowed decent sepulture oa the 
relic.-- E. 



27 



418 



CHILDE HAROLD'S 



[Canto II. 



Their native fastnesses not more secure 
Than they in doubtful time of troublous need : 
Their wrath how deadly ! but their friendship sure, 
When Gratitude or Valour bids them bleed, 

Unshaken rushing on where'er their chief may lead. 
LXVI. 
Childe Harold saw them in their chieftain's tower 
Thronging to war in splendour and success ; 
And af;er view'd them, when, within their power, 
Himself awhile the victim of distress ; 
That saddening hour when bad men hotlier press : 
But these did shelter him beneath their roof, 
When less barbarians would have cheer'd him less, 
And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof i — 

In aught that tries the heart how few withstand the 
proof ! 

Lxvn. 

It chanced that adverse winds once drove his bark 

Full on the coast of Suli's shaggy shore. 

When all around was desolate and dark ; 

To land was perilous, to sojourn more j 

Yet for a while the mariners foibore. 

Dubious to trust where treachery might lurk : 

At length they ventured forth, though doubting sore 

That those who loathe alike the Frank and Turk 

Might once again renew their ancient butcher-work. 
LXVIII. 
Vain fear ! the Suliotes stretch'd the welcome hand, 
Led them o'er rocks and past the dangerous swamp, 
Kinder than polish'd slaves though not so bland. 
And piled the hearth, and wrung their garments 

damp, 
And fiU'd the bowl, and trimm'd the cheerful lamp, 
And spread their fare ; though homely, all they had : 
Such conduct bears Philanthropy's rare stamp — 
To rest the weary and to soothe the sad. 

Doth lesson happier men, and shames at least the bad. 
LXIX. 
It came to pass, that when he did address 
Himself to quit at length this mountain-land, 
Combined marauders half-way barr'd egress. 
And wasted far and near with glaive and brand ; 
And therefore did he take a trusty band 
To traverse Acarnania's forest wide. 
In war well season'd, and with labours tann'd. 
Till he did greet white Achelous' tide, 

And from his further bank ^tolia's wolds espied. 
LXX. 
Where lone Utraikey forms its circling cove. 
And weary waves retire to gleam at rest, 
How brown the foliage of the green hill's grove, 
Nodding at midnight o'er the calm bay's breast, 
As winds come lightly whispering from the west, 
Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene: — 
Here Harold was received a welcome guest j 
Nor did he pass unmoved the gentle scene. 

For many a joy could he from Night's soft presence 
gleam. 

LXXI. 
On the smooth shore the night-fires brightly blazed, 
The feast was done, the red'wine circling fast,2 
And he that unawares had there ygazed 
With gaping wonderment had stared aghast ; 
For ere night's midmost, stillest hour was past. 
The native revels of the troop began ; 
Each Palikar 3 his sabre from him cast, 
And bounding hand in hand, man link'd to man. 

Yelling their uncouth dirge, long daunced the kirtled 
clan. 



1 Alluding to the wreckers of Cornwall. 

2 The Albanian Mussulmans do not abstain from wine, 
and, indeed, very few of the others. 

3 Palikar, shortened when addressed to a single person, 
from HaXiKapt, a general name for a soldier amongst the 
Greeks and Albanese who speak Romaic : it means, pro- 
perly, "a lad." 



LXXII. 

Childe Harold at a little distance stood 
And view'd, but not displeased, the revelrie, 
Nor hated harmless mirth, however rude : 
In sooth, it was no vulgar sight to see 
Their barbarous, yet their not indecent, glee J 
And, as the fiames along their faces gleam'd, 
Their gestures nimble, dark eyes flashing free, 
The long wild locks that to their girdles stream'd, 
While thus in concert they this lay half sang, half 
scream'd : 4— 

1. 

Tambourgi ! Tambourgi !5 thy 'larum afar 
Gives hope to the valiant, and promise of war; 
All the sons of the mountains arise at the note, 
Chimariot, Illyrian, and dark Suliote 1 6 

2. 
Oh ! who is more brave than a dark Suliote, 
In his snowy camese and his shaggy capote ? 
To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wild flock. 
And descends to the plain like the stream from the rock. 

3. 

Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive ' 
The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live? 
Let those guns so unerring such vengeance forego ? 
What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe ? 

4. 

Macedonia sends forth her invincible race ; 
For a time they abandon the cave and the chase: 
But those scarfs of blood-red shall be redder, before 
The sabre is sheathed and the battle is o'er. 

5. 
Then the pirates of Parga that dwell by the waves, 
And teach the pale Franks what it is to be slaves. 
Shall leave on the beach the long galley and oar, 
And track to his covert the captive on 'shore. 



I ask not the pleasures that riches supply. 
My sabre shall win what the feeble must buy ; 
Shall win ihe young bride with her long flowing hair, 
And many a maid from her mother shall tear. 

7. 
I love the fair face of the maid in her youth, 
Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall sooth ; 
Let her bring from the chamber her many-toued lyre, 
And sing us a song on the fall of her sire. 



Remember the moment when Previsa fell,'' 
The shrieks of the conquer'd, the conquerors' yell ; 
The roofs that we fired, and the plunder we shared. 
The wealthy we slaughter'd, the lovely we spared. 

9. 
I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear ; 
He neither must know who would serve the Vizier: 
Since the days of our prophet the Crescent ne'er saw 
A chief ever glorious like Ali Pashaw. 

10. 
Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped, 
Let the yellow-hair'd 8 Giaours 9 view his horsetail lO 
with dread : 



4 For a specimen of the Albanian or Arnaout dialect of 
the lUyric, see Appendix, Note [C].— E. 

5 Drummer. 

6 These stanzas are partly taken from different Alba- 
nese songs, as far as I was able to make them out by the 
exposition of the Albanese in Romaic and Italian. 

7 It was taken by storm from the French. 

8 Yellow is the epithet given to the Russians. 

Infidel. 10 The insignia of a Pacha. 



Canto II.] 



PILGRIMAGE. 



419 



When his Delhis i come dashing in blood o'er the 

banks, 
How few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks ! 

11. 

Selictar ! 3 unsheathe then our chief's scimitar : 
Tambourgi ! thy 'larum gives promise of war. 
Ye mountains, that see us descend to the shore, 
Shall view us as victors, or view us no more ! 

LXXIII. 

Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed worth ! 3 
Immortal, though no more ; though fallen, great ! 
Who now shall lead thy scatter'd "children forth, 
And long accustom'd bondage uncreate ? 
Not such thy sons who vvhilome did await, 
The hopeless warriors of a willing doom. 
In bleak Thermopylae's sepulchral strait — 
Oh ! who that gallant spirit shall resume. 
Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from the 
tomb ? 

LXXIV. 
Spirit of freedom ! when on Phyle's brow 4 
Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train, 
Couldst thou forebode the dismal hour which now 
Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain ? 
Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain, 
But every carle can lord it o'er thy land ; 
Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain, 
Trembling benealh the scourge of Turkish hand ; 
From birth till death enslaved; in word, in deed, 
uumann'd. 

LXXV. 

In all save form alone, how changed ! and who 
That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye. 
Who but would deem their bosoms burn'd anew 
With thy unqueuched beam, lost Liberty ! 
And many dream withal the hour is nigh 
That gives them back their fathers' heritage: 
For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh, 
Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage. 

Or tear their name defiled from Slavery's mournful 
page. 

LXXVI. 
Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not 
Who would be free themselves must strike the blow? 
By their right arms the conquest must be wrought ? 
Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye ? no ! 
True, they may lay your proud despoilers low, 
But not for you will Freedom's altars flame. 
Shades of thejielots ! triumph o'er your foe ! 
Greece ! change thy lords, thy state is still the same ; 

Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thine years of shame. 

LXXVII. 

The city won for Allah from the Giaour, 
The Giaour from Othman's race again may wrest j 
And the Serai's impenetrable tower 
Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest ; 5 
Or Wahab's rebel brood who dared divest 
The prophet's ^ tomb of all its pious spoil, 
May wind their path of blood along the West; 
But ne'er will freedom seek this fated soil, 
But slave succeed to slave through years of endless toil. 



I 



1 Horsemen, answering to our forlorn hope. 

3 Sword-bearer. 

S Some Thoughts on the present State of Greece and 
Turkey, will be found in the Appendix, Notes [D] and 
[E]. 

4 Phyle, which commands a beautiful view of Athens, 
has still considerable remains: it was seized by Thrasy- 
bulus, previous to the expulsion of the Thirty. 

5 When taken by the Latins, and retained for several 
years. 

6 Mecca and Medina were taken some time ago by the 
Wahabees, a sect yearly increasing. 



LXXVIII. 

Yet mark their mirth — ere lenten days begin 
That penance which their holy rites prepare 
To shrive from man his weight of mortal sin, 
By daily abstinence and nightly prayer ; 
But ere his sackcloth garb Repeiiiauce wear, 
Some days of joyaunce are decreed to all. 
To take of pleasaunce each his secret share, 
In motley robe to dance at masking ball. 
And join the mimic train of merry Carnival. 

LXXIX. 

And whose more rife with merriment than thine, 
Oh Stamboul ! once the empress of their reign ? 
Though turbans now pollute Sophia's shrine. 
And Greece her very altars eyes in vain : 
(Alas ! her woes will still pervade my strain !) 
Gay were her minstrels once, for free her throng, 
All felt the common joy they now must feign. 
Nor oft I 've seen such sight, nor heard such song, 
As woo'd the eye, and thrill'd the Bosphorus along. 

LXXX. 

Loud was the lightsome tumult on the shore. 
Oft Music changed, but never ceased her tone, 
And timely echo'd back the measured oar, 
And rippling waters made a pleasant moan : 
The Queen of tides on high consenting shone. 
And when a transient breeze swept o'er the wave, 
'T was, as if darting from her heavenly throne, 
A brighter glance her form reflected gave. 
Till sparkling billows seem'd to light the banks they 
lave. 

LXXXI. 

Glanced many a light caique along the foam, 
Danced on the shore the daughters of the land, 
Ne thought had man or maid of rest or home. 
While many a languid eye and thrilling hand. 
Exchanged the look few bosoms may withstand, 
Or gently prest, return'd the pressure still : 
Oh Love ! young Love ! bound in thy rosy band. 
Let sage or cynic prattle as he will, 
These hours, and only these, redeem Life's years of ill ! 

LXXXII. 

But, 'midst the throng in merry masquerade. 
Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret pain, 
Even through the closest searment half betray'd? 
To such the gentle murmurs of the main 
Seem to re-echo all they mourn in vain ; 
To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd 
Is source of wayward thought and stern disdain : 
How do they loathe the laughter idly loud, 
And long to change the robe of revel for the shroud ! 

LXXXIII. 

This must he feel, the true-born son of Greece, 
If Greece one true-born patriot still can boast: 
Not such as prate of war, but skulk in peace. 
The bondsman's peace, who sighs for all he lost, 
Yet with smooth smile his tyrant can accost, 
And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword : 
Ah ! Greece ! they love thee least who owe thee 

most; 
Their birth, their blood, and that sublime record 
Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerate horde ! 

LXXXIV. 

When riseth Lacedemon's hardihood, 
When Thebes Epaminondas rears again, 
When Athens' children are with hearts endued, 
When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men, 
Then may'st thou be restored ; but not till then. 
A thousand years scarce serve to form a state ; 
An hour may lay it in the dust : and when 
Can man its shatfer'd splendour renovate. 
Recall its virtues back, and vanquish Time and Fate? 



420 



CHILDE HAROLD'S 



[Canto II. 



LXXXV. 

And yet how lovely in thine age of woe, 
Land of lost gods and godlike men, art thou ! 
Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow,i 
Proclaim thee Nature's varied favourite now-. 
Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow, 
Commingling slowly with heroic earth, 
Broke by the share of every rustic plough: 
So perish monuments of mortal birth, 
So perish all in turn, save well-recorded Worth ; 

LXXXVI. 

Save where some solitary column mourns 
Above its prostrate brethren of the cave ; 3 
Save where Tritonia's airy shrine adorns 
Colonna's cliff,3 and gleams along the wave; 
Save o'er some warrior's half-forgotten grave. 
Where the grey stones and unmolested grass 
Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave, 
While strangers only not regardless pass. 

Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and sigh 
" Alas ! " 

LXXXVIL 
Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild ; 
Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields, 
Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled, 
And still his honied wealth Hymettus yields ; 
There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds, 
The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain-air j 
Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds, 
Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare ; 

Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is fair. 

LXXXVIIL 

Where'er we tread 't is haunted, holy ground ; 
No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould. 
But one vast realm of wonder spreads around, 
And all the Muse's tales seem truly told. 



1 On many of the mountains, particularly Liakura, the 
enow never is entirely melted, notwithstanding the in- 
tense heat of the summer; but I never saw it lie on the 
plains, even in winter. 

2 Of Mount Pentelicus, from whence the marble was 
dug that constructed the public edifices of Athens. The 
modern name is Mount Mendeli. An immense cave, 
formed by the quarries, Btill remains, and will till the 
end of time. 

3 In all Attica, if we except Athens itself and Mara- 
thon, there is no scene more interesting than Cape 
Colonna. To the antiquary and artist, sixteen columns 
are an inexhaustible source of observation and design; to 
the philosopher, the supposed scene of some of Plato's 
conversations will not be unwelcome; and the traveller 
will be struck with the beauty of the prospect over 
" Isles that crown the Egean deep : " but, for an English- 
man, Colonna has yet an additional interest, as the actual 
spot of Falconer's Shipwreck. Pallas and Plato are for- 
gotten, in the recollection of Falconer and Campbell : — 

" Here in the dead of night by Lonna's steep, 
The seaman's cry was heard along the deep." 
This temple of Minerva may be seen at sea from a great 
distance. In two journeys which I made, and one voy- 
age to Cape Colonna, the view from either side, by land, 
was less striking than the approach from the isles. In 
our second land excursion, we had a narrow escape from 
a party of Mainotes, concealed in the caverns beneath. 
We were told afterwards, by one of their prisoners, sub- 
sequently ransomed, that they were deterred from attack- 
ing us by the appearance of my two Albanians : conjec- 
turing very sagaciously, but falsely, that we had a com- 
plete guard of these Arnaouts at hand, they remained 
stationary, and thus saved our party, which was too small 
to have opposed any effectual resistance, Colonna is no 
less a resort of painters than of pirates ; there 

"The hireling artist plants his paltry desk, 
And makes degraded nature picturesque." 

(See Ho<lg8on's Lady Jane Grey, &c.) 
But there Nature, with the aid of Art, has done that for 
herself. I was fortunate enough to engage a very superior 
German artist ; and hope to renew my acquaintance with 
this and many other Levantine scenes, by the arrival of 
his performances. 



Till the sense aches with gazing to behold 
The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon : 
Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold 
Defies the power which crusb'd thy temples gone : 
Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares grey Marathon. 

LXXXIX. 

The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same ; 
Unchanged in all except its foreign lord — 
Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame 
The Batile-field, where Persia's victim horde 
First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword, 
As on the morn to distant Glory dear, 
When Marathon became a mogic word ; •* 
Which utter'd, to the hearer's eye appear 
The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's career. 

XC. 
The flying Mede, his shaffless broken bow ; 
The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear ; 
Mountains above, Earth's, Ocean's plain below ; 
Death in the front. Destruction in the rear! 
Such was the scene— what now remaineth here? 
What sacred trophy marks the hailow'd ground, 
Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear ? 
The rifled urn, the violated mound, 
The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger I spurns 
around. 

XCL 

Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past 
Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng j 
Long shall the voyager, with th' Ionian blast, 
Hail the bright clime of battle and cf song; 
Long shall Thine annals and immortal tongue 
Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore; 
Boast of the aged ! lesson of the young ! 
Which sages venerate and bards adore, 
As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore. 

XCII. 
The parted bosom clings to wonted home, 
If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome hearth ; 
He that is lonely, hither let him roam, 
And gaze complacent on congenial earth. 
Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth : 
But he whom Sadness sootheth may abide. 
And scarce regret the region of his birth, 
When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred side, 
Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian 
died. 

XCIIL 

Let such approach this consecrated land, 
And pass in peace along the magic waste ; 
But spnre its relics — let no busy hand 
Deface the scenes, already how defaced ! 
Not for such purpose were these altars placed : 
Revere the remnants nations once revered : 
So may our country's name be undisgraced, 
So may'st thou prosper where thy youth vi^as rear'd, 
By every honest joy of love and life endear'd ! 

XCIV, 

For thee, who thus in too protracted song 
Hast soothed thine idlesse with inglorious lays, 
Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng 
Of louder minstrels in these later days : 



4 " Siste Viator — heroa calcas ! " was the epitaph on 
the famous Count Merci ; — what then must be our feel- 
ings when standing on the tumulus of the two hundred 
(Greeks) who fell on Marathon 7 The principal barrow 
has recently been opened by Fauvel : few or no relics, as 
vases, &c. were found by the excavator. The plain of 
Marathon was offered to me for sale at the sum of six- 
teen thousand piastres, about nine hundred pounds! Alas! 

— "Expende — quot libras in duce summo— invenies I " 

— was the dust of Miltiades worth no more? It could 
scarcely have fetched less if sold by tpeigkt. 



Canto III.] 



PILGRIMAGE. 



421 



I 



To such resign the strife for fading bays — 
111 may such contest now the spirit move 
Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial praise, 
Since cold each kinder heart that might approve, 
And none are left to please where none are left to love. 

XCV. 
Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one ! 
Whom youth and youth's affections bound to me ; 
Who did for me what none beside have done, 
Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee. 
What is my being ? thou hast ceased to be ! 
Nor staid to welcome here thy wanderer home, 
Who mourns o'er hours which we no more shall 

see — 
Would they had never been, or were to come ! 
Would he had ne'er return'd to find fresh cause to 

roam I 

XCVI. 

Oh ! ever loving, lovely, and beloved ! 

How selfish Sorrow ponders on the past, 

And clings to thoughts now better far removed ! 

But Time shall tear thy shadow from me last. 

All thou couldst have of mine, stern Death ! thou 

hast; 
The parent, friend, and now the more than friend : 
Ne'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast. 
And grief with grief continuing still to blend, 
Hath snatch'd the little joy that life had yet to lend. 

xcvn. 

Then must I plunge again into the crowd. 
And follow all that Peace disdains to seek? 
Where Revel calls, and Laughter, vainly loud, 
False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek, 
To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak ; 
Still o'er the features, which perforce they cheer, 
To feign the pleasure or conceal the pique ; 
Smiles from the channel of a future tear. 
Or raise the writhing lip with ill-dissembled sneer. 

xcvni. 

What is the worst of woes that wait on age ? 
What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow ? 
To view each loved one blotted from life's page. 
And be alone on earth, as I am now. 
Before the Chastener humbly let me bow. 
O'er hearts divided and o'er hopes destroy'd : 
Roll on, vain days ! full reckless may ye flow. 
Since Time hath reft whate'er my soul enjoy'd, 
And with the ills of Eld mine earlier years alloy'd. 



CANTO THE THIRD.i 



" Afin que cette application vous forcat de penser a au- 
tre chose; 11 n'y a en verite de remede que celui-Ia et le 
temps." — Lettre du Roi de Prusse a D'Alembert, Sept. 
7, 1776. 



I. 

Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child ! 
Jlda! sole daughter of my house and heart? 2 
When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smiled. 
And then we parted,— not as now we part. 
But with a hope. — 



1" Begun July 10th, 1816. Diodati, near Lake of Ge- 
neva."— MS.— E. 

2 In a hitherto unpublished letter, dated Verona, No- 
vember 6, 1816, Lord Byron says— "By the way, Ada'a 
name (which I found in our pedigree, under king John's 
reign), is the same with llrat of ihe sister of Charle- 
magne, as I redde the other day, in a book treating of the 
Rhine."— E. 



36 



Awaking with a start, 
The waters heave around me ; and on high 
The winds lift up their voices : I depart, 
Whither I know not ; 3 but the hour 's gone by, 
When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad 
mine eye. 

II. 

Once more upon the waters ! yet once more ! 
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed 
That knows his rider. Welcome to the roar I 
Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead ! 
Though the strain'd mast should quiver as a reed, 
And the rent canvass fluttering strew the gale, 
Still must I on ; for I am as a weed, 
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam to sail 
Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath 
prevail. 

III. 

In my youth's summer I did sing of One, 
The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind ; 
Again I seize the theme, then but begun. 
And bear it with me, as the rushing wind 
Bears the cloud onwards: in that Tale I find 
The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears, 
Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind, 
O'er which all heavily the journeying years 
Plod the last sands of life,— where not a flower ap- 
pears. 

IV. 

Since my young days of passion —joy, or pain, 
Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string, 
And both may jar : it may be, that in vain 
I would essay as I have sung to sing. 
Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling, 
So that it wean me from the weary dream 
Of selfish grief or gladness — so it fling 
Forgetfulness around me — it shall seem 
To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme. 

V. 

He who, grown aged in this world of woe. 
In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, 
So that no wonder waits him ; nor below 
Can love or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife. 
Cut to his heart again with the keen knife 
Of silent, sharp endurance : he can tell 
Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife 
With airy images, and shapes which dwell 
Still unimpair'd, though old, in the soul's haunted cell. 

VI. 

'T is to create, and In creating live 
A being more intense, that we endow 
With form our fancy, gaining as we give 
The life we image, even as I do now. 
What am I ? Nothing : but not so art thou, 
Soul of my thought ! with whom I traverse earth, 
Invisible but gr.zing, as I glow 
Mix'd with thy spirit, blended Avith thy birth. 
And feeling still with thee in my crush'd feelings' 
dearth. 

VII. 

Yet must I think less wildly : — I have thought 
Too long and darkly, till my brain became, 
In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought, 
A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame : 
And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame, 
My springs of life were poison'd. 'T is too late! 
Yet am I changed ; though still enough the same 
In strength to bear what time can not abate, 
And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate. 



3 Lord Byron quitted England, for the second and last 
time, on the 25th of April, 1816, attended by William 
Fletcher and Robert Rushton, the "yeoman" and "page" 
of Canto I.; his physician, Dr. Polidori ; and a Swiss va- 
let.— E. 



422 



CHILDE HAROLD'S 



[Canto III. 



VIII. 

Something too much of this : — but now 't is past, 
And the spell closes with its silent seal. 
Long absent Harold re-appears at last ; 
He of the breast which fain no more would feel, 
Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but ne'er 

heal ; 
Yet Time, who changes all, had alter'd him 
In soul and aspect as in age ; years steal 
Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb ; 
And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim. 

IX. 

His had been quaff 'd too quickly, and he found 
The dregs were wormwood ; but he fJU'd again, 
And from a purer fount, on holier ground, 
And deem'd its spring perjietual ; but in vain ! 
Still round him clung invisibly a chain 
Which gall'd for ever, fettering though unseen, 
And heavy though it clank'd not ; worn with pain, 
Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen, 
Entering with every step he took through many a 
scene. 

X. 

Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix'd 
Again in fancied safety with his kind. 
And deem'd his spirit now so firmly fix'd 
And sheath'd wiih an invulnerable mind, 
That, if no joy, no sorrow lurk'd behind ; 
And he, as one, might 'midst the many stand 
Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find 
Fit speculation ; such as in strange land 
He found in wonder-works of God and Nature's hand. 

XI. 

But who can view the ripen'd rose, nor seek 
To wear it ? who can curiously behold 
The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's cheek, 
Nor feel the heart can never all grow old ? 
Who can contemplate Fame through clouds unfold 
The star which rises o'er her steep, nor climb ? 
Harold, once more within the vortex, roU'd 
On with the giddy circle, chasing Time, 
Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's fond prime. 

XII. 

But soon he knew himself the most unfit 
Of men to herd with Man ; with whom he held 
Little in common ; untaught to submit 
His thoughts to others, though his soul was quell'd 
In youth by his own thoughts; still uncompeli'd, 
He would not yield dominion of his mind 
To spirits against whom his own rebell'd ; 
Proud though in desolation ; which could find 
A life within itself, to breathe without mankind. 

xin. 

Where rose the mountains, there to him were 

friends ; 
Where roll'd the ocean, thereon was his home; 
Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends. 
He had the passion and the power to roam ; 
The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam, 
Were unto him companionship; they spake 
A mutual language, clearer than the tome 
Of his land's tongue, which he would oft forsake 
For Nature's pages glass'd by sunbeams on the lake. 

XIV. 
Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars, 
Till he had peopled them with beings bright 
As their own beams ; and ear'h, and earth-born jars, 
And human frailties, were forgotten quite: 
Could he have kept liis spirit to that flight. 
He had been happy ; but this clay will sink 
Its spark immortal, envying it the light 
To which it mounts, as if to break the link 
That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its 
brink. 



XV. 

But in Man's dwellings he became a thing 
Restless and worn, and stern and wearisome, 
Droop'd as a wild-born falcon with dipt wing, 
To whom the boundless air alone were home : 
Then came his fit again, which to o'ercome, 
As eagerly the barr'd-up bird will beat 
His breast and beak against his wiry dome 
Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat 
Of his impeded soul would through his bosom eat. 

XVI. 

Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again. 

With nought of hope left, but with less of gloom ; 

The very knowledge that he lived in vain. 

That all was over on this side the tomb, 

Had made Despair a smilingness assume. 

Which, though 't were wild, — as on the plunder'J 

wreck 
When mariners would madly meet their doom 
With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck,— 
Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to check. 

XVIL 

Stop ! — for thy tread is on an Empire's dust ! 
An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below ! 
Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust ? 
Nor column trophied for triumphal show? 
None ; but the moral's truth tells simpler so, 
As the ground was before, thus let it be j — 
How that red rain hath made the harvest grow! 
And is this all the world has gain'd by thee. 
Thou first and last of fields ! king-making Victory ? 

xvin. 

And Harold stands upon this place of skulls, 
The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo! 
How in an hour the power which gave annuls 
Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too ! 
In " pride of place " i here last the eagle flew, 
Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain. 
Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through; 
Ambition's life and labours all were vain ; 

He wears the shatter'd links of the world's broken 
chain. 

XIX. 
Fit retribution ! Gaul may champ the bit 
And foam in fetters ; — but is Earth more free ? 
Did nations combat to make One submit ; 
Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty ? 
What ! shall reviving Thraldom again be 
The patch'd-up idol of enlightened days? 
Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we 
Pay the Wolf homage? proffering lowly gaze 

And servile knees to thrones ? No ; prove, before ye 
praise ! 

XX. 
If not, o'er one fallen despot boast no more ! 
In vain fair cheeks were furrow'd with hot tears 
For Europe's flowers long rooted up before 
The trami)ler of her vineyards ; in vain years 
Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears, 
Have all been borne, and broken by the accord 
Of roused-up millions: all that most endears 
Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword 

Such as Harmodius 2 drew on Athens' tyrant lord. 

XXI. 

There was a sound of revelry by night, 

And Belgium's capital had gather'd then 

Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright 

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ; 



1 "Pride of place " is a term of falconry, and means 
the highest pitch of flight. See Macbeth, &c. 

"An ea^le towering in his pride of place," &c. 

2 See the famous song on Harmodius and Arietopiton. 
The best English translation is in Bland's Anthology, by 
Mr. (now Lord Chief Justice) Denman ~ 

"With myrtle my sword will I wreathe," &c. 



Canto III.] 



PILGRIMAGE 



423 



A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spike again, 
And all went merry as a marriage-bell ; i 

But hush ! hark. I a deep sound strikes like a rising 
knell ! 

XXII. 
Did ye not hear it ? — No : 't was but the wind, 
Or the car rattiing o'er the stony street; 
On with the dance ! let joy be uuconfined ; 
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet 
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet — 
But hark ! — that heavy sound breaks in once more, 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before I 

Arm ! Arm ! it is — it is— the cannon's opening roar ! 

XXIII. 

Within a window'd niche of that high hall 
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain : he did hear 
That sound the first amidst the festival, 
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; 
And when ihey smiled because he deeni'd it near. 
His heart more truly knew that peal too well 
Which stretcli'd his father on a bloody bier, 2 
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell : 

He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. 
XXIV. 
Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness ; 
And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess 
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes. 

Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise ! 
XXV. 
And there was mounting in hot haste : the steed, 
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
And swifily forming in the ranks of war; 
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ; 
While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, 

Or whispering, with white lips— "The foe! They 
come ! they come '. " 

XXVI. 
And wild and high the " Cameron's gathering" rose ! 
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills 
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes : — 
How in the noon of night that pibroch ihrills, 
Savage and shrill ! But with the breath which fills 
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineeis 
With the fierce native daring which instils 
The stirring memory of a thousiind years. 

And Evan's, Donald's 3 fame rings in each clansman's 
ears! 



1 On the night previous to the action, it is said that a 
ball waa given at Brussels. — [Tlie popular error of tlie 
Duke of Wellington having been surprised, ou the eve of 
the battle of Waterloo, at a ball given by the Duchess of 
Richmond at Brussels, was first corrected on authority, in 
the History of Napoleon Buonaparte, which forms a por- 
tion of the " Family Library." The Duke had received 
intelligence of Napoleon'.s decisive operations, and it was 
intended to put off the Ixill ; but, on reflection, it seemed 
highly important that the people of Brussels should be 
kept in ignorance as to tlie course of events, and the Duke 
not only desired that the ball should proceed, but the ge- 
neral officers received his commands to appear at it— each 
taking care to quit the apartment as quietly as possible at 
ten o'clock, and proceed to join his respective division en 
route.} — E. 

2 The father of the Duke of Brunswick, who fell at 
Quatre-bras, received his death-wound at Jena.— E. 

3 Sir Evan Cameron, and his descendant Donald, the 
"gentle Lochiel" of the " forty-five." 



XXVII. 

And Ardennes* waves above them her green leaves, 
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, 
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves. 
Over the unreturning brave, — alas ! 
Ere evening to be irodden like the grass 
Which no\v beneath them, but above shall grow 
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
Of living valour, rolling on the foe 

And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and 
low. 

XXVIII. 
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, 
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, 
The morn the marshalling in arms, — the day 
Battle's magnificently-stern array ! 
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent 
The earth is coverd thick with other clay. 
Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent. 

Rider and horse,- friend, foe,— in one red burial 
blent! 

XXIX. 
Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than mine; 
Yet one I would select from that proud throng. 
Partly because they blend me with his line, 
And partly that I did his sire some vvrong,5 
And partly that bright names will hallow song ; 
And his was of the bravest, and when shower'd 
The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files along. 
Even where the thickest of war's tempest lower'd, 

They reach'd no nobler breast than thine, young, gal- 
lant Howard I 6 

XXX. 

There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, 
And mine were nothing, had I such to give; 
But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree. 
Which living waves where thou didst cease to live. 
And saw around me the wide field revive 
With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring 
Come forth her work of gladness to contrive. 
With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
I turn'd from all she brought to those she could not 
bring. 1 



4 The wood of Soignies is supposed to be a remnant of 
the forest of Ardennes, famous in Boiardo's Orlando, and 
immortal in Shakspeare's "As you like it. " It is also 
celebrated in Tacitus, as being the spot of successful de- 
fence by the Germans against the Roman encroachments. 
I have ventured to adopt the name connected with nobler 
associations than those of mere slaughter. 

5 See English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. — E. 

6 "In the late battles, like all the world, I have lost a 
counexion — poor Frederick Howard, the best of his race. 
I had little intercourse of late years with his family ; but 
I never saw or heard but good of him."— Lord B. to Mr. 
Moore.— E. 

7 My guide from Mont St. Jean over the field seemed 
intelligent and accurate. The place where Maior How- 
ard fell was not far from two tall and solitary trees 
(there was a third cut down, or shivered in the battle), 
which stand a few yards from each other at a pathway's 
side. Beneath these he died and was buried. The body 
has since been removed to England. A small hollow for 
the present marks where it lay, but will probably soon be 
effaced ; the plough has been upon it, and the grain is. 
After pointing out the different spots where Ticton and 
other gallant men had perished; the guide said, " Here 
Major Howard lay: I was near him when wounded." I 
told him my relationship, and he seemed then still more 
anxious to point out the particular spot and circumstances. 
The place is one of the most marUed in the field, from the 
peculiarity of the two trees above mentioned. I went on 
horseback twice over the field, comparing it with my re- 
collection of similar scenes. As a plain, Waterloo seems 
marked out for the scene of some great action, though 
this may be mere imagination : I have viewed with atten- 
tion those of riatca, Troy, Mantinea, Leuctra, Chacronea, 
and Marathon; and the field around Mont St. Jean and 
Hougoumont appears to want little but a lietter cause, and 
that undefinable but impressive halo which the lapse of 



424 



CHILDE HAROLD'S 



[Canto III. 



XXXI. 

I turn'd to thee, to thousands, of whom each 

And one as all a ghastly gap did make 

In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach 

Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake ; 

The Archangel's trump, not Glory's, must awake 

Those whom they thirst for ; though the sound of 

Fame 
May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake 
The fever of vain longing, and the name 
So honour'd but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim. 

XXXII. 

They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling, 

mourn : 
The tree will wither long before it fall ; 
The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn; 
The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall 
In massy hoariness ; the ruin'd wall 
Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone; 
The bars survive the captive they enthral ; 
The day drags through though storms keep out the 

sun ; 
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on : 

XXXIII. 

Even as a broken mirror, which the glass 
In every fragment multiplies; and makes 
A thousand imnges of one that was, 
The same, and still the more, the more it breaks; 
And thus the heart will do which not forsakes, 
Living in shatter'd guise, and still, and cold, 
And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches, 
Yet withers on till all without is old. 
Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold. 

XXXIV. 
There is a very life in our despair, 
Vitality of poison, — a quick root 
Which feeds these deadly branches; for it were 
As nothing did we,die ; but Life will suit 
Itself to Sorrow's most detested fruit, 
Like to the apples i on the Dead Sea's shore, 
All ashes to the tasle : Did man compute 
Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er 

Such hours 'gainst years of life, — say, would he name 
threescore ? 

XXXV. 
The Psalmist number'd out the years of man: 
They are enough ; and if thy tale be true, 
Thou, who didst grudge him even that fleeting span, 
More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo ! 
Millions of tongues record thee, and anew 
Their children's lips shall echo them, and say — 
" Here, where the sword united nations drew. 
Our countrymen were warring on that day ! " 

And this is much, and all which will not pass away. 

XXXVI. 

There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men, 
Whose spirit antithetically mixt 
One moment of the mightiest, and again 
On little objects with like firmness fixt. 
Extreme in all things ! hadst thou been betwixt, 
Thy throne had still been thine, or never been ; 
For daring made thy rise as fall : thou seek'st 
Even now to re-assume the imperial mien. 
And shake again the world, the Thunderer of the 
scene I 

XXXVII. 
Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou ! 
She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name 
Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds than now 
That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame, 



ages throws around a celebrated spot, to vie in interest 
with any or all of these, except, perhaps, the last men- 
tioned. 

1 The (fabled) apples on the brink of the lake Asphaltea 
■were said to be fair without, and, within, ashes. Vide 
Tacitus, Histor. lib. v. 7. 



W^ho wco'd thee once, thy vassal, and became 
The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert 
A god unto thyself; nor less the same 
To the astounded kingdoms all inert. 
Who deem'd thee for a time whate'er thou didst assert. 

xxxvin. 

Oh, more or less than man — in high or low, 
Battling with nations, flying from the field ; 
Now making monarchs' necks thy footstool, now 
More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield : 
An empire thou couldsi crush, command, rebuild, 
But govern not thy petiiest passion, nor. 
However deeply in men's spirits skill'd, 
Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war. 

Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest 
star. 

XXXIX. 
yet well thy soul hath brook'd the turning tide 
With that untaught innate philosophy, 
Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride, 
Is gall and wormwood to an enemy. 
When the whole host of hatred stood hard by. 
To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled 
With a sedate and all-enduring eye ; — 
When Fortune fled her spoil'd and favourite child, 

He stood unbow'd beneath the ills upon him piled. 

XL. 

Sager than in thy fortunes ; for in them 
Ambition steel'd thee on too far to show 
That just habitual scorn, which could contemn 
Men and their thoughts ; 't was wise to feel, not so 
To wear it ever on thy lip and brow. 
And spurn the instrumen's thou wert to use 
Till they were turn'd unto thine overthrow ; 
'T is but a worthless world to win or lose ; 
So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who choose. 

XLI. 

If, like a tower upon a headlong rock. 
Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone, 
Such scorn of man had help'd to brave the shock ; 
But men's thoughts were the steps which paved thy 

throne. 
Their admiration thy best weapon shone ; 
The part of Philip's son was thine, not then 
(Unless aside thy purple had been thrown) 
Like stern Diogenes to mock at men ; 
For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den.** 

XLII. 

But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell. 
And there hath been thy bane ; there is a fire 
And motion of the soul" which will not dwell 
In its own narrow being, but aspire 
Beyond the fitting medium of desire ; 
And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore. 
Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire 
Of aujhl but rest ; a fever at the core. 
Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. 

XLlft. 
This makes the madmen who have mnde men mad 
By their contagion ; Conquerors and Kings, 
Founders of sects and systems, to whom add 
Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things 



2 The great error of Napoleon, "if we have writ our 
annals true," was a continued obtrusion on mankind of 
his want of all rommunity of feeling for or with them; 
perhaps more offensive to human vanity than the active 
cruelty of more trembling and suspicious tyranny. Such 
were his speeches to public assemblies as well as indi- 
viduals; and the single expression which he is said to 
have used on returning to Paris after the Russian winter 
had destroyed his army, rubbing his hands over a fire, 
"This is pleasanter than Moscow," would probably alien- 
ate more favour from his cause than the destruction and 
reverses which led to the remark. 



Canto III.] 



PILGRIMAGE. 



425 



Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs, 
And are themselves the fools to those they fool ; 
Envied, yet how unenviable! what stings 
Are theirs ! One breast laid open were a school 
Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or 
rule: 

XLIV. 

Their breath is agitation, and their life 
A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last, 
And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife. 
That should their days, surviving perils past, 
Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast 
With sorrow and supineness, and so die ; 
Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste 
With its own flickering, or a sword laid by, 
Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously. 

XLV. 

He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find 
The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow; 
He who surpasses or subdues mankind, 
Must look down on the hate of those below. 
Though high above the sun of glory glow, 
And far beneath the earth and ocean spread. 
Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow 
Contending tempests on his naked head. 
And thus reward the toils which to those summits led. 

XLVI. 

Away with these ! true Wisdom's world will be 
Within its own creation, or in thine. 
Maternal Nature ! for who teems like thee, 
Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine? 
There Harold gazes on a work divine, 
A blending of all beauties ; streams and dells. 
Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, cornfield, mountain, vine, 
And chiefless castles breathing stern farewells 
From grey but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly dwells. 

XLvn. 

And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind, 
Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd, 
All tenantless, save to the crannying wind. 
Or holding dark communion with the cloud. 
There was a day when they were young and proud, 
Banners on high, and battles pass'd below ; 
But they who fought are in a bloody shroud, 
And those which waved are shredless dust ere now. 
And the bleak battlements shall bear no future blow. 

XLvni. 

Beneath these battlements, within those walls. 
Power dwelt amidst her passions ; in proud state 
Each robber chief upheld his armed halls. 
Doing his evil will, nor less elate 
Than mightier heroes of a longer date. 
What want these outlaws i conquerors should have ? 
But History's purchased page to call them great ? 
A wider space, an ornamented grave ? 
Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full 
as brave. 

XLIX. 

In their baronial feuds and single fields, 
What deeds of prowess unrecorded died ! 
And Love, which lent a blazon to their shields, 
With emblems well devised by amorous pride, 
Through all the mail of iron hearts would glide; 
But still their flame was fierceness, and drew on 
Keen contest and destruction near allied. 
And many a tower for some f 'ir mischief won, 
Saw the discolour'd Rhine beneath its ruin run. 



1 "What wants that knave that a king should have? *' 
was King James's question on meeting Johnny Arm- 
Btrong and his followers in full accoutrements. — See the 
Ballad. 



L. 

But Thou, exulting and abounding river ! 
Making thy waves a blessing as they flow 
Through banks whose beauty would endure forever 
Could min but leave thy bright creation so. 
Nor its fair promise from the surface mow 
With the sharp scythe of conflict,— then to see 
Thy valley of sweet svaters, were to know 
Earth paved like Heaven ; and to seem such to me, 
Even now what wants thy stream? — that it should 
Lethe be. 

LL 

A thousand battles have assail'd thy banks. 
But these and half their fame have pass'd away, 
And Slaughter heap'd on high his weltering ranks; 
Their very graves are gone, and what aie they ? 
Thy tide wash'd down the blood of yesterday. 
And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream 
Glass'd with its dancing light the sunny ray ; 
But o'er the blacken'd memory's blighting dream 

Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they 
seem. 

LH. 
Thus Harold inly said, and pass'd along, 
Yet not insensibly to all which here 
Awoke the jocund birds to early song ' 
In glens which might have made even exile dear ; 
Though on his brow were graven lines austere, 
And tranquil sternness which had ta'en the place 
Of feelings fierier far but less severe, 
Joy was not always absent from his face, 

But o'er it in such "scenes would steal with transient 
trace. 

LHI. 

Nor was all love shut from him, though his days 
Of passion had consumed themselves to dust. 
It is in vain that we would coldly gaze 
On such as smile upon us ; the heart must 
Leap kindly back to kindness, though disgust 
Hath wean'd it from all worldlings : thus he felt, 
For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust 
In one fond breast, to which his own would melt, 
And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt. 

LIV. 
And he had learn'd to love, — I know not why. 
For this in such as him seems strange of mood, — 
The helpless looks of blooming infancy, 
Even in its earliest nurture ; what subdued, 
To change like this, a mind so far imbued 
With scorn of man, it little boots to know ; 
But thus it was; and though in solitude 
Small power the nipp'd affections have to grow, 
In him this glow'd when all beside had ceased to glow. 

LV. 

And there was one soft breast, as hath been said. 
Which unto his was bound by stronger ties 
Than the church links withal ; and, though unwed, 
That love was pure, and, far above disguise, 
Had stood the test of mortal enmities 
Still undivided, and cemented more 
By peril, dreaded most in female eyes; 
But this was firm, and from a foreign shore 
Well to that heart might his these absent greetings 
pour ! 

L 
The castled crag of Drachenfels 2 
Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, 
Whose breast of waters broadly swells 
Between the banks which bear the vine. 



2 The cnstle of Drachenfels stands on the highest sum- 
mit of "the Seven Mountains," over the Rhine banks: 
it is in ruins, and connected with some singular tra- 
ditions. It is the first in view on the road from Bonn, 
but on the opposite side of the river ; on this bank, nearly 
facing it, are the remains of another, called the Jew'K 



36* 



426 



CHILDE HAROLD'S 



[Canto III. 



And hills all rich with blossom'd frees, 
And tields which promise corn and wine, 
And scatter'd cities crownins; these, 
Whose far white walls along; them shine, 
Have strew-d a scene, which 1 should see 
With double joy wert thou with me.* 



And peasant girls, with deep-blue eyes, 
And hands which ofter early liowers. 
Walk smiling o'er (liis paradise ; 
Above, the frequent feudal towers 
Through green leaves lift their walls of grey, 
And many a rock which steeply lowers, 
And noble arch in proud decay, 
Look o'er (his vale of vintage-bowers ; 
But one thing want these banks of Rhine,— 
Thy gentle hand to clasp iu mine ! 



I send the lilies given to me ; 
Though long before thy hand they touch, 
I know that they must wither'd be. 
But yet reject them not as such ; 
For I have cherish'd them as dear, 
Because they yet may meet thine eye, 
And guide thy soul to mine even here, 
When thou behold'st them drooping nigh. 
And know'st tliem gather'd by the Rhine, 
And offer'd from my heart to thine! 



The river nobly foams and flows, 

The charm of this enchanted ground. 

And all its thousand turns disclose 

Some fresher beauty varying round: 

The haughtiest breast its wish might bound 

Through life to dwell delighted here; 

Nor could on earth a spot be found 

To nature and to me so dear, 

Could thy dear eyes in following mine 

Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine ! 

LVI. 

By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground. 
There is a small and simple pyramid, 
Crowning the sunmiit of the verdant mound j 
Beneath its base are heroes' ashes hid. 
Our enemy's — but let not that forbid 
Honour to Marceau ! o'er whose early tomb 
Tears, big tears, gush'd from the rough soldier's lid, 
Lamenting and yet envying such a doom. 
Falling for France', whose' rights he battled to resume. 

Lvn. 

Brief, brave, and glorious was his young career, — 
His mourners were two hosts, his friends and foesj 
And fitly may the stnnser lingering here 
Pray for his gallant spirit's bright repose; 
For he was Freedom's champion, one of those, 
The few in number, who had not o'erstept 
The charter to chastise which she bestows 
On such as wield her weapons ; he had kept 
The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him 
wept.2 

Castle, and a large cross, commemorative of the murder 
of a chief by his brother. Tlie number of castles and 
cities along the course of the Rhine on both sides is very 
great, and their situations remarkably beautiful. 

1 These verses were written en the banks of the Rhine, 
in May. The orieinal pencilling is before ub. It is need- 
lesB to observe, that they were addressed by the poet to 
his Sister. — E. 

2 The monument of the young and lamented General 
Marceau, (killed by a rifle-ball at Alterkirohen.on the last 
day of the fourth "year of the French republic) still re- 
mains as described. The inscriptions on his monument 
are rather too long, and not required: his name was 
enough; France adored, and her enemies admirt-d; Iwlh 
wept over him. His funeral was attended by the generals 



LVIII. 
Here Ehrenbrei(stein,3 with her shatfer'd wall 
Black with the miner's blast, upon her height 
Yet shows of what she was, when shell and ball 
Rebounding idly on her strengh did light: 
A tower of victory ! from whence the flight 
Of bnffled foes was watch'd along the plaui : 
But Peace destroy'd what War could never blight, 
And laid those proud roofs bare to Sunmier's rain — 
On which the iron shower for years had pour'd in vain. 

LIX. 

Adieu to thee, fair Rhine ! How long delighted 
The stranger fain would linger on his way ! 
Thine is a scene alike where souls united 
Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray ; 
And could the cea-eless vultures cease to prey 
On self-condemning bosoms, it were here, 
Where Nature, nor too sombre nor loo gay. 
Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere, 
Is to the mellow Earth as Autunm to the year. 

LX. 

Adieu to thee again I a vain adieu ! 
There can be no farewell to scene like thine; 
The mind is colour'd by thy every hue; 
And if reluctantly the eyes' resign 
Their cherish'd gaze upon thee," lovely Rhine ! * 
'T is with the thankful glance of parting praise; 
More mighty spots may rise — more glaring shine. 
But none unite in one attaching maze 
The brilliant, fair, and soft, — the glories of old days, 

LXL 

The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom 
Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen. 
The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom, 
The forest's growth, and Gothic walls between, 
The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been 
In mockery of man s art ; and these withal 
A race of faces happy as the scene. 
Whose fertile bounties here extend to all, 
Still springing o'er thy banks, though Empires near 
them fall. 



and detachments from both armies. In the same grave 
General lioche is interred, a gallant man also in every 
sense of the word; but though he distinguished himself 
greatly in battle, he hud not the good fortune to die there ; 
his death was attended by suspicions of poison. A sepa- 
rate monument (not over his body, which is buried by 
Marceau's) is raised for him near Andernach, opprsite to 
which one of his most memorable exploits was performed, 
in throwing a bridge to an island on the Rhine. The 
shape and style are different from that of Marceau's, and 
the inscription more simple and pleasing: — "The Army 
of the Sambre and Meuse to its Commander-in-Chief 
Hoche." This is all, and as it should be. Ilorhe was 
esteemed among the first of France's earlier generals, be- 
fore Buonaparte monopolised her triumphs. He was the 
destined commander of the invading army of Ireland. 

SEhrenbreitstein, j. e. "the broad stone of honour," 
one of the strongest fortiesaes in Europe, was dismantled 
and blown up by the French at the truce of Leoben. It 
had been, and could only be, reduced by famine or trea- 
chery. It yielded to the former, aided by surprise. Af- 
ter having seen the fortifications of Gibraltar and Malta, 
it did not much strike by comparison; but the situation 
is commanding. General Marceau besieged it in vain for 
some time, and 1 slept in a room where I was shown a 
window at which he is said to have been standing observ- 
ing the progress of the siege by moonlight, when a ball 
struck immediately below it. 

4 On taking Hockheim,the Anstrians, in one part of the 
engagement, got to the brow of the hill, whence they had 
their first view of the Rhine. They instantly halted — 
not a gun was fired — not a voice heard: but they stood 
gazing on the river with those feelings which the events 
of the last fifteen years at once called tip. Prince 
Schwartzciiberg rode up to know the cause of this sudden 
stop ; then tliey gave three cheers, rushed after the enemy, 
and drove them into the water. — E. 



Canto III.] 



PILGRIMAGE. 



427 



LXir. 

But these recede. Above me are the Alps, 
The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls 
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, 
And throned Elemiiy in icy halls 
(.)t cold sublimity, where forms and falls 
The avalanche— the thunderbolt of snow ! 
All that expands the spirit, yet afipals, 
Ci.iiher anmnd these summits, as to show 

How Karth may pierce to Heavcu, yet leave vain man 
below. 

LXIII. 
But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan, 
There is a spot should not be pass'd in vain,— 
Morat ! the proud, the patriot (leld ! where man 
May g.ize on gh istly trophies of the slain, 
Nor blush tor those who conqnor'd on that j)lain ; 
Hi-re Huraiundy bequeath'd Ins tombless host, 
A bony heap, through ages to remain, 
Themselves their monument ; — the Stygian coast 

Unsepulchreti (hey roam'd, and shrieked each wander- 
ing ghost. i 

LXIV. 
While Waterloo with Cannas's carnage vies, 
Moral and Marathon twin names shall stand; 
They were true Glory's stainless victories, 
Won by the unambitious lieait and hand 
Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band, 
All unbouglit champions in no princely cause 
Of vice-entaiPd Coiruption ; they no land 
Dooui'd to bewail the blasphemy of laws 

Making kings' rights divine, by some Draconic clause. 

LXV. 

By a lone wall a lonelier column rears 
A grey and grief-worn aspect of old days ; 
'Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years, 
And looks as with the wild-bewilder'dgaze 
Of one to st'ine converted by ama/e, 
Yet still with consciousness ; and there it stands 
Making a marvel that it not decays, 
When the coeval pride of hum \n hands, 
Levell'd Aventicum,*! hath strew'd her subject lauds. 

LXV I. 

And there — oh ! sweet and sacred be tlie name ! — 
Julia — the daughter, the devoted — gave 
Her youth to Hewen ; her heart, beneath a claim 
Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's grave. 
Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers would crave 
The life she lived in ; but the judge was just, 
And then she died on him she could not save. 
Their tomb was simple, and without a bust, 
And held within their urn one mind, one heart, one 
dust.3 



1 The chapel is destroyed, nnd the pyramid of bones dl- 
mini«hod to a small number liy the BnrRundian legion in 
the Hervico of France: who anxiously elfaced this record 
of their iiiKTstoi's' less successful invasions. A few hiill 
remain, notwilhsiandiiis: Ilio pnins taken by the Buri,nin- 
dians for hkcx (all who passed that way removinn a boi-e 
to their own connlry), and the less justifiable larcenies of 
the Swis^ poslilmns, who carried them otf to sell for 
knife-handles; n purpose for which the whiteness imbibed 
by the bleaching of years had rendered them in Rreat 
request. Of these relics I ventured to bring away iis 
much as may have made a quarter of n hero, for which 
the sole excuse is, that if I had not, the next passcr-hy 
miphi have perverted them to worse \ises than the care- 
ful preservation which I intend for them. 

QAventicum, niar Morat, was tho Ktmian capital of 
Helvetia, where Avenches now stands. 

SJulia Alpin\i1a, a younp Aventinn priestesR, died soon 
after a vain endeavour to save her fiither, condemned to 
death as n traitor by Aulus Ceciiai. Her epitaph was dis- 
covered many years npo ; — it is thus :— ".Inlia Alpinula : 
Hie jaceo. infelicis. patris infelix proles. Deae Aventiac 
Bacerdos. Exorare patris necem non potui : Male mori 
in fatis ille erat. VIxi annos XXIII."-- I know of no 
human composition so atfeeting aa this, nor a history of 



LXVII. 

Rut these are deeds wliich should not pass away. 
And names that must not wither, though the eartlt 
Forgets her empires with a just decay, 
The enslavers and the enslaved, their death and 

birth; 
Tlie high, the mountain-majesty of worth 
Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe, 
And from its immortality look forth 
In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow,4 
Imperishably pure beyond all things below. 

LXVHI. 

Lake Leman vvoos me wifli its crystal face, 
'J'he mirror where the stars and mountains view 
The stillness of their aspect in each trace 
Its clear depth yields of tlieir far height and hue : 
'llicre is too much of mm hete, to look through 
Wiih a til mind the might which I behold j 
But soon in me shall Loneliness renew 
Thoughts hid, but not less cherish'd than of old, 
Ere mingling with the herd had peuu'd me in their 
fold. 

LXIX. 

To ily from, need not l)e to hate, mankind : 

All are not tit with them to stir and toil. 

Nor is it discontent to keep the mind 

l)ee|i in its fonnlain, lest it overboil 

In the hot throng, where we become th« spoil 

Of our infection, till too late and long 

We may deplore and struggle wiih the coil, 

In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong 

'Midst a contentious woiid, striving where none aro 
stix)ng. 

LXX. 
There, in a moment, we may plunge our years 
In fatal penitence, and in Uie blight 
Of our own soul turn all our blood to tears, 
And colour things to come with hues of Night; 
The r.ace of life becomes a hopeless flight 
To those that walk in darkness: on the sea, 
The boldest steer but where their ports invite, 
But there are wanderers o'er Eternity 

Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er 
shall be. 

LXXI. 
Is it not better, tlien, to be alone, 
And love Earth only for its earthly sake ? 
By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone,6 
Or the |niie bosom of its nursing Inke, 
Which feeds it .as a mother who doth make 
A fair but frowaid infant her own care. 
Kissing its cries away as these awake ; — 
Is it not better thus onr lives to wear, 

Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd to inflict or 
bear ? 

LXXII. 
I live not in myself, but I become 
Portion of thataround me ; and to me 
High mountains are a feeling, but the hum 
Of human cities torture : 1 can see 



deeper interest. These are the names and actions which 
oimht not to perish, and to which we turn with a true 
and healthy tenderness, from the wretched and (rlitterinR 
detail of a confused mass of conquests and Iwltlcs, with 
wliich the mind is roused for a time to a false and fever- 
ish sympathy, from whence it recurs at length with all 
the nausea consequent on such intoxication. 

4 This is written in tho eye of Mont nianc (.Tune Sd, 
1816), which even at this distance dazzles mine. — (.luly 
20th.) 1 lliis day observed for some linu' the ilislinct re- 
lU'clion of Mont nianc and Mont ArRcntiere in the calm 
of the lake, which I was crossing in my boat ; the dis- 
tance of these mountains from their mirror is sixty 
miles. 

6 The colour of the Rhone at Oeneva is bine, to n depth 
of tint which I have never seen equalled in water, salt or 
I fresh, except in the Mediterranean and Archipelago. 



428 



CHILDE HAROLD'S 



[Canto III. 



Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be 
A link reluctant in a fleshly chain, 
Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee, 
And with the sky, the peak, ihe heaving plaia 
Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. 

LXXIII. 
And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life; 
I look upon the peopled desert past, 
As on a place of agony and strife, 
Where, for some sin, to sorrow I was cast, 
To act and sutTer, but remount at last 
With a fresh pinion j which I feel to spring, 
Though young, yet waxing vigorous, as ihe blast 
Which it would cope with, on delighted wing, 

Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being 
cling. 

LXXIV. 
And when, at length, the mind shall be all free 
From what it hates in this degraded form, 
Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be 
Existent happier in the fly and worm, — 
When elements to elements confoim. 
And dust is as it should be, shall I not 
Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm ? 
The bodiless thought ? the Spirit of each spot ? 

Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot ? 

LXXV. 

Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part 
Of me and of my soul, as I of them ? 
Is not the love of these deep in my heart 
With a pure passion? should I not contemn 
All objects, if compared with these? and stem 
A tide of sutfering, rather than forego 
Such feelings for t"he hard and worldly phlegm 
Of those whose eyes are only turn'd below. 

Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare 
not glow ? 

LXXVI. 
But this is not my theme ; and I return 
To that which is immediate, and require 
Those who find contemplation in the urn. 
To look on One, whose dust was once all fire, 
A native of the land where I respire 
The clear air for a while — a passing guest. 
Where he became a being,— whose desire 
Was to be glorious ; 't was a foolish quest, 

The which to gain and keep, he sacrificed all rest. 

LXXVII. 
Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau,* 
The apostle of affliction, he who threw 
Enchantment over passion, and from woe 
Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew 
The breath which made him wretched : yet he knew 
How to make madness beautiful, and cast 
O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue 
Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they past 
The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and fast. 

LXXVIII. 
His love was passion's essence — as a tree 
On fire by lightning; with ethereal flame 
Kindled he was, and blasted ; for to be 
Thus, and enamour'd, were in him the same. 
But his was not the love of living dame. 
Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams. 
But of ideal beauty, which became 
In him existence, and o'erflowing teems 
Along his burning page, distemper'd though it seems. 



LXXIX. 

This breathed itself to life in Julie, this 
Invested her with all that's wild and sweet; 
This hallow'd, too, the memorable kiss^ 
Which every morn his fever'd lip would greet. 
From hers, who but with friendship his would meet ; 
But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast 
Flash'd the thrill'd spirit's love-devouring heat; 
In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest 
Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest. 

LXXX. 

His life was one long war with self-sought foes, 
Or friends by him self-banish'd ; for his mind 
Had grown Suspicion's sancuary, and chose, 
For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind 
'Gainst whom be raged with fury strange and blind. 
But he was phrensied, — wherefore, who may know ? 
Since cause might be which skill could never find; 
But he was phrensied by disease or woe. 
To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning 
show. 

LXXXI. 

For then he was inspired, and from him came, 
As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore, 
Those oracles which set the world in flame, 
Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more : 
Did he not this for France? which lay before 
Bow'd to the inborn tyranny of years ? 
Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore, 
Till by the voice of him and his compeers. 
Roused up to too much wrath, which follows o'ergrown 
fears ? 

LXXXII. 

They made themselves a fearful monument ! 
The wreck of old opinions — things which grew. 
Breathed from the birth of time: the veil they rent. 
And what behind it lay, all earth shall view. 
But good with ill they also overthrew. 
Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild 
Upon the same foundation, and renew 
Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour refilled, 
As heretofore, because ambition was self-will'd. 

LXXXIII. 

But this will not endure, nor be endured ! 
Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt. 
They might have used it better, but, allured 
By their new vigour, sternly have they dealt 
On one another; pity ceased to melt 
With her once natural charities. But they, 
Who in oppression's darkness caved had dwelt, 
They were not eagles, nourish'd with the day ; 
What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey? 

LXXXIV. 

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar ? 
The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear 
That which disfigures it ; and they who war 
With their own hopes, and have been vanquish'd, 

bear 
Silence, but not submission : in his lair 
Fix'd Passion holds his breath, until the hour 
Which shall atone for years ; none need despair: 
It came, it cometh, and will come, — the power 
To punish or forgive — in one we shall be slower. 



1"I have traversed all Rousseau's ground with the 
' Heloise' before me, and am btruck to a degree that I can- 
not express with the force and accuracy of his descrip- 
tions, and the beauty of their reality. Meillerie.Clarens, 
and Vevay, and the Chateau de ChiUon, are places of 
which I shall say little ; because all I could say must fall 
short of the impressions they stamp."— B. Letters,— E. 



2Thi8 refers to the account in his " Confessions" of hi8 
passion for the Comtesse d'Houdetot (the mistress of St. 
Lambert), and his long walk every morning, for the sake 
of the single kiss which was the common salutation of 
French acquaintance. Rousseau's description of his feel- 
ings on this occasion may be considered as the most paa- 
sionate, yet not impure, description and expression of love 
that ever kindled info words; which, after all, muet l)e 
felt, from their very force, to be inadequate to the de- 
lineation: a painting can give do sufficient idea of the 
ocean. 



Canto III.J 



PILGRIMAGE. 



429 



LXXXV. 

Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake, 
"With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing 
Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake 
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. 
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
To waft me from distraction ; once I loved 
Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring 
Sounds sweet as if a Sister's voice reproved, 

That I with stern delights should e'er have been so 
moved. 

LXXXVI. 
It is the hush of night, and all between 
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, 
Mellow'd ^nd mingling, yet distinctly seen. 
Save darken'd Jura, whose capt heights appear 
Precipitously steep ; and drawing near. 
There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, 
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; on the ear 
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, 

Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more : 

Lxxxvir. 

He is an evening reveller, who makes 
His life an infancy, and sings his fill ; 
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes 
Starts into voice a moment, then is still. 
There seems a floating whisper on the hill, 
But that is fancy, for the siarlight dews 
All silently their tears of love instil. 
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse 
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues.i 

Lxxxvin. 

Ye stars ! which are the poetry of heaven ! 
If in your bright leaves we would read the fate 
Of men and empires, — 't is to be forgiven, 
That in our aspirations to be great. 
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state. 
And claim a kindred with you ; for y« are 
A beauty and a mystery, and create 
In us such love and reverence from afar. 

That fortune, fame, power, life, have named them- 
selves a star. 

LXXXIX. 
All heaven and earth are still — though not in sleep, 
But breathless, as we grow when feeling most j 
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep : — 
All heaven and earth are still : From the high host 
Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain-coast, 
All is concenter'd in a life intense, 
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, 
But hath a part of being, and a sense 

Of that which is of all Creator and defence. 

XC. 
Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt 
In solitude, where we are least alone ; 
A truth, which through our being then doth melt, 
And purifies from self: it is a tone, 
The soul and source of music, which makes known 
Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm 
Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone. 
Binding all things with beauty ; — 'twould disarm 
The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm. 

XCI. 

Not vainly did the early Persian make 
His altar the high places and the peak 
Of earth-o'ergazing moiintains,2 and thus take 
A fit and unwall'd temple, there to seek 



1 During Lord Byron's stay in Switzerland, he took up 
his residence at the Campagne-Diodati, in the village of 
Coligny. It stands at the fop of a rapidly descending vine- 
yard; the windows commanding, one way, a noble view 
of the lake and of Geneva ; the other, up the lake. Every 
evening, the poet embarked on the lake ; and to the feel- 
ings created by these excursions we owe these delightful 
stanzas.— E. 
j 2 See Appendix, note [F]. 



The Spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak, 
Uprear'd of human hands. Come, and compare 
Columns and idol dwellings, Goth or Greek, 
With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air, 
Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy pray'r ! 

XCII. 
The sky is changed ! — and such a change ! Oh 

night. 
And stoim, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, 
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light 
Of a dark eye in woman I Far along. 
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among 
Leaps the live thunder 1 Not from one lone cloud, 
But eve y mountain now hath found a tongue, 
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud. 
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud ! 

XCIII. 

And this is in the night : — Most glorious night ! , 
Thou wert not sent for slumber ! let me be ' 

A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — | 

A portion of the tempest and of thee ! 3 
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea. 
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! 
And now again 'tis black, — and now, the glee 
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth. 
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. 

XCIV. 

Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way be- 
tween 
Heights which appear as lovers who have parted 
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene. 
That they can meet no more, though broken- 
hearted ; 
Though in their souls, which thus each other 

thwarted. 
Love was the very root of the fond rage 
Which blighted their life's bloom, and then de- 
parted : — 
Itself expired, but leaving them an age 
Of years all winters, — war within themselves to wage. 

xcv. 

Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way, 
The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand : 
For here, not one, but many, make their play. 
And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to hand, 
Flashing and cast around : of ail (he band. 
The brightest through these parted hills hath fork'd 
His lightnings, — as if he did understand, 
That in such gaps as desolation work'd. 

There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein 
lurk'd. 

XCVI. 
Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye! 
With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul. 
To make these felt and feeling, well may be 
Things that have made me watchful ; the far roll 
Of your departing voices, is the knoll 
Of what in me is sleepless, — if I rest. 
But where of ye, oh tempests ! is the goal ? 
Are ye like those within the human breast ? 

Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest? 

XCVII. 
Could I embody and unbosom now 
That which is most within me,— could I wreak 
My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw 
Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak, 
All that I would have sought, and all I seek. 
Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — into 07ie word. 
And that one word were Lightning, I would speak j 
But as it is, I live and die unheard. 
With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword. 



3 The thunder-storm to which these lines refer occurred 
on the 13th of June, 1816, nt midnight. I have seen, 
among the Acrocerauninn mountains of Chimari, several 
more terrible, but none more beautiful. 



430 



CHILDE HAROLD'S 



[Canto III. 



XCVIII. 
The morn is up again, the dewy morn, 
With breith aJl incense, and with cheek all bloom, 
Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, 
And living as if earth contain'd no tomb, — 
And glowing into day : we may resume 
The march of our existence : and thus I, 
Still on thy shores, fair Leman ! may find room 
And food for meditation, nor pass by 
Much, that may give us pause, if ponder'd fittingly. 

XCIX. 
Clarens ! sweet Clarens, birth-place of deep Love ! 
Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought ; 
Thy trees take root in Love ; the snows above 
The very Glaciers have his colours caught, 
And sun-set Into rose-hues sees them wrought 
By rays which sleep there lovingly : the rocks. 
The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who sought 
In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, 

Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, 
then mocks. 

C. 
Clarens ! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod,— 
Undying Love's, who here ascends a throne 
To which the steps are mountains ; where the god 
Is a pervading life and light, — so shown 
Not on those summits solely, nor alone 
In the still cave and forest ; o'er the flower 
His eye is spirkling, and his breath hath blown, 
His soft and summer breath, whose tender power 

Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate 
hour.i 

CL 
All things are here of him ; from the black pines, 
Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar 
Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines 
Which slope his green pith downward to the shore, 
Where the bow"d waters meet him, and adore. 
Kissing his feet with murmurs ; and the wood, 
The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar. 
But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it stood, 

Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude. 

cn. 

A populous solitude of bees and birds, 
And fairy -form'd and many-colour'd things, 
Who worship him with notes more sweet than words. 
And innocently open their glad wings. 
Fearless and full of life : the gush of springs. 
And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend 
Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings 
The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend, 
Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end. 

cm. 

He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore, 
And make his heart a spirit ; he who knows 
That tender mystery, will love the more. 
For this is Love's recess, where vain men's woes, 
And the world's waste, have driven him far from 

those, 
For 't is his nature to advance or die ; 
He stands not still, but or decays, or grows 
Into a boundless blessing, which may vie 
With the immortal lights, in its eternity ! 

CIV. 

'T was not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot. 
Peopling it with affections ; but he found 
It was the scene which passion must allot 
To the mind's purified beings ; 't was the ground 
Where early Love his Psyche's zone unbound. 
And hallow'd it with loveliness : 't is lone, 
And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound. 
And sense, and sight of sweetness ; here the Rhone 
Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have rear'd a 
throne. 



CV. 

Lausanne ! and Ferney ! ye have been the abodes 
Of names which unto you bequeath'd a name ; ^ 
Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous roads, 
A path to perpetuity of fame : 
They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim 
Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile 
Thoughts which should call down thunder, and the 

flame 
Of Heaven, again assail'd, if Heaven the while 

Of man and man's research could deign do more than 
smile. 

CVI. 
The one was fire and fickleness, a child. 
Most mutable in wishes, but in mind, 
A wit as various, — gay, grave, sage, or wild, — 
Historian, bard, philosopher, combined; 
He multiplied himself among mankind. 
The Proteus of their talents : But his own 
Breathed most in ridicule, — which, as the wind. 
Blew where it listed, laying ail things prone, — 

Now to o'erthrow a fool, aud now to shake a throne. 

CVII. 

The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought, 

And hiving wisdom with each studious year, 

In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought, 

And shaped his weapon with an edge severe, 

Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer ; 

The lord of irony, — that master-spell. 

Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from 

fear, 
And doom'd him to the zealot's ready Hell, 
Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well. 

CVIII. 

Yet, peace be with their ashes, — for by them, 
If merited, the penalty is paid ; 
It is not ours to judge, — far le-s condemn ; 
The hour must come when such things shall be made 
Known unto all, — or hope and dread allay'd 
By slumber, on one pillow,— in the dust, 
Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decay'dj 
And when it shall revive, as is our trust, 
'T will be to be forgiven, or suflFer what is just. 

CIX. 

But let me quit man's works, again to read 
His Maker's, spread around me, and suspend 
This page, which from my reveries I feed. 
Until it seems prolonging without end. 
The clouds above me~to"the white Alps tend. 
And I must pierce them, and survey whate'er 
May be permitted, as my, steps I bend 
To their most great and growing region, where 
The earth to her embrace compels the powers of air, 

ex. 

Italia ! too, Italia ! looking on thee. 
Full flashes on the soul the light of ages, 
Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee, 
To the last halo of the chiefs and sages 
Who glorify thy consecrated pages ; 
Thou wert the throne and grave of empires; still. 
The fount at which the panting mind assuages 
Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill, 
Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hill. 

CXI. 

Thus far have I proceeded in a theme 
Renew'd with no kind auspices: — to feel 
We are not what we have been, and to deem 
We are not what we should be, — aud to steel 
The heart against itself; and to conceal. 
With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught, — 
Passion or feeling, purpose, giief, or zeal, — 
Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought, 
Is a stern task of soul : — No matter, — it is taught. 



1 See Appendix, note [G]. 



2 Voltaire and Gibbon. 



Canto III.] 



PILGRIMAGE. 



431 



CXII. 

And for these words, thus woven into song, 
It may be that they are a harmless wile, — 
The colouring of the scenes which fleet along, 
Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile 
My breast, or ihat of others, fora while. 
Fame is the thirst of youth, — but I am not 
So young as to regard men's frown or smile, 
As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot ; 
I stood and stand alone, — remember'd or forgot. 

cxiir. 

I have not loved the world, nor the world me j 
I have not liatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd 
To its idolatries a p itient knee, — 
Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles, — nor cried aloud 
In worship of an echo ; in the crowd 
They could not deem me one of such ; I stood 
Among them, but not of them ; in a shroud 
Of thoughts v/hich were not their thoughts, and 
still could, 
Had I not filed i my mind, which thus itself subdued. 

CXIV. 

I have not loved the world, nor the world me, — 
But let us part fair foes ; I do believe, 
Though I have found them not, that there may be 
Words which are things, — hopes which will not 

deceive, 
And virtues which are merciful, nor weave 
Snares for the failing : I would also deem 
O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve ; 3 
That two, or one, are almost what they seem,— 
That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream. 

CXV, 
My daughter ! with thy name this song begun — 
My daughter ! with thy name thus much shall end — 
I see thee not — I hear thee not, — but none 
Can be so wrapt in thee ; thou art the friend 
To whom the shadows of far ye.irs extend : 
Albeit my brow thou never should'st behold, 
My voice shall with thy future visions blend, 
And reach into thy heart, — when mine is cold, — 
A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould. 

CXVI. 

To aid thy mind's developement,— to watch 
Thy dawn of little joys,— to sit and see 
Almost thy very growth, — to view thee cafch 
Knowledge of objects, — wonders yet to thee! 
To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee. 
And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss, — 
This, it should seem, was not reserved for me; 
Yet this was in my nature : — as it is, 
I know not what is there, yet something like to this. 

CXVII. 

Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught, 
I know that thou wilt love me ; though my name 
Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught 
With desolation, — and a broken claim: 
Though the grave closed between us,— 't were the 

same, 
I know that thou wilt Icjve me; though to drain 
My blood from out thy being were an aim. 
And an attainment,— all would be in vain,— 
Still thou would'st love me, still that more than life 

retain. 

CXVIII. 
The child of love,— though born in bitterness, 
And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire 
These were the elements, — and thine no less. 
As yet such are around thee,— but thy fire 



Shall be more temper'd, and thy hope far higher. 
Sweet be thy cradled slumbers ! O'er the sea. 
And from the mountains where I now respire, 
Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee. 
As, with a sigh, I deem thou might'st have been to me !3 



-" If it be thus, 



1 " n n oe. inuB, 

For Banqiio's issue have I filed my m'lnA."— Macbeth. 

8 It is said by Rochefoucault, that " there is always 
something in the misfortunes of men's best friends not 
displeasing to them." 



CANTO THE FOURTH. 



Visto ho Toscana, Lnmbardia, Romagna, 

Quel Monte the divide, e quel che serra 
Italia, e un mare e 1' altro, che la bagna. 
Ariosto, Salira iii. 



TO 

JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ. A.M. F.R.S. 

S,-c. SfC. 8fC. 

Venice, January 2, 1818. 
My dear Hobhouse, 

After an interval of eight years between the com- 
position of the first and last can'os of Chiide Harold, 
the conclusion of the poem is about to be submitted to 
the public. In parting with so old a friend, it is not 
extraordinary that 1 should recur to one still older and 
better,— to one who has beheld the birth and death of 
the other, and to whom I am far more indeb!ed for 
the social advantages of an enlightened fiiendship, 
than — though not ungrateful — lean, or could be, to 
Chiide Harold, for any public favour reflected through 
the poem on the poet, — to one, whom I have known 
long, and accompanied far, whom I have found wake- 
ful over my sickness and kind in my sorrow, glad in 
my prosperity and firm in my adversity, true in coun- 
sel and trusty in peril, — to a friend often tried and 
never found wanting; — to yourself. 

In so doing, I recur from fiction to truth ; and in 
dedicating to you in its complete, oral least concluded 
state, a poetical work which is the longest, the most 
thoughtful and comjjrehensive of my compositions, I 
wish to do honour to myself by the record of many 
years' intimacy with a man of learning, of talent, of 
steadiness, and of honour. It is not for minds like 
ours to give or to receive flattery ; yet the praises of 
sincerity have ever been permitted to the voice of 
friendship ; and it is not for you, nor even for others, 
but to relieve a heart which has not elsewhere, or 
lately, been so much accustomed to the encounter of 
good-will as to withstand the shock firmly, that I thus 
attempt to commemorate your good qualities, or rather 
the advantages which I have derived from their ex- 
ertion. Even the recurrence of the date of this letter, 
the anniversary of the most unfortunate day of my 
past existence, but which cannot poison my future 
while I retain the resource of your friendship, and of 
my own faculties, will henceforth have a more agree- 
able recollection for both, inasmuch as it will remind 
us of this my attempt to thank you for an indefatiga- 
ble regard, such as few men have experienced, and no 
one could experience without thinking better of his 
species and of himself. 

It has been cur fortune to traverse together, at vari- 
ous periods, the countries of chivalry, history, and 
fable — Spain, Greece, Asia Minor, and Italy; and 
what Athens and Constantinople were to us a few years 
ago, Venice and Rome have been more recently. The 
poem also, or the pilgrim, or both, have accompanied 
me from first to last ; and perha|)s if may be a pardon- 
able vanity which induces me to ref.ect'with compla- 
cency on a composition which in some degree connects 
me with the sfiot where it was produceel, and the ob- 
jects it would fain describe; and however unworthy 
it may be deemed of those magical and memorable 
abodes, however short it may fall of our distant con- 

3" Byron, July 4th, 1816. Diodati."— MS.— E. 



432 



CHILDE HAROLD'S 



[Canto IV. 



ceptions and immediate impressions, yet as a mark of ] 
respect for what is venerable, and of feeling for what 
is glorious, it has been to me a source of pleasure in 
the production, and I part with it with a kind of re- 
grei, which I hardly suspected that events could have 
left me for imaginary objects. 

With regard to the conduct of the last canto, there 
will be found less of the pilgrim than in any of the 
preceding, and that little slightly, if at all, separated 
from the author speaking in his own person. The 
fact is, that I had become weary of drawing a line 
which every one seemed determined not to perceive : 
like the Chinese in Goldsmith's "Citizen of the 
World," whom nobody would believe to be a Chi- 
nese, it was in vain that I asserted, and imagined that 
I hid drawn, a distinction between the author and the 
pilgrim ; and the very anxiety to preserve this differ- 
ence, and disappointment at finding it unavailing, so 
far crushed my efforts in ihe composition, that I de- 
termined to abandon it altogether — and have done so. 
The opinions which have been, or may be, formed on 
that subject, are now a matter of indiflference : the 
work is to depend on itself, and not on the writer; 
and the author, who has no resources in his own mind 
beyond the reputation, transient or permanent, which 
is to arise from his literary efforts, deserves the fate of 
authors. 

In the course of the following canto it was my in- 
tention, either in the text or in the notes, to have 
touched upon the present state of Italian literature, 
and perhaps of manners. But the text, within the 
limits I proposed, I soon found hardly sufficient for the 
labyrinth of external objects, and the consequent re- 
flections ; and for the whole of the notes, excepting a 
few of the shortest, I am indebted to yourself, and 
these were necessarily limited to the elucidation of 
the text. 

It is also a delicate, and no very grateful task, to 
dissert upon the literature and manners of a nation so 
dissimilar; and requires an attention and impartiality 
which would induce us— though perhaps no inattentive 
observers, nor ignorant of the" language or customs of 
the people amongst whom we have recently abode — to 
distrust, or at least defer our judgment, and more nar- 
rowly examine our information. The state of literary, 
as well as political party, appears to run, or to have 
run, so high, that for a stranger to steer impartially 
between them is next to impossible. It may be 
enough, then, at least for my purpose, to quote from 
their own beautiful language—" Mi pare che in un 
paese tutto poetico, che vanta la lingua la piu nobile 
ed insieme la piu dolce, tutte tutte le vie diverse si pos- 
sono tentare, e che sinche la patria di Alfieri e di 
Monti non ha perduto 1' antico valore, in tutte essa 
dovrebbe essere la prima." Italy has great names still 
— Canova, Monti, Ugo Foscolo, Pindemonte, Visconti, 
Morelli, Cicognara, Albri/zi, Mezzophanti, Mai, Mus- 
toxidi, Aglietti, and Vacca, will secure to the present 
generation an honourable place in most of the depart- 
ments of Art, Science, and Belles Lettres ; and in 
some the very highest: Europe — the World — has 
but one Canova. 

It has been somewhere said by Alfieri, that "La 
pianta uomo nasce piu rotiusfa in Italia che in qualun- 
que altra terra — e che gli stessi atroci deiitti che vi si 
commettono ne sono una prova." Without subscribing 
to the latter part of his proposition, a dangerous doc- 
trine, the truth of which may be disputed on better 
grounds, namely, that the Italians are in no respect 
more ferocious than their neighbours, that man must 
be wilfully blind, or ignorantly heedless, who is not 
struck with the extraordinary capacity of this people, 
or, if such a word be admissible, their capabilities, 
the facility of their acquisitions, the rapidity of their 
conceptions, the fire of their genius, their sense of 
beauty, and, amidst all the disadvant iges of repeated 
revolutions, the desolation of battles, and the despair 
of ages, their still unquenched " longing after immor- 
tality," — the immorality of independence. And when 
we ourselves, in riding round the walls of Rome, 



heard the simple lament of the labourers' chorus, 
" Roma ! Roma ! Roma ! Roma non e piu come era 
prima," it was difficult not to contrast this melancholy 
dirge with the bacchanal roar of the songs of exulta- 
tion still yelled from the London taverns, over the car- 
nage of Mont St. Jean, and the betrayal of Genoa, of 
Italy, of France, and of the world, by men whose 
conduct you yourself have exposed in a work worthy 
of the better days of our history. For me, — 

" Non movero mai corda 
Ove la turbadi sue ciance assorda." 

What Italy has gained by the late transfer of nations, 
it were useless for Englishmen to inquire, till it be- 
comes ascertained that England has acquired some- 
thing more than a permanent army and a suspended 
Habeas Corpus ; it is enough for them to look at home. 
For what they have done abroad, and especially in the 
South, "Verily they will have their reward," and at 
no very distant period. 

Wishing you, my dear Hobhouse, a safe and agree- 
able return to that country whose real welfare can be 
dearer to none than to yourself, I dedicate to you this 
poem in its completed state; and repeat once more 
how truly I am ever. 

Your obliged 

And affectionate friend, 

BYRON. 



I. 

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs ; * 
A palace and a prison on each hand : 
I saw from out the wave her structures rise 
As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand : 
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 
Around me, and a dying Glory smiles 
O'er the far times, when many a subject land 
Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles, 

Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred 
isles 1 

IL 
She looks a sea Cybele. fresh from ocean,3 
Rising with her tiara of proud towers 
At airy distance, with majestic motion, 
A ruler of the waters and their powers: 
And such she was ; — her daughters had their dovcers 
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East 
Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers. 
In purple was she robed, and of her feast 

Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity increased 

IIL 

In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more,3 
And silent rows the songless gondolier; 
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, 
And music meets not always now the ear : 
Those days are gone — but Beauty still is here. 
States fall, arts fade — but Nature doth not die, 
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear. 
The pleasant place of all festivity, 
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy ! 

IV. 

But unto us she hath a spell beyond 

Her name in story, and her long array 

Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond 

Above the dogeless city's vanisli'd sway ; 



ISee Appendix, "Historical Notes," No. I. 

2 SabellicuB, describing the appearance of Venice, has 
made use of the above image, whit h would not be poetical 
were it not true. — "Quo fit ut qui superne urbem coD' 
templetur, turritam telluris imaginem medio Oceano flgU' 
ratam se putet inspicere." 

3 See Appendix, " Historical Notes," No. II. 



<ll 



Canto IV.] 



PILGRIMAGE 



433 



Ours is a trophy which will not decay 
With the Rialto ; Shylock and the Moor, 
And Pierre, can not be swept or worn away — 
The keystones of the arch ! though all were o'er, 
For us repeopled were the solitary shore. 

V. 

The beings of the mind are not of clay ; 
Essentially immortal, they create 
And multiply in us a brighter ray 
And more beloved existence : that which Fate 
Prohibits to dull life, in this our state 
Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied, 
First exiles, then replaces what we hate; 
Watering the heart whose early flowers have died, 
And with a fresher growth replenishing the void. 

VI. 

Such is the refuge of our youth and age. 
The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy ; 
And this worn feeling peoples many a page. 
And, may be, that which grows beneath mine eye : 
Yet there are things whose strong reality 
Outshines our fairy-land ; in shape and hues 
More beautiful than our fantastic sky. 
And the strange constellations which the Muse 
O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse: 

VII. 

I saw or dream'd of such,— but let them go,— 
They came like truth, and disappear'd like dreams; 
And' whatsoe'er they were — are now but so : 
I could replace them if I would ; still teems 
My mind with many a form which aptly seems 
Such as I sought for, and at moments found ; 
Let these too go — for waking Reason deems 
Such overweening phantisies unsound. 
And other voices speak, and other sights surround. 

VIII. 

I've taught me other tongues — and in strange eyes 
Have made me not a stranger ; to the mind 
Which is itself, no changes bring surprise; 
Nor is it harsh to njake,"^nor hard to find 
A country with — ay, or without mankind ; 
Yet was I born where men are proud to be, 
Not without cause ; and should I leave behind 
The inviolate island of the sage and free, 
And seek me out a home by a remoter sea, 

IX. 

Perhaps I loved it well ; and should I lay 
My ashes in a soil which is not mine. 
My spirit shall resume it — if we may 
Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine _ 
My hopes of being remember'd in my line 
With my land's language : if loo fond and far 
These aspirations in their scope incline,— 
If my fame should be, as my fortunes are, 
Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar 

X. 

My name from out the temple where the dead 
Are honour'd by the nations — let it be— 
And light the laurels on a loftier head ! 
And be the Spartan's epitaph on me — 
" Sparta hath many a worthier son than he."l 
Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need ; 
The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree 
I planted, — they have torn me, — and I bleed : 
I should have known what fruit would spring from 
such a seed. 

XI. 
The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord ; 
And, annual marriage now no more renew'd, 
The Bucentiur lies rotting unrestored, 
Neglected garment of her widowhood 1 



St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood 2 
Stand, but in mockery of his wither'd power. 
Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued, 
And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour 
When Venice was a queen with an unequall'd dower. 

XII. 

The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns — 3 
An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt ; 
Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains 
Clank over sceptred cities; nations melt 
From power's high pinnacle, when they have felt 
The sunshine for a while, and downward go 
Like lauwine loosen'd from the mountain's belt ; 
Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo! 4 
Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe. 

XIII. 

Before St. Blark still glow his steeds of brass, 
Their gilded collars glittering in the sun ; 
But is not Doria's menace come to pass ? 5 
Are they not bridled ? — Venice, lost and won, 
Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done, 
Sinks, like a sea-weed, into whence she rose ! 
Better be whelm'd beneath the waves, and shun, 
Even in destruction's depth, her foreign foes. 
From whom submission wrings an infamous repose. 

XIV. 

In youth she was all glory, — a new Tyre, — 
Her very by-word sprung from victory. 
The "Planter of the Lion," « which through fire 
And blood she bore o'er subject earth and sea ; 
Though making many slaves, herself still free. 
And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite ; 
Witness Troy's rival, Candia ! Vouch it, ye 
Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight ! 
For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight. 

XV. 
Statues of glass — all shiver'd — the long file 
Of her dead Doges are declined to dust ; 
But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile 
Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust; 
Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust, 
Have yielded to the stranger : empty halls. 
Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must 
Too oft remind her who and what enthrals, f 
Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely walls. 

XVI. 

When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, 

And fetter'd thousands bore the yoke of war, 

Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse,8 

Her voice their only ransom from afar : 

See 1 as they chant the tragic hymn, the car 

Of the o'ermaster'd victor stops, the reins 

Fall from his hands — his idle scimitar 

Starts from its belt — he rends his captive's chains, 

And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his 
strains. 

XVII. 
Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine, 
Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot, 
Thy choral memory of the Bard divine. 
Thy love of Ta?so,'shouId have cut the knot 
Which ties thee to thy tyrants ; and thy lot 
Is shameful to the nations, — most of all, 
Albion ! to thee : the Ocean queen should net 
Abandon Ocean's children ; in the fall 

Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wall. 



2, 3, 4, 5 See Appendix, 
IV. V. VI. 



■ Historical Notes," Nos. III. 



1 The answer of the mother of Brasidas, the Lacedemo- 
nian general, to the strangers who praised the memory of 
her son. 



6 That is. the Lion of St. Mark, the standard of the re. 
public, which is the origin of the word Pantaloon — PiaD- 
laleone, Pantaleon, Pantaloon. 

7 See Appendix, " Historical Notes," No. VII. 
8The story is told in Plutarch's Life of Nicias. 



37 



28 



434 



CHILDE HAROLD'S 



[Canto IV. 



XVIII. 
I loved her from my boyhood — she to me 
Was as a fairy city of the heart, 
Rising like water-columns from the sea, 
Of joy the sojourn, aud of wealth the mart ; 
And Otway, Radclitfe, Schiller, Shakspeare's art,i 
Had stamp"d her image in me, and even so, 
Although I found her ihus, we did not part, 
Perchance even dearer in her day of woe, 
Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show. 

XIX. 

I can repeople with the past — and of 

The present there is still for eye and thought, 

And meditation chasteu'd down, enough ; 

And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought ; 

And of the happiest moments which were wrought 

Within the web of my existence, some 

From thee, fair Venice ! have their colours caught : 

There are some feelings Time can not benumb. 
Nor Torture shake, or mine would now be cold and 
dumb. 

XX. 

But from their nature will the tannen grow a 

Loftiest on loftiest and least sheltered rocks, 

Rooted in birrenness, where nought below 

Of soil supports them 'gainst ;he Alpine shocks 

Of eddying storms ; yet springs the trunk, and mocks 

The howling tempest, till its height and frame 

Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks 

Of bleak, grey granite into life it came, 
And grew a giant tree ;— the mind may grow the same. 

XXI. 

Existence may be borne, and the deep root 
Of life and sufferance make its firm abode 
In bare and desolated bosoms : mute 
The c-imel labours with the heaviest load, 
And the wolf dies in silence, — not bestow'd 
In vain should such example be; if they. 
Things of ignoble or of savage mood, 
Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay 
May temper it to bear, — it is but for a day, 

XXII. 

All suffering doth destroy, or is destroy'd, 
Even by the sufferer ; and, in each event, 
Ends : — Some, with hope replenish'd and rebuoy'd. 
Return to whence they came — with like intent, 
And weave their web again ; some, bow'd and bent, 
Wax grey and ghastly, withering ere their time, 
And perish with the reed on which they leant; 
Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime, 
According as their souls were form"d to sink or climb. 

XXIII. 

But ever and anon of griefs subdued 
There comes a token like a scorpion's sting, 
Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued ; 
And slight withal may be the things which bring 
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling 
Aside for ever : it may be a sound — 
A tone of music — summer's eve — or spring — 
A flower — the wind — the ocean — which shall 
wound, 
Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly 
bound ; 

XXIV. 
And how and why we know not, nor can trace 
Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind, 
But feel the shock renew'd, nor can efface 
The blight and blackening which it leaves behind, 

1 Venice Preserved; Mysteries of Udolpho; the Ghost- 3 The above description may seem fantastical or exag 
Seer, or Armenian; the Merchant of Venice; Othello. gerated to those who have never seen an Oriental or an 

2 Tannen is the plural of tanne, a species of fir peculiar Italian sky, yet it is but a literal and hardly sufficient da- 
te the Alps, which only thrives in very rocky parts, lineation of an August evening (the eighteenth), as ^cou 
where scarcely soil sufficient for its nourishment can be templated in one of many rides along the bant- 
found. On these spoU it grows to a greater height than ' Brenta, near La Mlra. 
any other mountain tree. | 4 See Appendix, " Historical Notes," No. VIII 



Which out of things familiar, undesign'd. 
When least we deem of such, calls up to view 
The spectres whom no exorcism can bind, 
The cold— the changed— perchance the dead— anew, 

The mourn'd, the loved, the lost — too many! — yet 
how few ! 

XXV. 
But my soul wanders ; I demand it back 
To meditate amongst decay, and stand 
A ruin amidst ruins ; there to track 
Fall'n states and buried greatness, o'er a land 
Which was the mightiest in its old command, 
And is the loveliest, and must ever be 
The master-mould of Nature's heavenly hand, 
Wherein were cast the heroic and the free, 

The beautiful, the brave — the lords of earth and sea, 

XXVI. 

The commonwealth of kings, the men of Rome ! 
And even since, and now, fair Italy ! 
Thou art the garden of the world, the home 
Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree ; 
Even in thy desert, what is like to thee ? 
Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste 
!More rich than other climes' fertility ; 
Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced 
With an immaculate charrA which can not be defaced. 

XXVTI. 

The moon is up, and yet it is not night — 
Sunset divides the sky with her — a sea 
Of glory streams along the Alpine height 
Of blue Friuli's mountains ; Heaven is free 
From clouds, but of all colours seems to be 
JNIelted to one vast Iris of the; VVest, 
Where the Day Joins the past Eternity ; 
While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest 
Floats through the azure air — an island of the blest 1 3 

XXVIII, 

A single star is at her side, and reigns 
With her o'er half the lovely heaven ; but still 
Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains 
Roll'd o'er the peak of the far Rhastian hill. 
As Day and Night contending were, until 
Nature reclaim'd her order ; — gently flows 
The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil 
The odorous purple of a new-born rose, 

Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within 
it glows, 

XXIX. 
Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from afar, 
Comes down upon the waters; all its hues, 
From the rich sunset to the rising star. 
Their magical variety difluse : 
And now they change ; a paler shadow strews 
Its mantle o'er the mountains; parting day 
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues 
With a new colour as it gasps away. 

The last still loveliest, till — 't is gone — and all is grey. 

XXX. 

There is a tomb in Arqua ; — rear'd in air, 
Pillar'd in their sarcophagus, repose 
The bones of Laura's lover ; here repair 
Many familiar with his well-sung woes, 
The pilgrims of his genius. He arose 
To raise a language, and his land reclaim 
From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes : 
Watering the tree which bears his lady's name * 
With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. 



of the 



Canto IV.] 



PILGRIMAGE. 



435 



XXXI. 

They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died ; l 
The mountain-village where his latter days 
Went down the vale of years ; and 't is their pride— 
An honest pride — and let it be their praise, 
To offer to the passing stranger's gaze 
His mansion and his sepulchre ; both plain 
And venerably simple, such as raise 
A feeling more accordant with his strain 
Than if a pyramid form'd his monumental fane. 

XXXII. 

And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt 
Is one of that complexion which seems made 
For those who their mortality have felt, 
And sought a refuge from their hopes decay'd 
In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade, 
Which shows a distant prospect far away 
Of busy cities, now in vain display'd, 
For they can lure no further ; and the ray 
Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday, 

XXXIII. 

Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers, 
And shining in the brawling brook, where-by, 
Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours 
With a calm languor, which, though to the eye 
Idlesse it seem, hath its morality. 
If from society we learn to live, 
'T is solitude should teach us how to die ; 
It hath no tlatlerers ; vanity can give 
No hollow aid ; alone— man with his God must strive : 

XXXIV. 

Or, it may be, with demons, who impair ^ 
The strength of better thoughts, and seek their prey 
In melancholy bosoms, such as were 
Of moody texture from their earliest day, 
And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay, 
Deeming themselves predestined to a doom 
Which is not of the pangs that pass away; 
Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb, 
The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom. 

XXXV. 

Ferrara ! in thy wide and grass-grown streets, 
Whose symmetry was not for solitude, 
There seems as 't were a curse upon the seats 
Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood 
Of Este, which for many an age made good 
Its strength within thy walls, and was of yore 
Tatron or tyrant, as the changing mood 
Of petty power impell'd, of those who wore 
The wreath'which Dante's brow alone had worn before, 

XXXVI. 

And Tasso is their glory and their shame. 
Hark to his strain ! and then survey his cell ! 
And see how dearly earn'd Torquato's fame. 
And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell : 
The miserable despot could not quell 
The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend 
With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell 
Where he had plunged it. Glory without end 
Scatter'd the clouds away — and on that name attend 

XXXVII. 

The tears and praises of all time ; while thine 
Would rot in its oblivion — in the sink 
Of worthless dust, which from thy boasted line 
Is shaken into nothing ; but the link 



Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think 
Of thy poor malice, naming thee with scorn — 
Alfonso ! how thy ducal pageants shrink 
From thee ! if in another station born, 
Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou mad'st to mourn : 

XXXVIII. 

Thou ! form'd to eat, and be despised, and die 
Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou 
Hadst a more splendid trough and wider sty : 
He ! with a glory round his furrow'd brow, 
Which emanated then, and dazzles now. 
In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire, 
And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow 3 
No strain which shamed his country's creaking lyre. 
That whetstone of the teeth — monotony in wire ! 

XXXIX. 

Peace to Torquato's injured shade ! 't was his 
In life and death to be fhje mark where V/rong 
Aim-d with her poison'd arrows j but to miss. 
Oh, victor unsurpnss'd in modern song ! 
Each year brings forth its millions ; but how long 
The tide of generations shall roll on, 
And not the whole combined and countless throng 
Compose a mind like thine ? though ail in one 
Condensed their scatter'd rays, they would not form 
a sun. 

XL. 

Great as thou art, yet parallel'd by those, 
Thy countrvmen, before thee born to shine, 
The Bards of Hell and Chivalry : first rose 
The Tuscan father's comedy divine ; 
Then, not unequal to the Florentine, 
The southern Scott, the minstrel who call'd forth 
A new creation with his magic line, 
And, like the Ariosto of the North, 
Sang ladye-Iove and war, romance and knightly worth. 

XLI. 
The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust ■* 
The iron crown of laurel's mimick'd leaves ; 
Nor was the ominous element unjust. 
For the true laurel-wreath which Glory weaves 
Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves, s 
And the false semblance but disgraced his brow; 
Yet still, if fondly Superstition grieves, 
Know, that the lightning sanctifies below 6 
Whate'er it strikes; — yon head is doubly sacred now. 

XLII. 

Italia ! oh Italia ! thou who hast 
The fatal gift of beauty, which became 
A funeral dower of present woes and past, 
On thy sweet brow is sorrow plough"d by shame, 
And annals graved in characters of flame. 
Oh, God ! that thou wert in thy nakedness 
Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim 
Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who press 
To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress ; 

XLUI. 

Then might'st thou more appal ; or, less desired. 
Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored 
For thy destructive charms ; then, still untired, 
Would not be seen the armed torrents i)0ur'd 
Down the deep Alps ; nor would the hostile horde 
Of many-nation'd spoilers from the Po 
Quaff blood and water ; nor the stranger's sword 
Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so, 
Victor or vanquish'd, thou the slave of friend or foe.'' 



ISee Appendix, " Historical Notes," No. IX. 

2 The struggle is to ttie full as likely to be with demons 
as with our better tlioughts. Satan chose the wilderness 
for the temptation of our Saviour. And our unsullied 
John Locke preferred the presence of a child to complete 
solitude. 



3, 4, 5, 6 See Appendix, "Historical Notes," Nos. X. 

XI. xir. xni. 

TThe two stanzas xlii. and xliii. are, with the excep- 
tion of a line or two, a translation of the famous sonnet of 
Filicaja; — " Italia, Italia, O tu cui feo la sorte ! " 



. ^^MMM 



436 



CHILDE HAROLD'S 



[Canto IV. 



XLIV. 
Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him,i 
The Roman friend of Rome's least-mortal mind, 
The friend of Tully : as my bark did skim 
The bright blue waters with a fanning wind, 
Came Megara before me, and behind 
^gina lay, Pirjeus on the right, 
And Corinth on the left ; I lay reclined 
Along the prow, and saw all these unite 
In ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight ', 

XLV. 

For Tmie hath not rebuilt them, but uprear'd 
Barbaric dwellings on their shatter'd site. 
Which only make more mourn'd and more endear'd 
The few last rays of their far-scatter'd light. 
And the crush'd relics of their vauish'd might. 
The Roman saw these tombs in his own age, 
These sepulchres of cities, which excite 
Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page 
The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pilgrimage. 

XLVI. 
That page is now before me, and on mine 
His country's ruin added to the mass 
Of perish'd states he mourn'd in their decline, 
And I in desolation : all that was 
Of then destruction is ; and now, alas ! 
Rome — Rome imperial, bows her to the storm. 
In the same dust and blackness, and we pass 
The skeleton of her Titanic form, 2 
Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are warm. 

XLVII. 

Yet, Italy ! through every other land 
Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to side ; 
Mother of Arts ! as once of arms ; thy hand 
Was then our guardian, and is still our guide ; 
Parent of our Religion ! whom the wide 
Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven ! 
Europe, repentant of her parricide, 
Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven, 
Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven. 

XLVIII. 
But Arno wins us to the fair white walls. 
Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps 
A softer feeling for her fairy halls. 
Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps 
Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps 
To laughing life, with her redundant horn. 
Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps 
Was modern Luxury of Commerce born, 
And buried Learning rose, redeem'd to a new morn. 

XLIX. 

There, too, the Goddess loves in stone, and fills 3 
The air around with beauty ; we inhale 
The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils 
Part of its immortality ; the veil 



IThe celebrated letter of Servius Sulpicius to Cicero, 
on the death of his daughter, describes as it then was, and 
DOW is, a path which I often traced in Greece, both by 
sea and land, in different journeys and voyages. " On my 
return from Asia, as I was sailing from Egina towards 
Megara, I began to contemplate the prospect of the coun- 
tries around me: Egina was behind, Megara before me; 
Piraeus on the right, Corinth on the left : all which towns, 
once famous and flourishing, now lie overturned and buried 
in their ruins. Upon this sight, I could not but think 
presently v/ithin myself, Alas ! how do we poor mortals 
fret and vex ourselves if any of our friends happen to die 
or be killed, whose life is yet so short, when the carcasses 
of so many noble cities lie here exposed before me in one 
view."— See Middleton's Cicero, vol. ii. p 371. 

2 It is Poggio, who, looking from the Capitoline hill upon 
ruined Rome, breaks forth into the exclamation, " Ut 
nunc omni decore nudata, prostrata jacet, instar gigantei 
cadaveris corrupti atqne undique exesi." 

3 See Appendix, " Historical Notes," No. XIV. 



Of heaven is half undrawn; within the pale 

We stand, and in that form and face behold 

What Mind can make, when Nature's self would 

fail ; 
And to the fond idolaters of old 
Envy the innate flash which such a soul could mould : 

L. 

We gaze and turn away, and know not where. 
Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart 
Reels with its fulness ; there — for ever there — 
Chain'd to the chariot of triumphal Art, 
We stand as captives, and would not depart. 
Away ! — there need no words, nor terms precise. 
The paltry jargon of the marble mart. 
Where Pedantry gulls Folly — we have eyes : 

Blood — pulse — and breast, confirm the Dardan Shep- 
herd's prize. 

LL 
Appeard'st thou not to Paris in this guise? 
Or to more deeply blest Anchises ? or, 
In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when lies 
Before thee thy own vanquish'd Lord of War? 
And gazing in thy face as toward a star. 
Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn. 
Feeding on thy sweet cheek 1 while thy lips are 
With lava kisses melting while they burn, 

Shower'd on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as frona 
an urn ! 

LIL 
Glowing, and circumfused in speechless love, 
Their full divinity inadequate 
That feeling to express, or to improve, 
The gods become as mortals, and man's fate 
Has moments like their brightest ; but the weight 
Of earth recoils upon us ; — let it go ! 
We can recall such vibions, and create, 
From what has been, or might be, things which grow 

Into thy statue's form, and look like gods below. 

LIIL 

I leave to learned fingers, and wise hands. 
The artist and his ape, to teach and tell 
How well his connoisseurship understands 
The graceful bend, and the volup'.uous swell: 
Let these describe the undescribable : 
I would not their vile breath should crisp the stream 
Wherein that imnge shall for ever dwell ; 
The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream 
That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam. 

LIV. 

In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie ■* 
Ashes which make ii holier, dust which is 
Even in itself an immortality. 
Though there were nothing save the past, and this, 
The particle of those sublimities 
Which have relapsed to chaos : — here repose 
Angelo's, Alfieri's bones, and his,5 
The starry Galileo, with his woes ; 
Here Machiavelli's earth return'd to whence it rose.6 

LV. 

These are four minds, which, like the elements, 
Might furnish forth creation : — Italy ! [rents 

Time, which hath wrong'd thee with ten thousand 
Of thine imperial garment, shall deny. 
And hath denied, to every other sky. 
Spirits which soar from ruin : — thy decay 
Is still impregnate with divinity. 
Which gilds it with revivifying ray ; 
Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. 

LVI. 

But where repose the all Etruscan three — 
Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they, 
The Bard of Prose, creative spirit ! he 
Of the Hundred Tales of love — where did they lay 

4, 5, 6 See Appendix, " Historical Notes," Noo. XV. 
XVI. XVII. 



mmm 



Canto IV.] 



PILGRIMAGE. 



437 



Their bones, distinguish'd from our common clay 
In death as life ? Are they resolved to dust, 
And have their country's marbles nought to say ? 
Couid not her quarries furnish forth one bust ? 
Did they not to her breast their filial earth entrust ? 

LVII. 

Ungrateful Florence ! Dante sleeps afar,i 
Liise Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore : 5 
Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, 
Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore 
Their children's children would in vain adore 
With Ihe remorse of ages ; and the crown 3 
Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore, 
Upon a far and foreign soil had grown, 

His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled — not thine 
own. 

LVIII. 
Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeath'd 4 
His dust, — and lies it not her Great among, 
With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed 
O'er him who form'd the Tuscan's siren tongue ? 
That music in itself, whose sounds are song, 
The poetry of speech ? No; — even his tomb 
Uptorn, must bear tlie hyasna bigot's wrong, 
No more amidst the meaner dead find room. 

Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for whom ! 

LIX. 

And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust ; 
Yet for this want more noted, as of yore 
The Csesar's pngeant, shorn of Brutus' bust. 
Did but of Rome's best Son remind her more: 
Happier Ravenna ! on thy hoary shore, 
Fortress of falling empire ! honour'd sleeps 
The immortal exile; — Arqua, too, her store 
Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps, 

While Florence vainly begs her banish"d dead and 
weeps. 

LX. 
What is her pyramid of precious stones ? 5 
Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues 
Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones 
Of merchant-dukes ? the momentary dews 
Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse 
Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead. 
Whose names are mausoleums of the Muse, 
Are gently pre.^t wilh far more reverent tread 

Than ever paced the slab which paves the princely head. 

LXI. 

There be more things to greet the heart and eyes 
In Arno's dome of Ar('s most princely shrine, 
Where Sculpture with her rainbow sister vies; 
There be more marvels yet — but not for mine ; 
For I have been accustorn'd to entwine 
My thoughts with Nature rather in the fields. 
Than Art in galleries : though a work divine 
Calls for my spirit's homage, yet it yields 
Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields 

Lxn. 

Is of another temper, and I roam 
By Thrnsimene's lake, in the defiles 
Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home ; 
For there the Carlhaginian's warlike wiles 
Come back before me, as his skill beguiles 
The host between the mount tins and the shore, 
Where Courage falls in her despairing files, 
And torrents swoll'n to rivers with their gore. 
Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scatter'd o'er, 

LXIII. 

Like to a forest fcll'd by mountain winds ; 
And such the storm of battle on this day, 
And such the frenzy, whose convulsion blinds 
To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray. 



1, 2, 3, 4, 5 See Appendix, "Historical Notes," Nos. 
XVlll. XIX. XX. XXI. and XXII, 



37 



An earthquake reel'd unheededly away ! 6 
None felt stern Nature rocking at his feet. 
And yawning forth a grave for those who lay 
Upon their bucklers for a winding sheet ; 
Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meet ! 

LXIV. 
The Earth to them was as a rolling bark 
Which bore them to Eternity ; they saw 
The Ocean round, but had no time to mark 
The motions of their vessel ; Nature's law, 
In them suspended, reck'd not of the awe 
Which reigns when mountains tremble, and the birds 
Plunge in the clouds for refuge, and withdraw 
From their dov/u-toppling nests; and bellowing 
herds 

Stumble o'er heaving plains, and man's dread hath no 
words. 

LXV. 
Far other scene is Thrasimene now; 
Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain 
Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough ; 
Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain 
Lay where their roots are; but a brook hath ta'en — 
A little rill of scanty stream and bed — 
A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain; 
And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead 

Made the earth wet, and turn'd the unwilling waters 
red. 

LXVL 
But thou, Clitumnus ! in thy sweetest wave f 
Of the most living crystal that was e'er 
The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave 
Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear 
Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer 
Grazes; the purest god of gentle waters! 
And most serene of aspect, and most clear ; 
Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters — 

A mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest daughters ! 

LXVII. 

And on thy happy shore a Temple still, 
Of small and delicate proportion, keeps, 
Upon a mild declivity of hill. 
Its memory of thee ; beneath it sweeps 
Thy current's calmness ; oft from out it leaps 
The finny darter wilh the glittering scales, 
Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps ; 
While, chance, some scatter'd water-lily sails 

Down where the shallower wave still tells its bubbling 
tales. 

LXVIII. 
Pass not unblest the Genius of the place ! 
If through the air a zephyr more serene 
Win to the brow, 't is his; and if ye trace 
Along his margin a more eloquent green. 
If on the heart the freshness of the scene 
Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust 
Of weary life a moment lave it clean 
With Nature's baptism, — 't is to him ye must 

Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust, 

LXIX. 

The roar of waters ! — from the headlong height 
Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice ; 
The fall of waters ! rapid as the light 
The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss; 
The hell of waters ! where they howl and hiss, 
And boil in endless torture ; while the sweat 
Of their great agony, wrung out from this 
Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet 
That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set. 



OSes Appendix, "Historical Notes," No. XXIII.— [An 
earthquake whicli shook all Italy occurred during the 
battle, and was nnfelt by any of the combatants.] — E. 

7 No book of travels has omitted to expatiate on the 
temple of the Clitumnus, between Foligno and Spoleto; 
and no Mite, or scenery, even in Italy, is more worthy a 
description. 



438 



CHILDE HAROLD'S 



[Canto IV. 



LXX. 

And mounts in spra}' the skies, and thence again 
Returns in an unceasing shower, which round, 
With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain, 
Is an eternal April to the ground, 
Making it all one emerald : — how profound 
The gulf! and how the giant element 
From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound. 
Crushing the clifts, which, downward worn and rent 
With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent 

LXXI. 

To the broad column which rolls on, and shows 
More like the fountain of an infant sea 
Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes 
Of a new world, than only thus to be 
Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly, 
Withmany windings, through the vale: — Lookback! 
Lo ! where it comes like an eternity, 
As if to sweep down all things in its track, 
Charming the eye with dread,— a matchless cataract, 

LXXII. 

Horribly beautiful ! but on the verge, 
From side to side, beneath the glittering mom, 
An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge,i 
Like Hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn 
Its steady dyes, while all around is torn 
By the distracted waters, bears serene 
Its brilliant hues with ail their beams unshorn : 
Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene. 
Love watching Madness with unalterable mien. 

LXXIII. 

Once more upon the woody Apennine, 
The infant Alps, which — had I not before 
Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine 
Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar 2 
The thundering lauwine — might be worshipp'd 

more J 
But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear 
Her never-trodden snow, and seen the hoar 
Glaciers of bleak Mont Blanc both far and near, 
And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear, 

LXXIV. 

Th' Acroceraunian mountains of old name; 
And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly 
Like spirits of the spot, as 't were for fame, 
For still they soar'd unutterably high : 
I 've look'd on Ida with a Trojan's eye ; 
Athos, Olympus, JEtna, Atlas, made 
These hills seem things of lesser dignity, 
All, save the lone Soracte's height, display'd 
Not now in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's aid 

LXXV. 

For our remembrance, and from out the plain 
Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break, 
And on the curl hangs pausing : not in vain 
May he, who will, his recollections rake. 



And quote in classic raptures, and awake 
The bills with Latian echoes ; I abhorr'd 
Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake, 
The drill'd dull lesson, forced down word by word 3 
In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record 

LXXVI. 

Aught that recalls the daily drug which turn'd 
My sickening memory; and, though Time hath 

taught 
My mind to meditate what then it learn'd, 
Yet suchihe fix'd inveteracy wrought 
By the impatience of my early thought. 
That, with the freshness wearing out before 
My mind could relish what it might have sought, 
If free to choose, 1 cannot now restore 
Its health ; but what it then detested, still abhor. 

LXXVIL 

Then farewell, Horace ; whom I hated so, 
Not for thy faults, but mine ; it is a curse 
To understand, not feel thy lyric flow. 
To comprehend, but never love thy verse, 
Although no deeper Moralist rehearse 
Our little life, nor Bard prescribe his art. 
Nor livelier Satirist the conscience pierce, 
Awakening without wounding the touch'd heart, 
Yet fare thee well — upon Soracte's ridge we part. 

LXXVIII. 

Oh Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! 
The orphans of the heart must turn to thee. 
Lone mother of dead empires ! and control 
In their shut breasts their petty misery. 
What are our woes and sufl'erance ? Come and see 
The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way 
O'er steps of broken thrones and temples. Ye ! 
Whose agonies are evils of a day — 
'. world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. 

LXXIX. 

The Niobe of nations ! there she stands. 
Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe; 
An empty urn within her wither'd hands. 
Whose hoiy dust was scatter'd long ago ; 



lOf the time, place, and qualities of this kind of iris, 
the reader will see a short account in a note to Manfred. 
The fall loolis so much like " the hell of waters," that 
Addison thought the descent alluded to by the gulf in 
which Alecto plunged into the infernal regions. It is sin- 
gular enough, that two of the finest cascades in Europe 
should be artificial — this of the Velino, and the one at 
Tivoli. The traveller is strongly recommended to frare 
the Velino, at least as high as the little lake, called Pie' 
di Lup. The Reatine territory was the Italian Tempe 
(Cicer. Epist. ad Attic, xv. lib. iv.), and the ancient natu- 
ralists (Plin. Hist. Nat. lib. ii. cap. Ixii.), amongst other 
beautiful varieties, remarked the daily rainbows of the 
lake Velinus. A scholar of great name has devoted a 
treatise to this district alone. See Aid. Manut. de Reatina 
Urbe Agroque, ap. Sallengre, Thesaur. torn. i. p. 773. 

2 In the greater part of Switzerland, the avalanches are 
known by the name of lauwine. 



3 These stanzas may probably remind the reader of En» 
sign Northerton's remarks, '• D--n Homo," &c.; but the 
reasons for our dislike are not exactly the same. I wish 
to express, that we become tired of the task before we 
can comprehend the beauty; that we learn by rote before 
we can get by heart ; that the freshness is worn away, 
and the future pleasure and advantage deadened and de- 
stroyed, by the didactic anticipation, at an age when we 
can neither feel nor understand the power of compositions 
which it requires an acquaintance with life, as well as 
Latin and Greek, to relish, or to reason upon. For the 
same reason, we never can be aware of the fulness of some 
of the finest passages of Shakspeare ('• To be, or not to be," 
for instance), from the habit of having them hammered 
into us at eight years old, as an exercise, not of mind, but 
of memory: so that when we are old enough to enjoy 
them, the taste is gone, and the appetite palled. In some 
parts of the continent, young persons are taught from 
more common authors, and do not read the best classics 
till their maturity. I certainly do not speak on this point 
from any pique or aversion towards the place of my edu- 
cation. " I was not a slow, though an idle boy ; and I be- 
lieve no one could, or can be, more attached to Harrow 
than I have always been, and with reason; — a part of the 
time passed there was the happiest of my life; and my 
preceptor, the Rev. Dr. Joseph Drury, was the best and 
worthiest friend I ever possessed, whose warnings I have 
remembered but too well, though too late when I have 
erred,— and whose counsels I have but followed when I 
have done well or wisely. If ever this imperfect record 
of my feelings towards him should reach his eyes, let it 
remind him of one who never thinks of him but with 
gratitude and veneration — of one who would more gladly 
boast of having been his pupil, if, by more closely follow- 
ing his injunctions, he could reflect any honour upon his 
instructor. 



Canto IV.] 



PILGRIMAGE. 



439 



The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now ; 
The very sepulchres lie tenanfless 
Of their heroic dwellers : dost thou flow, 
Old Tiber ! through a marble wilderness ? 
Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress. 

LXXX. 

The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and 

Fire, 
Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride; 
She saw her glories star by star expire. 
And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride, 
Where the car climb'd the capitol ; far and wide 
Temple and tower went down, nor left a site : — 
Chaos of ruins ! who shall trace the void. 
O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, 
And say, " here was, or is," where all is doubly night ? 

LXXXI. 

The double night of ages, and of her. 
Night's daughter. Ignorance, halh wrapt and wrap 
All round us ; we but feel our way to err : 
The ocean hath his chart, the stars their map. 
And Knowledge spreads them on her ample lap j 
But Rome is as the desert, where we steer 
Stumbling o'er recollections; now we clap 
Our hands, and cry "Eureka ! " it is clear — 
When but some false mirage of ruin rises near. 

LXXXII. 

Alas ! the lofty city ! and alas ! 

The trebly hundred triumphs ! i and the day 

When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass 

The conqueror's sword in beiring fame away ! 

Alas, for TuUy's voice, and Virgil's lay. 

And Livy's pictured page ! — but these shall be 

Her resurrection ; all beside — decay. 

Alas, for Earth, for never shall we see 

That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was 
free! 

LXXXIII. 
Oh thou, whose chariot roll'd on Fortune's wheel, 
Triumphant Sylla ! Thou, who didst subdue 
Thy country's foes ere thou vvouldst pause to feel 
The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due 
Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew 
O'er prostrate Asia ; — thou, who with thy frown 
Annihilated senates — Roman, too. 
With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down 

With an atoning smile a more than earthly crown — 

LXXXIV. 

The dictatorial wreath,2 — couldst thou divine 
To what would one day dwindle that which made 
Thee more than mortal ? and that so supine 
By aught than Romans Rome should thus be laid ? 
She who was named Eternal, and array'd 
Her warriors but to conquer — she who veil'd 
Earth with her haughty shadow, and display'd, 
Until the o'er-canopied horizon fail'd. 
Her rushing wings— Oh ! she who v/as Almighty hali'd 



lOrosius gives 320 for the number of triumphs. He is 
followed by Panvinius; and Panvinius by Mr. Gibboc and 
the modern writers. 

2 Certainly, were it not for these two traits in the life 
of Sylla, alluded to in this stanza, we should regard him 
as a monster unredeemed by any admirable quality. The 
atonement of his voluntary resignation of empire may 
perhaps be accepted by us, as it seems to have Batisfied the 
Romans, who if they had not respected must have de- 
stroyed hira. There could be no mean, no division of 
opinion ; they must have all thought, like Kucrates, that 
what had appeared ambition was a love of glory, and that 
what had been mistaken for pride was a real grandeur of 
eoul. — (" Seigneur, vous changez toutes mes idees de In 
facon dont je voue vols agir. Je croyais que vous aviez 
de I'ambiiion, mais aucune amour pour la gloire; jevoyais 
bien que votre ame etait haute; mais je ne soupconnais 
pasqu'elle fut grande."— Dialogues de S^Ua et d'Eucrate.) 



LXXXV. 

Sylla was first of victors ; but our own 
The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell ; he 
Too swept off' senates while he hew'd the throne 
Down to a block — immortal rebel ! See 
What crimes it costs to be a moment free 
And famous through all ages ! but beneath 
His fate the moral lurks of destiny ; 
His day of double victory and death 

Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, yield his 
breath.3 

LXXXVL 
The third of the same moon whose former course 
Had all but crown'd him, on the selfsame day 
Deposed him gently from his throne of force. 
And laid him with the earth's preceding clay. 
And show'd not Fortune thus how fame and sway, 
And all we deem delightful, and consume 
Our souls to compass through each arduous way, 
Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb ? 

Were they but so in man's, how different were his 
doom! 

LXXXVII. 
And thou, dread statue ! yet existent in* 
The austerest form of naked majesty. 
Thou who beheldest, 'mid the assassins' din, 
At thy bathed base the bloody Caesar lie, 
Folding his robe in dying dignity. 
An offering to thine altar from the queen 
Of gods and men, great Nemesis I did he die, 
And thou, too, perish, Pompey ? have ye been 

Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene ? 

Lxxxvni. 

And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome ! 5 
She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart 
The milk of conquest yet within the dome 
Where, as a monument of antique art. 
Thou standest : — Mother of the mighty heart. 
Which the great founder suck'd from thy wild teat, 
Scorch'd by the Roman Jove's ethereal dart. 
And thy limbs black with lightning — dost thou yet 
Guard thme immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge forget ? 

LXXXIX. 

Thou dost ; — but all thy foster-babes are dead — 

The men of iron ; and the world hath rear'd 

Cities from out their sepulchres : men bled 

In imitation of the things they fear'd, 

And fought and conquer'd, and the same course 

steer'd. 
At apish distance ; but as yet none have. 
Nor could, the same supremacy have near'd. 
Save one vain man, who is not in the grave. 
But, vanquish'd by himself, to his own slaves a slave — 

XC. 

The fool of false dominion — and a kind 
Of bastard Caesar, following him of old 
With steps unequal ; for the Roman's mind 
Was modell'd in a less terrestrial mould, 6 
With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold. 
And an immortal instinct which redeem'd 
The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold, 
Alcides with the distaff" now he seem'd 
At Cleopatra's feet,— and now himself he beam'd, 



XCI. 

And came — and saw — and conquer'd ! But the man 
Who would have tamed his eagles down to flee, 
Like a train'd falcon, in the Gallic van, 
Which he, in sooth, long led to victory, 



3 On the 3d of September Cromwell gained the victory 
of Dunbar : a year afterwards he obtained " his crowning 
mercy" of Worcester; and a few years after, on thesame 
day, which he had ever esteemed the most fortunate for 
him, died. 

4, 5, 6 See Appendix, "Historical Notes," Nos. XXIV. 
XXV. XXVI. 



m^Jlm 



440 



CHILDE HAROLD'S 



[Canto IV. 



With a deaf heart which never seem'd to be 
A listener to itself, was strangely framed ; 
With but one weakest weakness — vanity, 
Coquettish in ambition — still he aim'd — 
At what ? can he avouch— or answer what he claim'd ? 

XCII. 

And would be all or nothing — nor could wait 
For the sure grave to level him ; few years 
Had fix'd him with the Caesars in his fate, 
On whom we tread : For this the conqueror rears 
The arch of triumph ! and for this the tears 
And blood of earth flow on as they have flow'd, 
An universal deluge, which appears 
Without an ark for wretched man's abode, 
And ebbs but to reflow ! — Renew thy rainbow, God ! 

XCIII. 

What from this barren being do we reap ? 
Our senses narrow, and our reason frail, i 
Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep, 
And all things weigh'd in custom's falsest scale; 
Opinion an omnipotence, — whose veil 
Mantles the earth with darkness, until right 
And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale 
Lest their own judgments should become too bright, 
And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have'too 
much light. 

XCIV. 

And thus they plod in sluggish misery, 
Rotting from sire to son, and age to age, 
Proud of their trampled nature, and so die, 
Bequeathing their hereditary rage 
To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage 
War for their chains, and rather than be free, 
Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage 
Within the same arena where they see 
Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree. 

XCV. 
I speak not of men's creeds — they rest between 
Man and his Maker — but of things allow'd, 
Averr'd, and known,— and daily, hourly seen — 
The yoke that is upon us doubly bow'd, 
And the intent of tyranny avow'd, 
The edict of Earth's rulers, who are grown 
The apes of him who humbled once the proud. 
And shook them from their slumbers on the throne; 
Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done. 

XCVL 

Can tyrants but by tyrants conquer'd be, 
And Freedom find no champion and no child 
Such as Columbia saw arise when she 
Sprung forth a Pallas arm'd and undefiled ? 
Or must such minds be nourishd in the wild, 
Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the roar 
Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled 
On infant Washington ? Has Earth no more 
Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore ? 

xcvn. 

But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime, 
And fatal have her Saturnalia been 
To Freedom's cause, in every age and clime ; 
Because the deadly days which we have seen, 



1 " Omnes pene veteres: qui nihil cognosci, nihil 

percepi, nihil sciri posse dixerunt: angustos sensua ; im- 
becillos animos, brevia curricula vitae; in profundo veri- 
tatem demersam; opiniouibus et iiistitutis omnia teneri ; 
nihil veritati relinqui; deinceps omnia tenebris circum- 
fuea esse dixerunt." — Academ. 1. 13. The eighteen hun- 
dred years which have elapsed since Cicero wrote this, 
have not removed any of the imperfections of humanity : 
and thecumplaints of the ancient philosophers may, with- 
out injustice or atrectation, be transcribed in a poem writ- 
ten yesterday. i 



And vile Ambition, that built up between 
Man and his hopes an adamantine wall, 
And the base pageant last upon the scene, 
Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall 

Which nips life's tree, and dooms man's worst — his 
second fall. 

XCVIIL 
Yet, Freedom ! yet thy banner, torn, but flying, 
Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind ; 
Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and dying. 
The loudest still the ten)pest leaves behind ; 
Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, 
Chopp'd by the axe, looks rough and little worth, 
But the sap lasts, — and still the seed we find 
Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North ; 

So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth. 

XCIX. 

There is a stern round tower of other days,2 
Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, 
Such as an army's baffled strength delays, 
Standing with half is battlements alone. 
And with two thousand years of ivy grown, 
The garland of eternity, where wave 
The green leaves over all by time o'erthrown ; — 
What was this tower of strength ? within its cive 
What treasure lay so lock'd, so hid ? — A woman's grave. 



But who was she, the lady of the dead", 
Tomb'd in a palace .' Was she chaste and fair ? 
Worthy a king's — or more — a Roman's bed ? 
What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear ? 
What daughter of her beauties was :he heir? 
How lived— how loved — how died she ? Was she not 
So houour'd — and conspicuously there. 
Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, 
Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot ? 

CL 

Was she as those who love their lords, or they 
Who love the lords of others ? ^uch have been 
Even in the olden time, Rome's annals say. 
Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien, 
Or the light air of Egypt's graceful queen, 
Profuse of joy — or 'gainst it did she war, 
Inveterate in virtue ? Did she lean 
To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar 
Love from amongst her griefs? — for such the affec- 
tions are. 

cn. 

Perchance she died in youth : it may be, bow'd 
With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb 
That weigh'd upon her gentle dust, a cloud 
Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom 
In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom 
Heaven gives its favouritei— early death ; yet shed 3 
A sunset charm around her, and illume 
With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, 
Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like red. 

CIIL 

Perchance she died in age — surviving all. 
Charms, kindred, children — wiih the silver grey 
On her long tresses, which might yet recall, 
It may be, still a something of"^the day 
When they were braided, and her proud array 
And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed 
By Rome — but whi'her would Conjecture stray? 
Thus much alone we know — Meteila died. 
The wealthiest Roman's wife : Behold his love or 
pride ! 



2 Alluding to the tomb of Cecilia Meteila, called Capo di 
Bove. See " Historical Illustrations." 
3''0v ol ^lol (pi\ov(nv, dnoOv^cKu v£o^' 
Tb ydp -^aviXv oi}K, al<rxpdv, dXX' alaxpiiS 
■&avElv. 
Rich. Franc. Phil. Brunck. Poeta Gnomici. p. 231. edit. 
1784. 



Canto IV.] 



PILGRIMAGE 



441 



CIV. 

I know not why — but standing thus by thee 
It seems as if I had thine inmate known, 
Thou Tomb ! and other days come back on me 
With recollected music, though the tone 
Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan 
Of dying thunder on the distant wind; 
Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone 
Till I had bodied forth the heated mind, 
Forms from the floating wreck which Ruin leaves 
behind ; / 

CV. 

And from the planks, far shatter'd o'er the rocks, 
Built me a little bark of hope, once more 
To battle with the ocean and the shocks 
Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar 
Which rushes on the solitary shore 
Where all lies founder'd that was ever dear : 
But could I gather from the wave-worn store 
Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer ? 
There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is 
here. 

CVI. 

Then let the winds howl on ! their harmony 
Shall henceforth be my music, and the night 
The sound shall temper with the owlets' cry, 
As I now hear them, in the fading light 
Dim o'er the bird of darkness' native site. 
Answering each other on the Palatine, 
With their large eyes, all glistening grey and bright, 
And sailing pinions. — Upon such a shrine 
What are our petty griefs ?— let me not number mine. 

CVII. 

Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown 

Matted and mass'd together, hillocks heap'd 

On what were chambers, arch crush'd, column 

strown 
In fragments, choked-up vaults, and frescoes steep'd 
In subterranean damps, where the owl peep'd. 
Deeming it midnight : — Temples, baths, or halls ? 
Pronounce who can ; for all that Learning reap'd 
From her research hath been, that these are walls- 
Behold the Imperial Mount ! 't is thus the mighty falls.i 

CVIII. 

There is the moral of all human tales ; 2 

'T is but the same rehearsal of the past, 

First Freedom, and then Glory — when that fails, 

Wealth, vice, corruption, — barbarism at last. 



IThe Palatine is one mass of ruins, particularly on the 
side towards the Circus Maximns. Ttie very soil is formed 
of crumbled brickwork. Nothing has been told, nothing 
can be told, to satisfy the belief of any but a Roman anti- 
quary. See "Historical Illustrations," p. 206. 

2 The author of the Life of Cicero, speaking of the 
opinion entertained of Britain by that orator and his co- 
temporary Romans, has the following eloquent passage :-- - 
"From their railleries of this kind, on the barbarity and 
misery of our island, one cannot help reflecting on the 
surprising fate and revolutions of kingdoms ; how Rome, 
once the mistress of the world, the seat of arts, empire, 
and glory, now lies sunk in sloth, ignorance, and poverty, 
enslaved to the most cruel as well as to the most con- 
temptible of tyrants, super^ition and religious imposture: 
while this remote country, anciently the jest and con- 
tempt of the polite Romans, is become the happy seat of 
liberty, plenty, and letters; flourishing in all the arts and 
refinements of civil life; yet running, perhaps, the same 
course which Rome itself had run before it, from virtuous 
industry to wealth; from wealth to luxury; from luxury 
to an impatience of discipline, and corruption of morals: 
till, by a total degeneracy and loss of virtue, being grown 
ripe for destruction, it fall a prey at last to some hardy 
oppressor, and, with the loss of liberty, losing every thing 
that is valuable, sinks gradually again into its original bar- 
barism." (See History of the Life of M. Tullius Cicero, 
Beet. vi. vol. ii. p. 102.) 



And History, with all her volumes vast, 
Hath but one page,— 't is better written here, 
Where gorgeous Tyranny hath thus amass'd 
All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear, 

Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask — Away with words ! 
draw near, 

CIX. 
Admire, exult — despise — laugh, weep, — for here 
There is such matter for all feeling : — Man ! 
Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear. 
Ages and realms are crowded in this span, 
This mountain, whose obliterated plan 
The pyramid of empires pinnacled. 
Of Glory's gewgaws shining in the van 
Till the sun's rays with added flame were fill'd ! 

Where are its golden roofs? where those who dared 
to build ? 

ex. 

Tully was not so eloquent as thou. 
Thou nameless column with the buried base ! 
What are the laurels of the Cesar's brow ? 
Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place. 
Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face, 
Titus or Trajan's ? No — 't is that of Time : 
Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doih displace 
Scoffing ; and apostolic statues climb 
To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept subliine,s 

CXI. 

Buried in air, the deep-blue sky of Rome, 
And looking to ths stars : they had cont^in'd 
A spirit which with these would find a home, 
The last of those who o'er the whole earth reign'd, 
The Roman globe, for after none sustain'd, 
But yielded back his conquests : — he was more 
Than a mere Alexander, and, unstain'd 
With household blood and wine, serenely wore 
His sovereign virtues — still we Trajan's name adore.* 

CXII. 

Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place 
Where Rome embraced her heroes ? where the steep 
Tarpeian ? fittest goal for Treason's race. 
The promontory whence 'he Traitor's Leap 
Cured all ambition. Did the conquerors heap 
Their spoils here ? Yes ; and in yon field below, 
A thousand years of silenced factions sleep — 
The Forum, where the immortal accents glow, 
And still the eloquent air breathes— burns with Cicero ! 

cxin. 

The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood : 
Here a proud people's passions were exhaled. 
From the first hour of empire in the bud 
To that when further worlds to conquer fail'd ; 
But long before had Freedom's face been veil'd, 
And Anarchy assumed her attributes ; 
Till 6very lawless soldier who assail'd 
Trod on the trembling senate's slavish mutes, 
Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes. 



3 The column of Trajan is surmounted by St. Peter; 
that of Aurelius by St. Paul. See "Historical Illustra- 
tions." 

4 Trajan was proaerJia^Zy the best of the Roman princes; 
and it would be easier to find a sovereign uniting exactly 
the opposite characteristics, Ihnn'one possessed of all the 
happy qualities ascribed to this emperor. "When he 
mounted the throne," says the historian Dion, " he was 
strong in body, he was vigorous in mind ; age had im- 
paired none of his faculties; he was altogether free from 
envy and from detraction; he honoured all the good, and 
he advanced them ; and on this account they could not be 
the objects of his fear, or of his hate; he never listened to 
informers; he gave not way to his anger; he abstained 
equally from unfair exactions and unjust punishments; he 
had rather be loved as a man than honoured as a sove- 
reign ; he was atTable with his people, respectful to the 
senate, and universally belcwed by both ; he inspired none 
with dread but the enemies of his country." See Eu- 
trop. Brev. Hist. Rom. lib. viii. c. 5. Dion. Hist. Rom. 
lib. Ixiii. c. 6, 7. 



442 



CHILDE HAROLD'S 



[Canto IV. 



CXIV. 
Then turn we to her latest tribune's name, 
From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee, 
Redeemer of dark centuries of sh^inie — 
The friend of Petrarch — hope of Italy — 
Rienzi ! last of Romans ! i Whi'e the tree 
Of freedom's wither d trunk puts forth a leaf, 
Even for thy tomb a garland let it be — 
The forum's champion, and the people's chief — 
Her new-born Is'uma thou — with leign, alas 1 too brief. 

cxv. 

Egeria ! sweet creation of some heart 3 
Which found no mortal resting-place so fair 
As thine ideal breast ; whate'er thou art 
Or wert, — a young Aurora of the air, 
The nympholepsy of some fond despair ; 
Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth, 
Who found a more than common votary there 
Too much adoring ; whatsoe'er thy birth, 
Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth. 

CXVI. 

The mosses of thy fountain sill are sprinkled 
With thine Elydan water-drops ; the face 
Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years unwrinkled. 
Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place, 
Whose green, wild margin now no more erase 
Art's works ; nor inust the delicate waters sleep, 
Prison'd in marble, bubbling from the base 
Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap 

The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy, 
creep 

CXVII. 
Fantastically tangled : the green hills 
Are clothed with early bloss <ms, through the grass 
The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills 
Of summer birds sing welcome as ye pass ; 
Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class, 
Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes 
Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass; 
The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes, 

Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems colour'd by its 
skies. 

CXVIII. 
Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, 
Egeria ! thy all heavenly bosom beating 
For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover ; 
The purple Midnight veil'd that mystic meeting 
With her most starry canopy, and seating 
Thyself by thine adorer, what befel ? 
This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting 
Of an enamour'd Goddess, and the cell 

Haunted by holy Love — the earliest oracle ! 

CXIX. 

And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying, 
Blend a celestial with a human heart ; 
And Love, which dies as it was born, in sighing, 
Share with immortal transports ? could thine art 
Make them indeed immortal, and impart 
The purity of heaven to earthly joys, 
Expel the venom and not blunt" the dart — 
The dull satiety which all destroys — 

And root from out the soul the deadly weed which 
cloys ? 

CXX. 
Alas ! our young affections run to waste. 
Or water but the desert ; whence arise 
But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste. 
Rank at the core, thousrh tempting to the eyes, 
Flowers whose wild odours breathe but asronies, 
And trees whose gums are poison ; such the plants 
W^hich spring beneath her s'eps as Passion flies 
O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants 

For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants. 



CXXL 

Oh Love ! no habitant of earth thou art — 
An unseen seraph, we believe in thee, 
A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart, 
But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see 
The naked eye, thy form, as it should be; 
The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven, 
Even with its own desiring phantasy, 
And to a thought such shape and image given, 
As haunts the unquench'd soul — parch'd — wearied— 
wrung — and riven. 

CXXIL 

Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, 
And fevers into false creation : — where, 
Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? 
In him alone. Can Nature show so fair? 
Where are the charms and virtues which we dare 
Conceive iii boyhood and pursue as men, 
The unreach'd Paradise of our despair. 
Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pen, 
And overpowers the page where it would bloom again ? , 

CXXIII. I 

Who loves, raves— 't is youth's frenzy— but the cure | 
Is bitterer still ; as charm by charm unwinds i 

Which robed our idols, and we see too sure 
Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind's 
Ideal shape of such ; yet still it binds 
The fatal spell, and still it draws us on, 
Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown winds; 
The stubborn heart, its alchymy begun, 

Seems ever near the prize — wealthiest when most un- 
done. 

CXXIV. 
We wither from our youth, we gasp away — 
Sick— sick ; unfound "the boon—unslaked the thirst, 
Though to the last, in verge of our decay, 
Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first — 
But all too late, — so are we doubly curst. 
Love, fame, ambition, avarice — 't is the same. 
Each idle — and all ill — and none the worst — 
For all are meteors with a ditferent name. 

And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame. 

CXXV. 

Few — none — find what they love or could have 

loved, 
Though accident, blind contact, and the strong 
Necessity of loving, have removed 
Antipathies — but to recur, ere long, 
Envenom'd with irrevocable wrong; 
And Circum-tauce, that unspiritual god 
And miscreator, makes and helps along 
Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod. 
Whose touch turns Hope to dust, — the dust we all 

have trod. 

CXXVI. 

Our life is a false nature ~'t is not in 
The harmony of things,— this hard decree, 
This uneradicable taint of sin, 
This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree, 
Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be 
The skies which rain their plagues on men like dew — 
Disease, death, bondage — all the woes we see — 
And worse, the woes we see not — which throb 
through 
The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new. 

CXXVIL 

Yet let us ponder boldly — 't is a base 3 
Abandonment of reason to resign 
Our rififht of thought — our last and only place 
Of refuge ; this, at least, shall still be mine : 



1 The name and exploits of Rienzi must be familiar to 
the reader of Gibbon. 

2 See Appendix, " Historical Notes," No. XXVII. 



8 "At nil events," says the author of the Academical 
Questions, "I trust, whatever may be the fate of my own 
speculations, that philosophy will regain that estimation 
which it ought to possess, The free and philoi>ophic spirit 



Canto IV.] 



PILGRIMAGE. 



443 



Though from our birth the faculty divine 
Is chain"d and tortured — cabin'd, cribb'd, confined, 
And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine 
Too brightly on the unprepared mind, 
The beam" pours in, for time and skill will couch the 
blind. 

CXXVIII. 

Arches on arches ! as it were that Rome, 
Collecting the chief trophies of her line. 
Would build up all her triumphs in one dome. 
Her Coliseum stands ; the moonbeams shine 
As 't were its natural torches, for divine 
Should be the light which streams here, to illume 
This long-explored but still exhaustless mine 
Of contemplation ; and the azure gloom 
Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume 

CXXIX. 

Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven. 
Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument. 
And shadows forth its glory. There is given 
Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent, 
A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant 
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power 
And magic in the ruin'd battlement. 
For which the palace of the present hour 
Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower. 

cxxx. 

Oh Time ! the beautifier of the dead, 
Adorner of the ruin, comforter 
And only healer when the heart hath bled — 
Time ! the corrector where our judgments err, 
The test of truth, love, — sole philosopher, 
For all beside are sophists, from thy thrift, 
Which never loses though it doth defer — 
Time, the avenger ! unto thee I lift 
My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift : 

CXXXI. 

Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine 
And temple more divinely desolate. 
Among thy mightier offerings here are mine. 
Ruins of years — though few, yet full of fate : — 
If thou hast ever seen me too elate, 
Hear me not; but if calmly I have borne 
Good, and reserved my pride against the hate 
Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn 
This iron in my soul in vain — shall they not mourn ? 

cxxxir. 

And thou, who never yet of human wron^ 
Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis ! ^ 
Here, where the ancient paid thee homage long — 
Thou, who didst call the Furies from the abyss, 
And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss 
For that unnatural retribution — just. 
Had it but been from hands less near — in this 
Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust ! 
Dost Ihou not hear my heart! —Awake! thou shalt, 
and must. 



of our nation has been the theme of admiration to the 
world. This was the proud distinction of Englishmtn, 
and the luminous aourre of all their glory. Shall we then 
forget the manly and digJiified sentiments of our ancestors, 
to prate in the language of the mother or the nurse about 
our good old prejudices? This is not the way to defend 
the cause of truth. It was not thus that our fathers 
maintained it in the brilliant periods of our history. Pre- 
judice may be trusted to guard the outworks for a short 
space of time, while reason slumbers in the citadel; but if 
the latter sink into a lethargy, the former will quickly 
erect a standard for herself. Philosophy, wisdom, and 
liberty support each other : he who will not reason is a 
Wgot ; he who cannot, is a fool; and he who dares not, Is 
a»lave."— Vol. i. pref. p. 14, 15. 
ISee Appendix, " Historical Notes," No. XXVIII. 



CXXXIII. 

It is not that I may not have incurr'd 

For my ancestral faults or mine the wound 

I bleed withal, and, had it been conferr'd 

With a just weapon, it had tiown unbound; 

But now my blood shall not sink in the ground ; 

To thee I do devote it — thou shalt take 

The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and found, 

Which if /have not taken for the sake 

But let that pass — I sleep, but thou shalt yet awake. 

CXXXIV. 

And if my voice break forth, 't is not that now 
1 shrink from what is sutfer'd : let him speak 
Who bath beheld decline upon my brow. 
Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak; 
But in this page a record will I seek. 
Not in the air bhall these my words disperse. 
Though 1 be ashes ; a far hour shall wreak 
The deep prophetic fulness of this verse, 
And pile on human heads the mountain of my curse ! 

CXXXV. 

That curse shall be Forgiveness.— Have I not — 
Hear me, my mother Earth ! behold it, Heaven ! — 
Have 1 not had to wrestle with my lot ? 
Have I not sufier'd things to be forgiven ? 
Have I not had my brain sear'd, my heart riven, 
Hopes sapp'd, name blighted. Life's life lied away ? 
And only not to desperation driven, 
Because not altogether of such clay 
As rots into the souls of those whom I survey. 

CXXXVI. 

From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy 
Have I not seen what human things could do ? 
From the loud roar of foaming calumny 
To the small whisper of the as paltry few, 
And subtler venom of the reptile crew, 
The Janus glance of whose significant eye, 
Learning to lie with silence, would seem true, 
And without utterance, save the shrug or sigh, 
Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy. 

CXXXVII. 

But I have lived, and have not lived in vain : 
My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire. 
And my frame perish even in conquering pain; 
But there is that within me which shall tire 
Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire; 
Something unearthly, which they deem not of, 
Like the remember'd tone of a mute lyre. 
Shall on their soften'd spirits sink, and move 
In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love. 

CXXXVIH. 

The seal is set — Now welcome, thou dread power! 
Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here 
Walk'st in the shadow of the midnight hour 
With a deep awe, 3'et all distinct from fear ; 
Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear 
Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene 
Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear 
That we become a part of what has been, 
And grow unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen. 

CXXXIX. 

And here the buzz of eager nations ran, 
In murmur'd pity, or loud-roar'd applause, 
As man was slaughter'd by his fellow man. 
And wherefore slaughter'd ? wherefore, but because 
Such were the bloody Circus' eenial laws. 
And the imperial pleasure. — Wherefore not? 
What matters where we fall to fill the maws 
Of worms — on battle-plains or listed spot ? 
Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot. 



444 



CHILDE HAROLD'S 



[Canto IV. 



CXL. 

I se^ before me the Gladiator lie : 
He leans upon his hand — his manly brow 
Consents to death, but conquers agony, 
And his droop'd head sinks gradually low — 
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow 
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, 
Like the first of a thunder-shower j and now 
The arena swims around him — he is gone, 

Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch 
who won. 

CXLI. 
He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes 
Were with his heart, and that was far away ; 1 
He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize, 
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, 
There were his young barbarians all at play, 
There was their Dacian mother — he, their sire, 
Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday ^ — 
All this rush'd with his blood — Shall he expire 

And unavenged .'—Arise ! ye Goths, and glut your ire ! 

CXLII. 

But here, where Murder breathed her bloody steam ; 
And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways, 
And roar'd or murmur'd like a mountain stream 
Dashing or winding as its torrent strays ; 
Here, where the Roman million's blame or praise 
Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd, 3 
My voice sounds much — and fall the stars' faint rays 
On the arena void — seats crush'd — walls bow'd — 
And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely 
loud. 

cxLin. 

A ruin — yet what ruin ! from its mass 
Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been rear'd ; 
Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass, 
And marvel where the spoil could have appear'd. 
Hath it indeed been plunder'd, or but cleard? 
Alas ! developed, opens the decay, 
When the colossal fabric's form is near'd : 
It will not bear the brightness of the day, 

Which streams too much on all years, man, have reft 
away. 

CXLIV. 
But when the rising moon begins to climb 
Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there ; 
When the stars twinkle through the loops of time, 
And the low night-breeze waves along the air 
The garland-forest, which the grey walls wear, 
Like laurels on the bald first Cassir's head ; * 
When the light shines serene but doth not glare. 
Then in this'magic circle raise the dead : 

Heroes have trod this spot — 't is on their dust ye tread. 



CXLV. 
" While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand j 5 
*' When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall ; 
"And when Rome falls— the World." From our 

own land 
Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty wall 
In Saxon times, which we are wont to call 
Ancient ; and these three mortal things are still 
On their foundations, and unalter'd all ; 
Rome and her Ruin past Redemption's skill. 
The World, the same wide den — of thieves, or what 

ye v/ill. 

CXLVI. 

Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime — 
Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods, 
From Jove to Jesus — spared and blest by time ; 8 
Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods 
Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man plods 
His way through thorns to ashes — glorious dome ! 
Shalt thou not last? Time's scythe and tyrants' rods 
Shiver upon thee — sanctuary and home 
Of art and piety — Pantheon 1 — pride of Rome ! 

CXLVII. 

Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts ! 
Despoil'd yet perfect, with thy circle spreads 
A holiness appealing to all hearts — 
To art a model ; and to him who treads 
Rome for the sake of ages. Glory sheds 
Her light through thy sole aperture ; to those 
Who worship, here are altars for their beads; 
And they who feel for genius may repose 
Their eyes on honour'd forms, whose busts around 
them close, t 

CXLVIII. 

There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light 3 
What do I gaze on ? Nothing : Look again ! 
Two forms are slowly shadow'd on my sight — 
Two insulated phantoms of the brain : 
It is not so ; I see them full and plain — 
An old man, and a female young and fair, 
Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein 
The blood is nectar : — but what doth she there. 
With her unmantled neck, and bosom white and 
bare? 



1 Whether the wonderful statue which suggested this 
image be a laquearian gladiator, which, in spite of Win- 
kelmann's critR-ism, has been stoutly maintained; or 
whether it be a Greek herald, as that great antiquary poni- 
tively asserted ; * or whether it is to be thought a Spartan 
or barbarian shield-bearer, according to the opinion of his 
Italian editor; it must assuredly seem a copy of that: 
masterpiece of Ctesilaus which represented "a wounded ' 
man dying, who perfectly expressed what there remained \ 
of life in him." Montfaucon and MaflTei thought it the j 
identical statue; but that statue was of bronze. The ' 
Gladiator was once in the Villa Ludovizi, and was bought i 
by Clement XII. The right arm is an entire restoration 
of Michael Angelo. 

2, 3 See Appendix, " Historical Notes," Nos. XXIX. 
XXX. I 

4 Suetonius informs us that Julius Cesar was particu- 1 
larly gratified by that decree of the senate which enabled 



# Either Polifontes, herald of Laius, killed by Edipus ; 
or Cepreas, herald of Euritheus, killed by the Athenians 
when he endeavoured to drag the Heraclida from the altar 
of mercy, and in whose honour they instituted annual 
games, continued to the time of Hadrian: or Anthemo- 
critus, the Athenian herald, kflled by the Megarenses, who 
never recovered the impiety. See Storia delle Arti, &c. ; 
torn. ii. pag. 203, 204, 206, 206, 207. lib. ix. cap. ii. | 



him to wear a wreath of laurel on all occasions. He was 
anxious, not to show that he was the conqueror of the 
world, but to hide that he was bald. A stranger atKome 
would hardly have guessed at the motive, nor should we 
without the help of the historian. 

5 This is quoted in the "Decline and Fall of the Roman 
Empire," as a proof that the Coliseum was entire, when 
seen by the Anglo-Saxon pilgrims at the end of the seventh, 
or the beginning of the eighth, century. 

6 " Though plundered of all its brass, except the ring 
which was necessary to preserve the aperture above; 
though exposed to repeated fires ; though sometimes 
flooded by the river, and always open to the rain, no 
monument of equal antiquity is so well preserved as this 
rotundo. It passed with little alteration from the Pagan 
into the present worship; and so convenient were its 
niches for the Christian altar, that Michael Angelo, ever 
studious of ancient beauty, introduced their design as a 
model in the Catholic church."— Forsyth's /<oiy, p. 137. 
2d edit. 

7 The Pantheon has been made a receptacle for the busts 
of modern great, or, at least, distinguished, men. The 
flood of light which once fell through the large orb alwve 
on the whole circle of divinities, now shines on a nume- 
rous assemblage of mortals, some one or two of whom 
have been almost deified by the veneration of their coun- 
trymen. For a notice of the Pantheon, see " Historical 
Illustrations." 

8 This and the three next stanzas allude to the story of 
the Roman daughter, which is recalled to the traveller by 
the site, or pretended site, of that adventure, now shown 
at the church of St. Nicholas inCarcere. ThediflBculties 
attending the full belief of the tale are stated in " Histori- 
cal Illustrations." 



Canto IV.] 



PILGRIMAGE 



445 



CXLIX. 
Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life, 
Where on the heart and from the heirt we took 
Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife, 
Blest into mother, in the innocent look, 
Or even the piping cry of lips that brook 
No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives 
Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook 
She sees her little bud put forth its leaves — 

What may the fruit be yet ? — I know not — Cain was 
Eve's. 

CL. 
But here youth offers to old age the food, 
The milk of his own gift : — it is her sire 
To whom she renders back the debt of blood 
Born with her birth. No ; he shall not expire 
While in those warm and lovely veins the fire 
Of health and holy feeling can provide 
Great Nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises higher 
Than Egypt's river: — from that gentle side 

Drink, drink and live, old man ! Heaven's realm holds 
no such tide. 

CLI. 
The starry fable of the milky way 
Has not thy story's purity ; it is 
A constellation of a sweeter ray, 
And sacred Nature triumphs more in this 
Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss 
Where sparkle distant worlds : — Oh, holiest nurse-! 
No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss 
To,thy sire's heart, replenishing its source 

With life as our freed souls rejoin the universe. 

CLII. 

Turn to the Mole which Hadrian rear'd on high,i 

Imperial mimic of old Egypt's piles, 

Colossal copyist of deformity, 

Whose travell'd phantasy from the far Nile's 

Enormous model, doom'd the artist's toils 

To build for giants, and for his vain earth. 

His shrunken ashes, raise this dome : How smiles 

The gazer's eye with philosophic mirth, 

To view the huge design which sprung from such a 
birth ! 

CLHI. 
But lo ! the dome — the vast and wondrous dome,2 
To which Diana's marvel was a cell — 
Christ's mighty shrine above his martyr's tomb ! 
I have beheld "the Ephesian's miracle — 
Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell 
The hyaena and the jackal in their shade ; 
I have beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell 
Their glittering mass i' the sun, and have survey'd 

Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem pray 'd ; 

CLIV. 

But thou, of temples old, or altars new, 
Standest alone— with nothing like to thee — 
Worthiest of God, the holy and the true. 
Since Zion's desolation, when that He 
Forsook his former city, what could be, 
Of earthly structures, in his honour piled, 
Of a sublimer aspect ? Majesty, 
Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty, all are aisled 
Id this eternal ark of worship undefiled. 

CLV. 
Enter: its grandeur overwhelms thee not : 
And why ?'it is not lessen'd ; but thy mind, 
Expanded by the genius of the spot, 
Has grown colossal, and can only find 



IThe castle of St. Angelo. See " Historical Illustra- 
tions." 

2 This and the six next stanzas have a reference to the 
church of St. Peter's. For a measurement of the com- 
parative length of this basilica and the other great churches 
of Europe, see the pavement of St. Peter's, and the Clas- 
aical Tour through Italy, vol. ii. p. 125. et seq. ch. iv. 



A fit abode wherein appear enshrined 
Thy hopes of immortality ; and thou 
Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined, 
See thy God face to face, as thou dost now 
His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow. 

CLVI. 

Thou movest — but increasing with the advance. 

Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise, 

Deceived by its gigantic elegance j 

Vastness which grows — but grows to harmonise — 

Ail musical in its immensities; 

Rich marbles — richer painting— shrines where flame 

The lamps of gold — and haughty dome which vies 

In air with Earth's chief structures, though their 

frame 
Sits on the firm-set ground — and this the clouds must 

claim. 

CLVII. 

Thou seest not all ; but piecemeal thou must break. 
To separate contemplation, the great whole j 
And as the ocean many bays will make. 
That ask the eye — so here condense thy soul 
To more imniediate objects, and control 
Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart 
Its eloquent proportions, and unroll 
In mighty graduations, part by part. 
The glory which at once upon thee did not dart, 

CLVIII. 

Not by its fault — but thine : Our outward sense 
Is but of gradual grasp — and as it is 
That what we have of feeling most intense 
Outstrips our faint expression j even so this 
Outshining and o'erwhelming edifice 
Fools our fond gaze, and greatest of the great 
Defies at first our Nature's littleness. 
Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate 
Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate. 

CLIX. 

Then pause, and be enlighten'd ; there is more 
In such a survey than the sating gaze 
Of wonder pleased, or awe which would adore 
The worship of the place, or the mere praise 
Of art and its great masters, who could raise 
What former time, norskill, nor thought could plan ; 
The fountain of sublimity displays 
Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of mnn 
Its golden sands, and learn what great conceptions can. 

CLX. 

Or, turning to the Vatican, go see 
Laocoon's "torture dignifying pain — 
A father's love and mortal's agony 
With an immortal's patience blending: — Vain 
The struggle ; vain, against the coiling strain 
And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp. 
The old man's clench ; the long envenom'd chain 
Rivets the living links, — the enormous asp 
Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp. 

CLXI. 

Or view the Lord of the unerring bow, 
The God of life, and poesy, and light — 
The Sun in human limbs array'd, and brow 
All radiant from his triumph in the fight ; 
The shaft hath just been shot — the arrow bright 
With an immortal's vengeance; in his eye 
And nostril beautiful disdain, and might 
And majesty, tiash their full lightnings by, 
Developing in that one glance the Deity. 

CLXII. 

But in his delicate form — a dream of Love, 
Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast 
Long'd for a deathless lover from above. 
And madden'd in that vision — are exprest 



1 



38 



A 



446 



CHILDE HAROLD'S 



[Canto IV. 



All that ideal beauty ever bless'd 
The mind with in its most unearthly mood, 
When each conception was a heavenly guest — 
A ray of immortality — and stood, 
Starlike, around, until they gather'd to a god \ 

CLXIII. 

And if it be Prometheus stole from Heaven 
The fire which we endure, it was repaid 
By him to whom the energy was given 
Which this poetic maible h:ith array'd 
With an eternal glory — which, if made 
By human hands, is not of human thought ; 
And Time himself haih hallow'd it, nor laid 
One ringlet in the dust — nor hath it caught 
A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which 
't was wrought. 

CLXIV. 

But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song, 
The being who upheld it through the past? 
Methinks he comelh late and tarries long. 
He is no more — these breathings are his last ; 
His wanderings done, his visions ebbirg fast, 
And he himself as nothing : — if he was 
Aught but a phantasy, and could be class'd 
With forms which live and suffer — let that pass — 
His shadow fades away into Destruction's mass, 

CLXV. 

Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all 
That we inherit in its mortal shroud. 
And spreads the dim and universal pall 
Through which all things grow phantoms j and the 

cloud 
Between us sinks and all which ever glow'd, 
Till Glory's self is twilight, and displays 
A melancholy halo scarce allow'd 
To hover on the verge of darkness ; rays 
Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze, 

CLXVI. 

And send us prying into the abyss, 
To gather what we shall be when the frame 
Shall be resolved to something less than this 
l!s wretched essence; and to dream of fame, 
And wipe the dust from off the idle name 
We never more shall hear, — but never more, 
Oh, happier thought ! cm we be made the same: 
It is enough in sooth that 07ice we bore 
These fardels of the heart — the heart whose sweat 
was gore. 

CLxvn. 

Hark ! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, 

A long, low, distant murmur of dread sound, 

Such as arises when a nation bleeds 

With some deep and immedicable wound ; 

Through storm and darkness yawns the rending 

ground. 
The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief 
Seems royal still, though with her head discrown'd. 
And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief 
She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief. 

CLXVIII. 

Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou ? 
Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead ? 
Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low 
Some less majestic, less beloved head ? 
In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled, 
The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy. 
Death hush'd that pang for ever : with thee fled 
The present hippiness and promised joy 
Which fill'd the imperial isles so full it seem'd to cloy. 

CLXIX. 

Peasants bring forth in safety.— Can it be, 

Oh thou that wert so happy, so adored ! 

Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee, 

And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard 



Her many griefs for One; for she had pour'd 
Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head 
Beheld her Iris. — 1 hou, too. lonely lord, 
And desolate consort — vainly wert thou wed ! 
The husband of a year ! the father of the dead ! 

CLXX. 

Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made ; 
Thy bridal's fruit is ashes : in the dust 
The fair-hair'd Daughter of the Isles is laid, 
The love of millions ! How we did entrust 
Futurity to her ! and, though it must 
Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd 
Our children should obey her child, and bless'd 
Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seem'd 

Like sfars to shepherds' eyes : — 't was but a meteor 
beam'd. 

CLXXI. 
Woe unto us, not her ; i for she sleeps well : 
The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue 
Of hollow counsel, the false oracle. 
Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung 
Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstung 
Nations have arm'd in madness, the strange fate 3 
Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath fiung 
Against their blind omnipo'ence a weight 

Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late, — 

CLXXII. 

These might have been her destiny ; but no. 
Our hearts deny it : ar.d so young, so fair, 
Good without effort, great without a foe ; 
But now a bride and mother — and now there ! 
How many ties did that stern moment tear ! 
From thy Sire's to his humblest subject's breast 
Is link'd the electric chain of that despair, 
Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and opprest 

The land which loved thee so that none could love 
thee best. 

CLXXIII. 
Lo, Nemi ! 3 navell'd in the woody hills 
So far, that the uprooting wind which tears 
The oak from his foundation, and which spills 
The ocean o'er its boundary, and bears 
Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares 
The oval mirror of thy glassy lake ; 
And, calm as cherish'd hate, its surface wears 
A deep cold settled aspect nought can shake. 

All coil'd into itself and round, as sleeps the snake. 

CLXXIV. 
And near Albano's scarce divided waves 
Shine from a sister valley ; — and afar 
The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves 
The Latian roast where sprung the Epic war, 
" Arms and the Man," whose re-ascending star] 
Rose o'er an empire : — but beneath thy right 
Tully reposed from Rome ; — and where yon bar 
Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight 
The Sabine farm was till'd, the weary bard's delight.* 



1 " The death of the Princess Charlotte has been a shock 
even here (Venice), and must have been an earthquake at 
home. The fate of this poor girl is melancholy in every 
respect ; dying at twenty or so, in childbed — of a boy too, 
a present princess and future queen, and just as she began 
to be happy, and to enjoy herself, and the hopes which 
she inspired. I feel sorry in every respect." — Byron 
Letters.— E. 

2 Mary died on the scaffold ; Elizabeth of a broken heart ; 
Charles V. a hermit; Louis XIV. a bankrupt in means 
and glory; Cromwell of anxiety; and, "the greatest is 
behind," Napoleon lives a prisoner. To these sovereigns 
a Icng but superfluous list might be added of names equally 
illustrious and unhappy. 

3 The village of Nemi was near the Arician retreat of 
Egeria, and, from the shades which embosomed the tem- 
ple of Diana, has preserved to this day its distinctive ap- 
pellation of The Grove. Nemi is but an evening's ride 
from the comfortable inn of Albano. 

4 The whole declivity of the Alban hill is of unrivalled 



Canto IV.] 



PILGRIMAGE. 



447 



CLXXV. 
But I forget.— My Pilgrim's shrine is won, 
And he and I must part, — so let it be, — 
His task and mine alike are nearly done j 
Yet once more let us look upon the sea ; 
The midlmd ocean breaks on him and me, 
And from the Alban Mount we now behold 
Our friend of youth, that Ocean, which when we 
Beheld it last by Calpe's rock unfold 
Those waves, wefoUow'd oniill thedarkEuxineroll'd 

CLXXVI. 

Upon the blue Symplegndes: long years — 
Long, though not very many, since have done 
Their work on both ; some'sulfering and some tears 
Have left us nearly where we had begun : 
Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run. 
We have had our reward — and it is here j 
That we can yet feel gladden'd by the sun. 
And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear 
As if there were no man to trouble what is clear. 

CLXXVII. 

Oh ! that the Desert were my dwelling place, 
With one fair Spirit for my minister. 
That I might all forget the human race, 
And, ha'ing no one, love but only her ! 
Ye Elements ! — in whose ennobling stir 
I feel myself exalted — Can ye not 
Accord me such a being ? Do I err 
In deeming such inhabit many a spot? 
Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot. 

CLXXVIII. 

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
There is a r.ipture on the lonely shore. 
There is society, where none intrudes, 
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar : 
I love not Man the less, but Nature more, 
From these our interviews, in which I steal 
From all I may be, or have been before, 
To mingle with the Universe, and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 

CLXXIX. 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll ! 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 
Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain 
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remaia 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own. 
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain. 
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, 
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown. 

CLXXX. 

His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy fields 

Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise 

And shake him from theej the vile strength he 

wields 
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, 
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, 
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray 
And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies 
His petty hope in some near port or bay, 
And dashest him again to earth : — there let him lay. 

CLXXXI. 

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals, 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 

beauty, and from the convent on the highest point, which 
. haa succeeded to the temple nf the Latian Jupiter, the pros- 
I pect embraces all the objects alluded to in this stanza; the 
] Mediterranean; the whole scene of the latter half of the 
I Eneid, and the coast from beyond the mouth of the Tiber 

to the headland of Circeum and the Cape of Terracina. — 



Their clay creator the vain ti'le take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war ; 
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy fiake. 
They melt into thy yest of waves, which mar 
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 

CLXXXH. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they ? 
Thy waters wasted them while they were free, 
And many a tyrant since; their shoies obey 
The stranger, slave, or ravage ; their decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou, 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play — 
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow — 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 

CLXXXIII. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
Gl.isses itself in tempests; in all time. 
Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm, 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark-heaving ; — boundless, endless, and sublime — 
The imnge of Eternity — the throne 
Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 
Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 

CLXXXIV. 
And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy 
Of youthful sports was on Ihy breast to be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy 
J wanton'd with thy breakers — they to me 
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror — 't was a pleasing fear, 
For I was as it were a child of thee, 
And trusted to thy billows far and near. 
And laid my band upon thy mane — as I do here. 

CLXXXV. 

My task is done — my song hath ceased — my theme 
Has died into an echo ; it is fit 
The spell should break of this protracted dream. 
The torch shall be extinguish'd which hath lit 
My midnight lamp — and what is %vrit, is writ,— 
Would it were worthier ! but I am not now 
That which I have been — and my visions flit 
Less palpably before me — and the glow 
Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low. 

CLXXXVI. 

Farewell ! a word that must be, and hath been — 
A sound which makes us linger ; — yet — farewell ! 
Ye ! who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene 
Which is his last, if in your memories dwell 
A thought which once was his, if on ye swell 
A single recollection, not in vain 
He wore his sandal-shoon, and scallop-shell ; 
Farewell! with Aim alone may rest the pain. 
If such there were— with you, the moral of his strain. 



See Appendix, » Historical Notes," No. XXXI. 



APPENDIX. 



NOTES TO CANTO II. 

Note [A] .-REMOVAL OF THE WORKS OF ART 
FROM ATHENS. 

" To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath 

spared." — Stanza xii. line 2. 
At this moment (January 3, 1810), besides what has 
been already deposited in London, an Hydriot vessel is 
in the Pyraeus to receive every portable relic. Thus, 
as I heard a young Greek observe, in common with 
, many of his countrymen — for, lost as they are, they 
! yet feel on this occasion — thus may Lord Elgin boast 
I of having ruined Athens. An Italian painter of the 



\ 



W 



} 



-^~^.^.- i^.n.. ....-■--■ :.:• 



HB^ 



448 



APPENDIX TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



first eminence, named Lusieri, is Ihe agent of devasta- 
tion ; and like the Greek finder of Verres in Sicily, 
who followed the same professioii, he has proved the 
able instrument of plunder. Between this artist and 
the French Consul Fauvel, who wishes to rescue the 
remains for his own government, there is now a vio- 
lent disiju'e concerning a car employed in iheir con- 
veyance, the wheel of which — 1 wish they were both 
broken upon it ! — has been locked up by the Consul, 
and Lusieri has laid his complaint before the Way- 
wode. Lord Elsin has been extremely happy in his 
choice of SignorLusieri. During a residence of ten 
years in Athens, he never had the curiosity to proceed 
as far as Sunium (now Cape Colonna), till he accom- 
panied us in our second excursion. However, his 
works, as far as they go, are most beautiful : but they 
are almost all unfinished. While he and his patrons 
confine tiiem-elves to tasting medals, appreciating ca- 
meos, sketching columns, and cheapening gems, iheir 
little absurdities are as harmless as insect or fox-hunt- 
ing, maiden speechifying, barouche-driving, or any 
such pastime ; but when t'liey carry away three or four 
shiploads of the most valuable and massy relics that 
time and barbarism have left to the most injured and 
most celebrated of cities ; when they destroy, in a vain 
attempt to tear down, those works which have been 
the admiration of ages, I know no motive which can 
excuse, no name which can designate, the perpetrators 
of this dastardly devistation. It was not the least of 
the crimes laid to the charge of Verres, that he had 
plundered Sicily, in the manner since imi'ated at 
Athens. The most unblushing impudence could hardly 
go farther than to affix the name of its plunderer to : 
the wails of the Acropolis; while the wanton and j 
useless defacement of Ihe whole range of the basso | 
relievos, in one compartment of the temple, will never j 
permit that name to be pronounced by an observer 
without execration. | 

On this occasion I speak impartially : I am not a I 
collector or admirer of collections, consequently no i 
rival; but I have some early prepossession in favour! 
of Greece, and do not think the honour of England j 
advanced by plunder, whether of India or Attica. | 

Another noble Lord has done belter, because he has 
done less : but some others, more or less noble, yet ' 
"all honourable men," have done best, because, after 
a deal of excavation and execration, bribery to the 
Waywode, mining and countermining, they have done 
nothing at all. We had such ink-shed, and wine-shed, \ 
which almost ended in bloodshed ! Lord E.'s *' prig" 

— see Jonathan Wild for the definition of " priggism" 

— quarrelled with another, Gropius i by name (a very 
good name too for his business), and fnuttered some- 
thing about satisfaction, in a verbal answer to a note of 
the poor Prussian : this was stated at table to Gropius, 
who laughed, but could eat no dinner afterwards. The 
rivals were not reconciled when I left Greece. I have 
reason to remember their squabble, for they wanted to 
make me their arbitrator. 



Note [B]. — ALBANIA AND THE ALBANIANS. 

"Zajid of Albania ! let me bend mine eyes 
On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men ! " 
Stanza xxxvii. lines 5 and 6. 
Albania comprises part of Macedonia. Illyria. Chao- 
nia, and Epirus. Iskander is the Turkish word for 



1 This Sr. Gropius was employed by a noble Lord for the 
sole purpose of sketching, in which he excels; but I am 
sorry to say, that he has, through the abused sanction of 
that most respectable name, been treading at humble dis- 
tance in the steps of Sr. Lusieri. — A shipful of his tro- ■ 
phies was detained, and I believe confiscated, at Conslan- | 
tinople, in 1810. I am most happy to be now enabled to 
state, that "this was not in his bond;" that he was em- 
ployed solely as a painter, and that his noble patron disa- 
vows all connexion with him. except as an artist. If the i 
error in the first and second edition of this poem has I 
given the noble Lord a moment's pain, I am very sorry for j 
it: Sr. Gropius has assumed for years the name of his 



Alexander ; and the celebrated Scanderbeg (Lord Alex- 
ander) is alluded to in the third and fourth lines of the 
thirty-eighth stanza. I do not know whether I am cor- 
rect in making Scanderbeg the countryman of Alexan- 
der, wh.o was born at Pella in Macedon, but Mr. Gib- 
bon terms him so, and adds Pyrrhus to the list, in 
speaking of his exploits. 

Of Albania Gibbon remarks, that a country " within 
sigbt^ of Italy is less known than the interior of Ame- 
rica." Circumstances, of little consequence to men- 
tion, led Mr. Plobhouse and myself into that country 
before we visited any other part of the Ottoman do'- 
minions ; and with the exception of Major Leake, 
then officially resident at Joannina, no other English- 
nien have ever advanced beyond the capital into the 
interior, as ihat gentleman very lately assured me. 
Ali Pacha was at that time (October, 1S09) carrying on 
war against Ibrahim Pacha, whom he had driven to 
Beraf, a strong fortress, which he was then besieging : 
on our arrival at Joannina we were invited to Tepa- 
leni, his highness's birthplace, and favourite Serai, 
only one day's distance from Berat; at this juncture 
the Vizier had made it his head-quarters. After some 
stay in the capital, we accoidingly followed; but 
though furnished with every accommodation, and es- 
corted by one of the Vizier's secretaries, we were 
nine days (on account of the rains) in accomplishing a 
journey which, on our return, barely occupied four. 
On our route we passed two cities, Argyrocastro and 
Libochabo, apparently little inferior to Yanina in size ; 
and no pencil or pen can ever do justice to the scenery 
in the vicinity of Zilza and Delvinachi, the frontier 
village of Epirus and Albania Proper. 

On Albania and its inhabitants I am unwilling to 
descant, because this will be done so much better by 
my fellow-traveller, in a work Which may probably 
precede this in publication, that I as little wish to fol- 
low as I would to anticipate him. But some few ob- 
servations are necessary to the text. The Arnaouts, or 
Albanese, struck me forcibly by their resemblance to 
the Highlanders of Scotland, in dress, figure, and man- 
ner of living. Their very mountains seemed Caledo- 
nian, with a kinder climate. The kilt, though white; 
the spare, ac'ive form ; their dialect, Celtic in its 
sound, and their hardy habits, all carried me back to 
Morven. No nation are so detested and dreaded by 
their neighbours as the Albanese; the Greeks hardly 
regard them as Christians, or the Turks as Moslems ; 
and in fact they are a mixture of both, and sometimes 
neither. Their habits are predatory — ^11 are armed ; 
and the red-shawled Arnaouts, the Montenegrins, Chi- 
mariots, and Gegdes, are treacherous ; the others differ 
somewhat in garb, and essentially in character. As 
far as my own experience goes, I can speak favoura- 
bly. I was attended by two, an Infidel and a Mussul- 
man, to Constantinople and every other part of Turkey 
which came within my observation ; and more faith- 
ful in peril, or indefatigable in service, are rarely to 
be found. The Infidel was named Basilius, the Mos- 
lem, Dervish Tahiri ; the former a man of middle 
age, and the latter about my own. Ba^ili was strictly 
charged by Ali Pncha in person to attend us ; and Der- 
vish was one of fifty who accompanied us through the 
forests of Acarnania to the banks of Achelous, and 
onward to Messalonghi in iEtolia. There I took him 
into my ov.n service, and never had occasion to repent 
if till the moment of my departure. 

When, in 1810, after the departureof my friend Mr. 
Hobhouse for England, I was seized with a severe 
fever in the Morea, these men saved my life by fright- 
ening away my physician, whose throat they threat- 
ened to cut if I was not cured within a given time. 
To this consolatory assurance of posthumous retribu- 
tion, and a resolute refusal of Dr. Romanelli's pre- 
scriptions, I attributed my recovery. I had left my 



agent ; and though I cannot much condemn myself for 
sharing in the mistake of so many, I am happy in being 
one of the first to be undeceived. Indeed, I have as much 
pleasure in contradicting this as I felt regret in stating it. 
— Note to third edition. 



APPENDIX TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



449 



last remaining English servant at Athens ; my drago- 
man was as ill as myself, and my poor Arnaouts nursed 
me with an attention which would have done honour 
to civilisation. They h;id a variety of adventures ,• for 
the Moslem, Dervish, being a remarkably handsome 
man, was always squabbling with the husbands of 
Athens J insomuch that four of the principil Turks 
paid me a visit of remonstrance at the Convent, on the 
subject of his having taken a woman from the b.ith — 
whom he had lawfully bought, however — a thing 
quite contrary to etiquette. Basili also was extremely 
gallant amongst his own persuasion, and had the 
greatest veneration for the church, mixed with the 
highest contempt of churchmen, whom he cuffed upon 
occasion in a most heterodox manner. Yet he never 
passed a church without crossing himself^ and I 
remember the risk he ran in entering St. Sophia, in 
Stambol, because it had once been a place of his wor- 
ship. On remonstrating with him on his inconsistent 
proceedings, he invariably answered, " Our church is 
holy, our priests are thieves;" and then he crossed 
himself as usual, and boxed the ears of the first " pa- 
pas" who refused to assist in any required operation, 
as was always found to be necessary where a priest had 
any influence with theCogia Bashi of his village. In- 
deed, a more abandoned race of miscreants cannot 
exist than the lower orders of the Greek clergy. 

When preparations were made for my return, my 
Albanians were summoned to receive their pay. Ba- 
sili took his with an awkward show of regret at my 
intended departure, and marched away to his quarters 
with his bag of piastres. I sent for Dervish, but for 
some time he was not to be found ; at last he entered, 
just as SignorLogotheti, father to the ci-devant Anglo- 
consul of Athens, and some other of my Greek ac- 
quaintances, paid me a visit. Dervish took the money, 
but on a sudden dashed it to the ground ; and clasping 
his hands, which he raised to his forehead, rushed out 
of the room weeping bitterly. From that moment to 
the hour of my embarkition, he continued his lamen- 
tations, and all our efforts to console him only pro- 
duced this answer, " ]\I' a0£ti'£t," "He leaves me." 
Signer Logotheti, who never wept before for any thing 
less than the loss of a para (nbout the fourth of a far- 
thing), melted ; the padre of the convent, my attend- 
ants, my visiters — and I verily believe that even 
Sterne's "foolish fat scullion" would have left her 
"fish-kettle'' to sympathise with the unaffected and 
unexpected sorrow of this barbarian. 

For my own part, when I remembered that, a short 
time before my departure from England, a noble and 
most intimate associate had excused himself from 
taking leave of me because he had to attend a relation 
"to a milliner's," I felt no less surprised than humili- 
ated by the present occurrence and the past recollec- 
tion. That Dervish would leave me with some regret 
was to be expected : when master and man have been 
scrambling over the moimtains of a dozen provinces 
together, they are unwilling to separate ; but his pre- 
sent feeling.s, contrasted with his native ferocity, im- 
proved my opinion of the human heart. I believe this 
almost feudal fidelity is frequent amongst them. Onej 
day, on our journey over Parnassus, an Englishman in 
my service gave him a push in some dispute about the | 
baggage, which he unluckily mistook for a blow; he' 
spoke not, but sat down leaning his head upon his 
hands. Foreseeing the consequences, we endeavoured 
to explain away the affront, which produced the fol- 
lowing answer: — "I /lave been a robber; I am a| 
soldier ; no captain ever struck me ; you are my mas- 1 
ter, I have eaten your bread, but by that bread ! (an 
usual oath) had it been otherwise, I would have stab- 1 
bed the dog your sei vani, and gone to the mountains." 
So the affair ended, but from that day forward he never 
thoroughly forgave the thoughtless fellow who insulted , 
him. Dervish excelled in the dance of his country, 1 
conjectured to be a remnant of the ancient Pyrrhic : ' 
be that as it may, it is manly, and requiies wonderful 
agility. It is very distinct from the stupid Romaika, 
the dull round-about of the Greeks, of which our 
Athenian party had so many specimens. 



The Albanians in general (I do not mean the culti- 
vators of the earth in the provinces, who have also 
that appellation, but the mountaineers) have a fine cast 
of countenance ; and the most beautiful women I ever 
beheld, in stature and in features, we saw levelling the 
road broken down by the torrents between Delvinachi 
and Libochabo. Their manner of walking is truly 
theatrical; but this strut is probably the efifect of the 
capote, or cloak, depending from one shoulder. Their 
long hair reminds you of the Spartans, and their cour- 
age in desultory warfare is unquestiontble. Though 
they have some cavalry amongst the Gegdes, I never 
saw a good Arnaout horseman ; my own preferred the 
English saddles, which, however, they could never 
keep. But on foot they are not to be subdued by 
fatigue. 



Note [C].~SPECIMEN OF THE ALBANIAN OR 
ARNAOUT DIALECT OF THE ILLYRIC. 
" While thus in concert,'^ fyc. — Stanza Ixxii. 

As a specimen of the Albanian or Arnaout dialect of 
the Illyric, I here insert two of their most popular 
choral songs, which are generally chanted in dancing 
by men or women indiscriminately. The first words 
are merely a kind of chorus without meaning, like 
some in our own and all other languages. 

Lo, Lo, I come, I come ; 
be thou silent. 



l.Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, 1. 
Naciarura, popuso. 

2. Naciarura na civin 2. 
Ha pen derini ti hin. 

3. Ha pe uderi escrotini 3. 
Ti vin ti mar servetini. 

4. Caliriote me surme 4. 
Ea ha pe pse dua live. 

5. Buo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, 5. 
Gi egem spirta esimiro. 

6. Caliriote vu le funde 6. 
Ede vete tunde tunde. 

7. Caliriote me surme 7. 
Ti mi put e poi mi le. 

8. Se ti puta citi mora 8. 
Si mi ri ui veti udo gia. 



I come, I run ; open the 
door that I may enter. 

Open the door by halves, 
that I may take my 
turbau. 

Caliriotes i with the 
dark eyes, open the 
gate that I may enter. 

Lo, Lo, I hear thee, my 
soul. 

An Arnaout girl, in cost- 
ly garb, walks with 
graceful pride. 

Caliriot maid of the dark 
eyes, give me a kiss. 

If I have kissed thee, 
what hast thou gained? 
My soul is consumed 
with fire. 

Dance lightly, more 
gently, and gently still. 

Make not so much dust 
to destroy your em- 
broidered hose. 

The last stanza would puzzle a commentator : the 
men have certainly buskins of the most beautiful tex- 
ture, but the ladies (to whom the above is supposed to 
be addressed) have nothing under their little yellow 
boots and slippers but a well-turned and sometimes 
very white ankle. The Arnaout girls are much hand- 
somer than the Greeks, and their dress is far more pic- 
turesque. They preserve their shape much longer 
also, from being always in the open air. It is to be 
observed, that the Arnaout is not a written language : 
the words of this song, therefore, as well as the one 
which follows, are spelt according to their pronuncia- 
tion. They are copied hy one who speaks and under- 
stands the dialect perfectly, and who is a native of 
Athens. 



9. Va le ni il die cadale 9. 

Celo more, more celo. 

10. Flu hari ti tirete 10, 

Plu huron cai pra seti. 



1. Ndi sefda tinde ulavossa L 
Vettimi upri vi lofsa. 



I am wounded by thy 
love, and have loved but 
to scorch myself. 



1 The Milanese, particularly the women, are frequently 
termed "Caliriotes;" for what reason I inqnired in vain. 



38* 



2.9 



450 



APPENDIX TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



2. Ah vaisisso mi privi lofse 
Si mi rini mi la vosse. 

3. Uti tasa loba stua 
Sitti eve tulati dua. 



4. Roba stinori ssidua 
Qu mi sini vetti dua. 

5. Qurmini dua civileni 
Roba ti siarmi tildi eni. 

6. Utara pisa vaisisso me si- 

mi rin ti hapti 
Eti mi bire a piste si gui 
dendroi tiltati. 

7. Udi vura udorini udiri 

cicova cilti mora 
Udorini talti hollna u ede 
caimoni mora. 



2. Thou hast consumed me! 
Ah, maid ! thou hast 
struck me to the heart. 

3. 1 have said I wish no 
dowry, but thine eyes 
and eye-lashes. 

4. The accursed dowry I 
want not, but thee only. 

5. Give me thy charms, and 
let the portion feed the 
flames. 

6. 1 have loved thee, maid, 
with a sincere soul, but 
thou hast left me like a 
withered tree. 
7. If I have placed my hand 
on thy bosom, what 
have I gained ? myhand 
is withdrawn, but re- 
tains the flame. 
I believe the two last stanzas, as they are in a differ- 
ent measure, ought to belong to another ballad. An 
idea something similar to the thought in the last lines 
was expressed by Socrates, whose arm having come in 
contact with one of his " vkokoXkloi," Critobulus or 
Cleobulus, the philosopher, complained of a shooting 
pain as far as his shoulder for some days after, and 
therefore \eTy properly resolved to teach his disciples 
in future without touching them. 



Note [D].- 



• THOUGHTS ON THE PRESENT 
STATE OF GREECE. 



" Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed worth ! 
Immortal, though no more ; though fallen, great /" 
Stanza Ixxiii. 



Before I say any thing about a city of which every 
body, traveller or not, has thought it necessary to say 
something, I will request Miss Owenson, when she 
next borrows an Athenian heroine for her four vol- 
umes, to have the goodness to marry her to somebody 
more of a gentleman than a " Disdar Aga" (who by the 
by is not an Aga), the most impolite of petty officers, 
the greatest patron of larceny Athens ever saw (ex- 
cept Lord E.), and the unworthy occupant of the 
Acropolis, on a handsome annual stipend of 150 piastres 
(eight pounds sterling), out of which he has only to 
pay his garrison, the most ill-regulated corps in the ill- 
regulated Ottoman Empire. I speak it tenderly, see- 
ing I was once the cause of the husband of " Ida of 
Athens" nearly suffering the bastinado; and because 
the said " Disdar" is a turbulent husband, and beats 
his wife ; so that I exhort and beseech Miss Owenson 
to sue for a separate maintenance in behalf of " Ida." 
Having premised thus much, on a matter of such im- 
port to the readers of romances, 1 may now leave Ida, 
to mention her birthpbce. 

Setting aside the magic of the name, and all those 
associations which it would be pedantic and superflu- 
ous to recapitulate, the very situation of Athens would 
render it the favourite of aU who have eyes for art or 
nature. The climate, to me at least, appeared a per- 
petual spring ; during eight months I never passed a 
day without being as many hours on horseback : rain 
is extremely rare, snow never lies in the plains, and a 
cloudy day is an agreeable rarity. In Spain, Portugal, 
and every pnrt of the East which I visited, except 
Ionia and Attica, I perceived no such superiority of 
climate to our own ; and at Constantinople, where I 
passed May, June, and part of July (1810), you might 
" damn the climate, and complain of spleen,'' five 
days out of seven. 

The air of the Morea is heavy and unwholesome, 
but the moment you pass the isthmus in the direction 
of Megara the change is strikingly perceptible. But 



I fear Hesiod will still be found correct in his descrip- 
tion of a BcEOtian winter. 

We found at Livadia an " esprit fort" in a Greek 
bishop, of all freethinkers ! This worthy hypocrite 
rallied his own religion with great intrepidity (but not 
before his flock), and talked of a mass as a " coglione- 
ria." It was impossible to think better of him for 
this ; but, for a Boeotian, he was bri-k with all his ab- 
surdity. This phenomenon (with the exception indeed 
of Thebes, the remains of Chaeronea, the pl.iin of Pla- 
tea, Orchomenus, Livadia, and its nominal cave of 
Trophonius) was the only remarkable thing we saw 
before we passed Mount Ciihaeron. 

The fountain of Dirce turns a mill: at least my 
companion (who, resolving to be at once cleanly and 
classical, bathed in it) pronounced it to be the fountain 
of Dirce, and any body who thinks it worth while 
I may contradict him. At Castri we drank of lialf-a- 
; dozen streamlets, some not of the purest, before we 
I decided to our satisfaction which was the true Casta- 
lian, and even that had a villanous twang, probably 
from the snow, thou£;h it did not throw us into an epic 
fever, like poor Dr. Chandler. 

From FortPhyle, of which large remains still exist, 
the Pl;iin of Athens, Pentelicus, Kymettus, theiEgean, 
and the Acropolis, burst upon the eye at once ; in my 
opinion, a more glorious prospect th.m even Cintra or 
Istambol. Not the view from the Troad, with Ida, 
the Hellespont, and the more distant Mount Athos, can 
equal it, though so superior in extent. 

I heard much of the beauty of Arcadia, but except- 
ing the view from the monastery of Mngaspelion 
(which is inferior to Zilza in a command of country), 
and the descent from the mountains on the way from 
Tripolitza to Argos, Arcadia has little to recommeod 
it beyond the name. 

" Sternitur, et dulcee moriens reminiscitur Argos." 

Virgil could have put this into the mouth of none but 
an Argive, and (wiih reverence be it spoken) it does 
not deserve the epithet. And if the Polynices of Sta- 
tins, "In mediis audit duo litora campis," did actually 
hear both shores in crossing the isthmus of Corinth, 
he had better ears than have ever been worn in such a 
journey since. 

"Athens," says a celebrated topographer, "is still 
the most polished city of Greece." Perhaps it may of 
Greece, but not of the Greeks; for Joannina in Epirus 
is universally allowed, amongst themselves, to be su- 
perior in the wealth, refinement, learning, and dialect 
of its inhabitants. The Athenians are remarkable for 
their cunning; and the lower orders are not impro- 
perly characterised in that proverb, which classes them 
with " the Jews of Salonica, and the Turks of the Ne- 
gropont." 

Among the various foreigners resident in Athens, 
French, Italians, Germans, Ragusans, &c., there was 
never a difference of opinion in their estimate of the 
Greek character, though on all other topics they dis- 
puted with great acrimony. 

M. Fauvel, the French consul, who has passed thirty 
years principally at Athens, and to whose talents as an 
artist, and manners as a gentleman, none who have 
known him can refuse their testin)ony, has frequently 
declared in my hearing, that the Greeks do not aeserve 
to be emancipated ; reasoning on the grounds of their 
" national and individual depravity !" while he forgot 
that such depravity is to be attributed to causes which 
can only be removed by the measure he reprobates. 

M. Roque, a French merchant of respectability long 
settled in Athens, asserted with the most amusing 
gravity, " Sir, they are the same canaille that existed 
in the days of Themistocles V an alarming remark to 
the " Laudator temporis acti." The ancients banished 
Themistocles; the moderns cheat Monsieur Rcque: 
thus great men hive ever been treated 1 

In short, all the Franks who are fixtures, and most 
of the Englishmen, Germans, Danes, &c. of passage, 
came over by degrees to their opinion, on much the 
same grounds'that a Turk in England would condemn 
the nation by wholesale, becauBe he was wronged 



APPENDIX TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



451 



by his lacquey, and overcharged by his washerwo- 
man. 

Certainly it was not a little staggering when the 
SieursFauvel and Lusieri, the two greatest demagogues 
of the day, who divide between them the power of 
Pericles and the popularity of Cleon, and puzzle the 
poor Waywode with perpetual difi'erences, agreed in 
the utter' condemnalion, " nulla virtute redemptum," 
of the Greelis in general, and of the Athenians in par- 
ticular. 

For my own humble opinion, I am loth to hazard it, 
knowing as I do, that there be now in MS. no less 
than five tours of the first magnitude and of the most 
threatening aspect, all in typographical array, by per- 
sons of wit, and honour, and regular common-place 
books : but, if I may say this witiiout oflence, it seems 
to me rather hard to declare so positively and pertina- 
ciously, as almost every body has declared, that the 
Greeks, because they are very bad, will never be 
better. 

Eton and Sonnini have led us astray by their pane- 
gyrics and projects ; but, on the other hand, De Pauw 
and Thornton have debased the Greeks beyond their 
demerits. 

The Greeks will never be independent ; they will 
never be sovereigns as heretofore, and God forbid they 
ever should ! but they may be subjects without being 
slaves. Our colonies are not independent, but they are 
free and industrious, and such may Greece be here- 
after. 

At present, like the Catholics of Ireland and the 
Jews throughout the world, and such other cudgelled 
and heterodox people, they sutler all the moral and 
physical ills that can afflict humanity. Their life is a 
struggle against truth ; they are vicious in their own 
defence. They are so unused to kindness, that when 
they occasional-jy meet with it they look ujjon it with 
suspicion, as a dog often beaten snaps at your fingers if 
you attempt to caress him. "They are ungrateful, 
notoriously, abominably ungrateful !" — this is the gene- 
ral cry. Now, in the name of Nemesis ! for what are 
they to be grateful ? Where is the human being that 
ever conferred a benefit on Greek or Greeks ? They 
are to be grateful to the Turks for their fetters, and to 
the Franks for their broken promises and lying coun- 
sels. They are to be grateful to the artist who en- 
graves their ruins, and to the antiquary who carries 
them away ; to the traveller whose janissary flogs 
them, and to the scribbler whose journal abuses them ! 
This is the amount of their obligations to foreigners. 
II. 
Franciscan Convent, Alliens, Jan. 23, 1811. 

Amongst the remnants of the barbarous policy of 
the earlier ages, are the traces of bondage which yet 
exist in different countries ; whose inhabitants, howe- 
ver divided in religion and manners, almost all agree 
in oppression. 

The English have at last compassionated their ne- 
groes, and under a less bigoted government, may pro- 
bably one day release their Catholic brethren : but the 
interposition of foreigners alone can emancipate the 
Greeks, who, otherwise, appear to have as small a 
chance of redemption from the Turks, as the Jews 
have from mankind in general. 

Of the ancient Greeks we know more than enough ; 
at least the younger men of Europe devote much of 
their time to the study of the Greek writers and his- 
tory, which would be more usefully spent in mastering 
their own. Of the moderns, we are perliaps more 
neglectful than they deserve ; and while every man 
of any pretensions to learning is tiring out his youth, 
and often his age. in the study of the language and of 
the harangues of the Athenian demagogues in favour 
of freedon), the real or sujiposed descendants of these 
sturdy republicans are lef( to the actual tyranny of 
their masters, although a very slight eflbrt is required 
to strike off their chains. 

To talk, as the Greeks themselves do, of their rising 
again to their pristine superiority, would l)e ridiculous : 
as the rest of the world must resume its barbarism, 



after reasserting the sovereignty of Greece : but there 
seems to be no very great obstacle, except in the apa- 
thy of the Franks, to their becoming an useful depend- 
ency, or even a free state wi;h a proper guarantee ; — 
under correction, however, be it spoken, for many and 
well-informed men doubt the practicability even of 
this. 

The Greeks have never lost their hope, though they 
are now more divided in opinion on the subject of 
their probable deliverers. Religion recommends the 
Russians; but they have twice been deceived and 
abandoned by that power, and the dreadful lesson they 
received after the Muscovite desertion in the Morea 
has never been forgotten. The French they dislike ; 
although the subjugation of the rest of Europe will, 
probably, be attended by the deliverance of continental 
Greece, The islanders look to the English for su»- 
cour, as they have very lately possessed Ihemselves of 
the Ionian republic, Corfu excepted. But whoever 
appear with arms in their hands will be welcome ; 
and when that day arrives. Heaven have mercy on the 
Ottomans, they cannot expect it from the Giaours. 

But instead of considering what they have been, and 
speculating on what they may be, let 'us look at them 
as they are. 

And here it is impossible to reconcile the contrariety 
of opinions : some, particularly the merchants, decry- 
ing tiie Greeks in the strongest language ; others, ge- 
nerally travellers, turning periods in their eulogy, and 
publishing very curious speculations grafted on their 
former state, which can have no more effect on their 
present lot, than the existence of the Incas on the 
future fortunes of Feru. 

One very ingenious person terms them the " natural 
allies of Englishmen ; " another, no less ingenious, 
will not allow them to be the allies of anybody, and 
denies their very descent from the ancients; a third, 
more ingenious than either, builds a Greek empire on 
a Russian foundation, and realises (on paper) all the 
chimeras of Catharine II. As to the question of their 
descent, what can it import whether the Mainotes are 
the lineal Laconians or not ? or the present Athenians 
as indigenous as the bees of Hymettus, or as the grass- 
hoppers, lO which they once likened themselves? 
What Englishman cares if he be of a Danish, Saxon, 
Norman, or Trojan blood ? or who, except a Welsh- 
man, is afflicted with a desire of being descended from 
Caractacus ? 

The poor Greeks do not so much abound in the good 
things of this wwrld, as to render even their claims to 
antiquity an object of envy ; it is very cruel, then, in 
Mr. Thornton to disturb them in the possession of all 
that time has left them ; viz. their pedigree, of which 
they are the more tenacious, as it is all they can call 
their own. It would be worth while to publish toge- 
ther, and compare, the works of Messrs. Thornton and 
De Pauw, Eton and Sonnini ; paradox on one side, and 
prejudice on the other. Mr. Thornton conceives him- 
self to have claims to public confidence from a four- 
teen years' residence at Pera ; perhaps he may on the 
subject of the Turks, but this can give him no more 
insight into the real state of Greece and her inhabit- 
ants, than as many years spent in Wapping into that of 
the Western Highlands. 

The Greeks of Constantinople live in Fanal ; and if 
Mr. Thornton did not oftener cross the Golden Horn 
than his brother merchants are accustomed to do, I 
should place no great reliance on his information. I 
actually heard one of these gentlemen boast of their 
little general intercourse with the city, and assert of 
himself, with an air of triumph, that he had been but 
four times at Constantinople in as many years. 

As to Mr. Thornton's voyages in the" Black Sea with 
Greek vessels, they gave him the same idea of Greece 
as a cruise to Berwick in a Scotch smack would of 
Johnny Grot's house. Upon what grounds then does 
he arrogate the right of condemning by wholesale a 
body of men, of whom he can know little? It is 
rather a curious circumstance that Mr. Thornton, who 
so lavishly dispraises Pouqueville on every occasion of 
mentioning the Turks, has yet recourse to bim as 



452 



APPENDIX TO CHILDE HAROLD 



authority on the Greeks, and terms him an imparti 1 
observer. Now, Dr. Pouqueville is as little entitled 
to that appellation, as Mr. Thornton to confer it on 
him. 

The fnct is, we are deplorably in want of informa- 
tion on the subject of the Greeks, and in particular 
their literature; nor is there any probal^ility of our 
being better acquainted, till our intercourse becomes 
more intimate, or their independence conlirmed : the 
relations of passing travellers are as liitle to be de- 
pended on as the invectives of angry factors; but till 
something more can be attained, we must be content 
with the little to be acquired from similar sources.^ 

However defective these may be, they are prefera- 
ble to the paradoxes of men who have read superfi- 
cially of the ancients, and seen nothing of the mo- 
derns, such as De Pauw ; who, when he asserts that 
the British breed of horses is ruined by Newmarket, 
and that the Spartans were cowards in the field, be- 
trays an equal knowledge of English horses and Spar- 
tan men. His "philosophical observations" have a 
much better claim to the title of " poetical." It could 
not be expected that he who so liberally condemns 
some of the most celebrated institutions of theancieiit, 
should have mercy on the modern Greeks ; and it for- 
tunately happens, that the absurdity of his hypothesis 
on their forefathers refutes his sentence on themselves. 

Let us trust, then, that, in spite of the prophecies of 
De Pauw, and the doubts of Mr. Thornton, there is a 
reasonable hope of the redemption of a race of men, 
who, whatever may be the errors of their religion and 
policy, have been amply punished by three centuries 
and a half of captivity. 

III. 

Athens, Franciscan Convent, March 17, 1811. 
"I must have some talk with this learned Theban." 
Some time after my return from Constantinople to 
this city, I received the thirty-first number of the Edin- 
burgh Review as a great favour, and certainly at this 
distance an acceptable one, from the captain of an 
English frigate otf Salamis. In that number. Art. 3., 
containing the review of a French translation of Strabo, 
there are introduced some remarks on the modern 
Greeks and their literature, with a short account of 
Coray, a co-translator in the French version. On those 
remarks I mean to ground a few observations ; and the 
spot where I now write will, I hope, be sufficient ex- 
cuse for introducing them in a work in some degree 
connected with the subject. Coray, the most cele- 



1 A word, en passant, with Mr. Thornton and Dr. 
Pouqueville, who have been guilty between them of sadly 
clipping the Sultan'8 Turkish. 

Dr. Pouqueville tells a long story of a Moslem who 
swallowed corrosive sublimate in such quantities that he 
acquired the name of " SuleymanYeyen," i. e. quoth the 
Doctor, " Suleyman, the eater of corrosive sublimate." 
"Aha," thinks Mr. Thornton, (angry with the Doctor for 
the fiftieth time.) " have I caught you?" — Then, in a 
note twice the thickness of the Doctor's anecdote, he 
questions the Doctor's proficiency in the Turkish tongue, 
and his veracity in his own.—" For," observes Mr. Thorn- 
ton (after inflicting onus the tough participle of a Turkish 
verb), " it means nothing more than Svleyman, the eater," 
and quite cashiers the supplementary " sublimate." Now 
both are right, and both are wrong. If Mr. Thornton, 
when he next resides " fourteen years in the factory," 
will consult his Turkish dictionary, or ask any of his 
Stamboline acquaintance, he will discover that " Suley- 
ma'n yeyen," put together discreetly, mean the " Steal- 
lower of sublimate," without any " Suleyman" in the 
case: " SuZej/mo" signifying "corrosive sublimate," avi 
not being a proper name on this occasion, although it be 
an orthodox name enough with the addition of n. After 
Mr. Thornton's frequent hints of profound Orientalism, 
he might have found this out before he sang such peans 
over Dr. Pouqueville. 

After this, I ihink "Travellers versus Factors" shall 
be our motto, though the above Mr. Thornton has con- 
demned "hoc genus omne," for mistake and misrepresent- 
ation. " NeSutor ultra crepidam," " No merchant beyond 
his bales." N. B. For the benefit of Mr. Thornton, " Su- 
tor" is not a proper name. 



brated of living Greeks, at least among the Franks, 
was born at Scio (in the Review, Smyrna is s'ated, I 
have reason to think incorrectly), and besides the 
tianslation of Beccaria and other works mentioned by 
the Reviewer, has published a lexicon in Romaic and 
French, if I may trust the assurance of bonie D tuish 
travellers lately arrived from Paris ; but the la'est we 
have seen here in French and Greek is that of Gregory 
Zolikogloou.2 Coray has recently been involved in an 
unpleasant controversy wi!h M. Gail,3 a Parisian com- 
menator and editor of some translations from the 
Greek poets, in consequence of the Institute having 
awarded him the prize for his version of Hippocrates 
"Iltpt vdarov," &.C. to the di-paragement, and con- 
sequently displeasure, of the said Gafl. To his exer- 
tions, literary and patriotic, great praise is undoubtedly 
due ; but a part of that praise ought not to be with- 
held from the two brothers Zosimado (merchants settled 
in Leghorn), who sent him to Paris, and main'aiued 
him, for the express purpose of elucidating the ancient, 
and adding to the modern, researches of his country- 
men. Coray, however, is not considered by his coun- 
trymen equal to some who lived in the two last centu- 
ries ; more particularly Doiotheus of Mitylene, whose 
Hellenic writings are so much esteemed by the Greeks, 
thatMeletius terms him " Meto, tov QovuvSiCiyu Kal 
a^vodMVTa apio-Tos 'EXXi]v<x)V.'' (P. 224. Ecclesias- 
tical History, vol. iv.) 

Panasiotes Kodrikas, the translator of Fontenelle, 
and K;imarases, who translated Ocellus Lucanus on 
the Universe into French, Christodoulus, and more 
particularly Psalidi, whom I have conversed with in 
Joannina, are also in high repute among their literati. 
The last-mentioned has published in Romaic and Latin 
a work on " True Happiness," dedicated to Catherine 
II. But Polyzois, who is stated by the Reviewer to be 
the only modern except Coray who has distinguished 
himself by a knowledge of Hellenic, if he be the Po- 
lyzoi? Lanipanitziotes of Yanina, who has published a 
number of editions in Romaic, was neither more nor 
less than an itinerant vender of books ; with the con- 
tents of which he had no concern beyond his name on 
the title page, placed there to secure his property in 
the publicition ; and he was, moreover, a man utterly 
destitute of scholastic acquirements. As the name, 
however, is not uncommon, some other Polyzois may 
have edited the Epistles of Aristasnetus. 

It is to be rea^retted thit the system of continental 
blockade has closed the few channels through which 
the Greeks received their publications, particularly 
Venice and Trieste. Even the common grammars for 
children are become too dear for the lower orders. 
Amongst their original works the Geography of Me- 
letius. Archbishop of Athens, and a multitude of theo- 
logical quartos and poetical pamphlets, are to be met 
wi:h ; their grammars and lexicons of two, three, and 
four languages are numerous and excellent. Their 
poetry is in rhyme. The most singular piece I have 
lately seen is a satire in dialogue between a Russian, 
English, and French traveller, and the Waywode of 
Wallachia (or Elack-bey, as they term him)^ an arch- 
bishop, a merchant, and Cogia Bachi (or primate), in 
succession ; to all of whom under the Turks the writer 
attributes their present degeneracy. Their songs are 
sometimes pretty and pathetic, but their tunes gene- 
rally unpleasing to the ear of a Frank ; the best is the 
famous " Aevte naZdes rwv 'EAA^vcoi','' by the un- 
fortunate Riga. But from a catalogue of more than 



2 I have in my possession an excellent lexicon "rpty- 
Xw(ro"ov," which I received in exchange from S. G~, 
Esq. for a small gem : my antiquarian friends have never 
forgotten it, or forgiven me. 

3 In Gail's pamphlet against Coray, he talks of " throw- 
ing the insolent Hellenist out of the windows." On this 
a French critic exclaims, "Ah, my God! throw an Hel- 
lenist out of the window I what sacrilege I " It certainly 
would be a seiious business for those authors who dwell 
in the attics : but I have quoted the passage merely to 
prove the similarity of style among the controversialists 
of all polished countries ; London or Edinburgh could 
hardly parallel this Parisian ebullition. 



APPENDIX TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



453 



sixty authors, now before me, only fifteen can be 
found who have touched on any theme except theo- 
logy. 

I am intrusted with a commission by a Greek of 
Athens named Marmarotouri to maise arrangements, 
if possible, for printing in London a translation of Bar- 
thelenii's Anachaisis in Romaic, as he has no other 
opportunity, unless he despatches the MS. to Vienna 
by the Black Sea and Danube. 

The Reviewer mentions a school established at He- 
catonesi, and suppressed at the instigation of Sebas- 
tiani : he means Cidonies, or, in Turkish, Haivali ; a 
town on the continent, where that institution for a 
hundred students and three professors still exists. It is 
true that this establishment was disturbed by the Porte, 
under the ridiculous pretext that the Greeks were con- 
structing a fortress instead of a college : but on inves- 
tigation, and the payment of some purses to the Divan, 
it has been permitted to continue. The principal pro- 
fessor, named Ueniamin (i. e. Benjamin), is slated to 
be a man of talent, but a freethinker. He was born in 
Lesbos, studied in Italy, and is master of Hellenic, 
Latin, and some Frank languages j besides a smatter- 
ing of the sciences. 

Though it is not my intention to enter farther on this 
topic than may allude to the article in question, I can- 
not but observe that the Reviewer's lamentation over 
the fall of the Greeks appears singular, when he closes 
it with these words : " The change is to be attributed 
to their misfortunes rather than to any ' physical de- 
gradation.'^^ It may be true that the "Greeks are not 
physically degenerated, and that Constantinople con- 
tained on the dny when it changed masters as many 
men of six feet and upwards as in the hour of pros- 
perity ; but ancient history and modern politics instruct 
us that something more than physical perfection is ne- 
cessary to preserve a state in vigour and independence; 
and the Greeks, in particular, are a melancholy ex- 
ample of the near connexion between moral degrada- 
tion and national decay. 

The Reviewer mentions a plan " we believe'' by Po- 
temkin for the purification of the Romaic ; and I have 
endeavoured in vain to procure any tidings or traces of 
its existence. There was an academy in St. Peters- 
burg for the Greeks; but it was suppressed by Paul, 
and has not been revived by his successor. 

There is a slip of the pen, and ifcan only be a slip 
of the pen, in p. 58. No. 31. of the Edinburgh Review, 
where these words occur : — " We are told that when 
the capital of the East yielded to Solyman'^— It may 
be presumed that this last word will, in a future edi- 
tion, be altered to Mahomet II. i The " ladies of Con- 
stantinople," it seems, at that period spoke a dialect, 
" which would not have disgraced the lips of an Athe- 
nian." I do not know how that might be, but am sorry 
to say the ladies in general, and the Athenians in par- 
ticular, are much altered ; being far from choice either 
in their dialect or expressions, as the whole Attic race 
are barbarous to a proverb : — 



1 In a former number of the Edinburgh Review, 1608, 
it is observed : " Lord Byron passed some of his early 
years in Scotland, where he might have learned that pi- 
broch does not mean a bagpipe, a.ny more than duet means 
a fiddle." Query,— Was it in Scotland that the young 
gentlemen of the Edinburgh Review learned that Soly- 
man means Mahomet II. any more than criticism means 
infaUibility ? — hui thus it is, 

" Cedimus inque vicem prebemus crura sagittis." 
The mistake seemed so completely a lapse of the pen (from 
the great similarity of the two words, and the total ab- 
sence of error from the former pages of the literary levi- 
athan) that I should have passed it over as in the text, 
had 1 not perceived in the Edinburgh Review much face- 
tious exultation on all such detections, particularly a 
recent one, where words and syllables are subjei ts of dis- 
quisition, and transposition; and the above-mentioned 
parallel passage in my own case irresistibly propelled me 
to hint how much easier it is to be critical than correct. 
The gentlemen, having enjoyed many a triumph on such 
victories, will hardly begrudge me a slight ovation for the 
present. 



" i2 AQi-jva, Ttgorrj X(JiQa, 

Tt yai.6aQ0vs rps^fts rcopa." 

In Gibbon, vol. x. p. 161. is the following sentence:— 
" The vulgar dialect of the city was gross and barba- 
rous, though the compositions of the church and pal- 
ace sometimes affected to copy the purity of the Attic 
models." Whatever may be asserted on the subject, 
it is difficult to conceive that the ''ladies of Constanti- 
nople," in the reign of the last Csesar, spoke a purer 
di ilect than Anna Comnena wrote three centuries be- 
fore : and those royal pages are not esteemed the best 
models of composition, although the princess yAwrTav 
sLx^y AKPIBi2E ArTLKiifOVQav. In the Fanal, 
and in Yanina, the best Greek is spoken : in the latter 
there is a flourishing school under the direction of 
Psalida. 

There is now in Athens a pupil of Psalida's, who 
is making a tour of observation through Greece : he is 
intelligent, and better educated than a fellow-com- 
moner of most colleges. I mention this as a proof that 
the spirit of inquiry is not dormant among the Greeks. 

The Reviewer mentions Mr. Wright, the author of 
the beautiful poem " Horae lonicae," as qualified to give 
details of these nominal Romans and degenerate 
Greeks ; and also of their language : but Mr. Wright, 
though a good poet and an able man, has made a mis- 
take where he slates the Albanian dialect of the Ro- 
maic to approximate nearest to the Hellenic; for the 
Albanians speak a Romaic as notoriously corrupt as 
the Scotch of Aberdeenshire, or the Italian of Naples. 
Yanina, (where, next to the Fanal, the Greek is purest,) 
although the capital of Ali Pacha's dominions, is not 
in Albania but Epirus ; and beyond Delvinachi in Al- 
bania Proper up to Argyrocastro and Tepaleen (beyond 
which I did not advance) they speak worse Greek 
than even the Athenians. I was attended for a year 
and a half by two of these singular mountaineers, 
whose mother tongue is lllyric, and I never heard 
them or their countrymen (whom I have seen, not only 
at home, but to the amount of twenty thousand in the 
army of Vely Pacha) praised for their Greek, but often 
laughed at for their provincial barbarisms. 

I have in my possession about twenty-five letters, 
amongst which some from the Bey of Corinth, written 
to me by Notaras, the Cogia Bachi, and others by the 
dragoman of the Caimacam of the Morea (which last 
governs in Vely Pacha's ab^ence), are said to be favour- 
able specimens of their epistolary style. I also received 
some at Constantinople from private persons, written 
in a most hyperbolical style, but in the true antique 
character. 

The Reviewer proceeds, after some remarks on the 
tongue in its past and present state, to a paradox (page 
59.) on the great mischief the knowledge of his own 
language has done to Coray, who, it seems, is less 
likely to undei stand the ancient Greek, because he is 
perfect master of the modern ! This observation fol- 
lows a paragraph, recommending, in explicit terms, 
the study of the Romaic, as " a powerful auxiliary," 
not only to the traveller and foreign merchant, but also 
to the classical scholar; in siiort to every body except 
the only person who c.^n be thoroughly acquainted 
with its uses ; and by a parity of reasoning, our old 
language is conjectured to be probably more attainable 
by " foreigners" than by ourselves ! Now, I am in- 
clined to think, that a Dutch Tyro in our tongue (albeit 
himself of Saxon blood) would be sadly perplexed 
wiih '' Sir Tristrem,'' or any other given "Auchin- 
leck MS," with or without a grammar or glossary ; 
and to most apprehensions it seems evident, that none 
but a native can acquire a competent, far less complete, 
knowledge of our obsolete idioms. We may give the 
critic credit for his ingenuity, but no more believe him 
than we do Smollett's Lismaliago, who maintains that 
the purest Er:glish is spoken in Edinburgh. That Co- 
ray may err is very possible; but if he does, the fault 
is in the man rather than in his mother tongue, which 
is, as it ought to be, of the greatest aid to the native 
student.— "Here the Reviewer proceeds to business on 
Strabo's translators, and here I close my remarks. 



454 



APPENDIX TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



Sir W. Drummond, Mr. Hamilton, Lord Aberdeen, 
Dr. Clarke, Cap:ain Leake, Mr. Gell, Mr. Walpole, 
and many others now in England, have all the requi- 
sites to furnish details of this fallen people. The few 
observations I have offered I should have left where I 
made them, had not the article in question, and above 
all the spot where I read it, induced me to advert to 
those pages, which the advantage of my present situa- 
tion enabled me to clear, or at least to make the at- 
tempt. 

I have endeavoured to veaive the personal feelings, 
which rise in despite of me in touching upon any part 
of the Edinburgh Review ; not from a wish to conci- 
liate the favour of its writers, or to cancel the remem- 
brance of a syllable I have formerly published, but 
simply from a sense of the impropriety of mixing up 
private resentments with a disquisition of the present 
kind, and more particularly at this distance of time 
and place. 



Note [E]. — ON THE PRESENT STATE OF 
TURKEY AND THE TURKS. 

The difficulties of travelling in Turkey have been 
much exaggerated, or rather have considerably dimin- 
ished, of late years. The Mussulmans have been 
beaten into a kind of sullen civility, very comfortable 
to voyagers. 

It is hazardous to say much on the subject of Turks 
and Turkey ; since it is possible to live amongst them 
twenty years without acquiring information, at least 
from themselves. As far as my own slight experience 
carried me, I have no complaint to make ; but am in- 
debted for many civilities (I might almost say for 
friendship), and much hospitality, to Ali Pacha, his s >n 
Veli Pacha of the Morea, and several others of high 
rank in the provinces. Suleyman Aga, laie Governor 
of Athens, and now of Thebes, was a bon vivant, and 
as social a being as ever sat cross-legged at a tray or a 
table. During the carnival, when our English party 
were masquerading, both himself and his successor 
were more happy to " receive masks" than any dow- 
ager in Grosvenor-square. 

On one occasion of his supping at the convent, his 
friend and visiter, the Cadi of Thebes, was carried 
from table perfectly qualified for any club in Christen- 
dom ; while the worthy Way wode himself triumphed 
in his fall. 

In all money transactions with the Moslems, I ever 
found the strictest honour, the highest disinterested- 
ness. In transacting business with them, there are 
none of those dirty peculations, under the name of in- 
terest, difference of exchange, conimis5ion, &c. &c. 
uniformly found in applying to a Greek consul to cash 
bills, even on the first hou-es in Pera, 

With regard to presents, an established custom in 
the East, you will rarely find yourself a loser; as one 
worth acceptance is generally returned by another of 
similar value— a horse, or a shiwl. 

In the capital and at court the citizens and courtiers 
are formed in the same school with those of Chris- 
tianity ; but there does not exist a more honourable, 
friendly, and high-spirited character than the true 
Turkish provincial Aga, or Moslem country gentle- 
man. It is not meant here to designate the governors 
of towns, but those Agas who, by a kind of feudal 
tenure, possess lands and houses, of more or less ex- 
tent, in Greece and Asia Minor. 

The lower orders are in as tolerable discipline as the 
rabble in countries with greater pretensions to civilisa- 
tion. A Moslem, in walking the streets of our coun- 
try-towns, would be more incommoded in England 
than a Frank in a similar situation in Turkey. Regi- 
mentals are the best (ravelling dress. 

The best accounts of the religion and different sects 
of Islamism, may be found in D'Ohsson's French ; of 
their manners, &c. perhaps in Thornton's English. 
The Ottomans, with all their defects, are not a people 
to be despised. Equal, at least, to the Spaniards, they 
are superior to the Portuguese. If it be difficult to 



pronounce what they are, we can at least say what 
they are net ; they are not treacherous, they are not 
cowardly, they do not burn heretics, they are not as- 
sassins, nor has an enemy advanced to their capital. 
They are faithful to their sultan till he becomes unfit 
to govern, and devout to their God without an inqui- 
sition. Were they driven from St. Sophia to-morrow, 
and the French or Russians enthroned in their stead, 
it would become a question whether Europe would 
gain by the exchange? England would certainly be 
the loser. 

With regard to that ignorance of which they are so 
generally, and sometimes justly accused, it may be 
doubted, always excepting France and England, in 
what useful points of know^ledge they are excelled by 
other nations. Is it in the coniimon arts of life ? In 
their manufactures ? Is a Turkish sabre inferior to a 
Toledo ? or is a Turk worse clothed or lodged, or fed 
and taught, than a Spaniard ? Are their Pachas worse 
educated than a Grandee? or anEflei.di than a Knight 
ofSt.Jago? I think not. 

I remember Mahmout, the grandson of Ali Pacha, 
asking whether my fellow-traveller and myself were 
in the upper or lower House of Parliament. Now, 
this question from a boy of ten years old proved that 
his education had not been neglected. It may be 
doubted if an English boy at that age knows the differ- 
ence of the Divan from a College of Dervises ; but I 
am very sure a Spaniard does not. How little Mah- 
mout, surrounded, as he had been, entirely by his 
Turkish tutors, had learned that there vvr.s such a thing 
as a Parliament, it were useless to conjecture, unless 
w-e suppose that his instructors did not confine his stu- 
dies to the Koran. 

In all the mosques there are schools established, 
which are very regularly attended ; and the poor are 
tauo;ht without the church of Turkey being put into 
peril. I believe the system is not yet printed (though 
there is such a thing as a Turkish press, and books 
printed on the late military institution of the Nizam 
Gedidd) ; nor have I heard whether the Mufti and the 
Mollas have subscribed, or the Caimacam and the 
Tefterdar taken the alarm, for fear the ingenuous youth 
of the turban should be taught not to " pray to God 
their way." The Greeks also— a kind of Eastern Irish 
papists — have a college of their own at Maynooth, — 
no, at Haivali ; where the heterodox receive much the 
same kind of countenance from the Ottoman as the 
Catholic college from the English legislature. Who 
shall then affirm that the Turks are ignorant bigots, 
when they thus evince the exact proportion of Chris- 
tian charity which is tolerated in the most prosperous 
and orthodox of all possible kingdoms ? But though 
they allow all this, they will not suffer the Greeks to 
participate in their privileges: no, let them fight their 
battles, and pay their haratch (taxes), be drubbed in 
this world, and damned in the next. And shall we 
then emancipate our Irish Helots? Mahomet foibid ! 
We should then be bad Mussulmans, and worse Chris- 
tians : at present we unite the best of both — Jesuitical 
faith, and something not much inferior to Turkish 
toleration. 



NOTES TO CANTO III. 

Note [F]. 
" Not vainly did the early Persian make 
His altar the high places and the peak 
Of earth-o^ergazing mountainSy <^c." 
Stanza xci. 

It is to be recollected, that the most beiutiful and 
impressive doctrines of the divine Founder of Chris- 
tianity were delivered, not in the Temple, but on the 
Mount. To waive the question of devotion, and turn 
to human eloquence, — the most effectual and splendid 
specimens were not pronounced within walls. De- 
mosthenes addressed the public and popular assem- 
blies. Cicero spoke in the forum. That this added to 



APPENDIX TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



455 



their effect on the mind of both orator and hearers, 
may be conceived from the difference between what 
we read of the emotions then and there produced, and 
those we ourselves experience in the perusal in the 
closet. It is one thing to re^id the Iliad at Sigaeuni 
and on the tumuli, or by the springs with Mount Ida 
above, and the plain and rivers and Archipelago around 

fou ; and another to trim your t?per over it in a snug 
ibrary— (/lis I know, were the early and rapid pro- 
gress of what is called Methodism to be attributed to 
any cause beyond the enthusiasm excited by its vehe- 
ment faith and doctrines (the truth or error of which I 
presume neither to canvass nor to question), I should 
venture to ascribe it to the practice of preaching in the 
fields, and the unstudied and extemporaneous effusions 
of its teachers. — The Mussulmans, whose erroneous 
devotion (at least in the lower orders) is most sincere, 
and therefore impressive, are accustomed to repeat 
their prescribed orisons and prayers, wherever they 
may be. at the stated hours— of course, frequently in 
the open air, kneeling upon a light mat (which they 
carry for the purpose of a bed or cushion as required) ; 
the ceremony lasts some minutes, during which they 
are totally absorbed, and only living in their supplica- 
tion : nothing can disturb them. On me the simple 
and entire sincerity of these men, and the spirit which 
appeared to be within and upon them, made a far 
greater impression than any general rite which was 
ever performed in places of worship, of which I have 
seen those of almost every persuision under the sun ; 
including most of our own sectaries, and the Greek, 
the Catholic, the Armenian, the Lutheran, the Jewish, 
and the Mahometan. Many of the negroes, of whom 
there are numbers in the Turkish empire, are idolaters, 
and have free exercise of their belief and its rites : 
some of these 1 had a distant view of at Patras; and, 
from what I could make out of them, they appeared to 
be of a truly Pagan description, and not very agreeable 
to a spectator. 



Note [G]. 

" Clarens 1 by heavenly feet thy paths are trod, — 
Undying Love's, who here ascends a throne 
To which the steps are mountains ; where the god 
Is a pervading life and light," ^-c. — Stanza c. 
Rousseau's Heloise, Lettre 17, part 4, note. " Ces 
monfagnes sont si hautes qu'une denii-heure apres le 
soleil couche, leurs sommels sont eclaires de ses ray- 
ons ; dont le rouge forme sur ces cimes blanches une 
belle coideur de rose, qu'on apercoit de fort loin." — 
This applies more particularly to the heights over Meil- 
lerie. — '' J'allai a Vevay loger a la Clef, et pendant 
deux jours que j'y restai sans voir personne, je pris 
pour cette ville un amour qui m'a suivi dans tous mes 
voyages, et qui m'y a fait etablir enfin les heros de mon 
roman. Je dirais volontiers a ceux qui ont du gout et 
qui sont sensibles : Allez a Vevay — visitez le pays, ex- 
aminez les sites, promenez-vous sur le lac, et dites si la 
Nature n'a pas fait ce beau pays pour une Julie, pour 
une Claire, et pour un St. Preux ; mais ne les y cher- 
chez pas." — Les Confessions, livre iv. p. 306. Lyon 
ed. 1796.— In July, 1816, 1 made a voyage round the 
Lake of Geneva ; and, as far as my own observations 
have led me in a not uninterested nor inattentive sur- 
vey of all the scenes most celebrated by Rousseau in 
his "Heloise," I can safely say, that in tjfiis there is no 
exaggeration. It would be difficult to see Clarens 
(with the scenes around it, Vevay, Chiilon, Boveret, 
St.Gingo, Meiilerie, Eivan, and the entrances of the 
Rhone) wiUiout being forcibly struck with its peculiar 
adaptation to the persons and events with which it has 



condensed, but not less manifested ; and of which, 
I though knowing ourselves a part, we lose our indi- 
\ viduality, and mingle in the beauty of the whole. — If 
' Rousseau had never written, nor lived, the same asso- 
ciations would not less have belonged to such scenes. 
He his added to the interest of his works by their 
adoption ; he has shown his sense of their beauty by 
the selection ; but they have done that for him which 
no human being could do for them. — I had the fortune 
(good or evil as it might be) to sail from Meiilerie 
(where we landed for some time) to St. Gingo during 
a lake storm, which added to the magnificence of all 
around, although occasionally accompanied by danger 
to the boat, which was sn)all and overloaded. It was 
over this very part of the lake that Rousseau has 
driven the boat of St. Preux and Madame Wolmar to 
Meiilerie for shelter during a tempest. On gaining the 
shore at St. Gingo, I found that the wind had been suf- 
' ficiently strong to blow down some fine old chestnut 
trees on the lower part of the mountains. On the op- 
posite height of Clarens is a chateau. The hills are 
covered with vineyards, and interspersed with some 
small but beautiful woods; one of these was named 
the " Bosquet de Julie ;" and it is remarkable that, 
though long ago cut down by the brutal selfishness of 
the monks of St. Bernard (to whom the land apper- 
tained), that the ground might be enclosed into a vine- 
yard for the miierable drones of an execrable super- 
stition, the inhabitants of Clarens still point out the 
spot where its trees stood, calling it by the name which 
consecrated and survived them. Rousseau has not 
been particularly fortunate in the preservation of the 
"local habitations" he has given to " airy nothings." 
The Prior of Great St. Bernard has cut down some of 
his woods for the sake of a few casks of wine, and 
Buonaparte has levelled part of the rocks of Meiilerie 
in improving the road to the Simplon. The road is 
an excellent one ; but I cannot quite agree with the 
remark which I heard made, that " La route vaut 
mieux que les souvenirs.'' 



been peopled. But this is not all : the feeling with | 
which all around Clarens, and the opposite rocks of 
Meiilerie, is invested, is of a still higher and more 
comprehensive order than the mere sympathy with in- 
dividual passion ; it is a sense of the existence of love 
in its most extended and sublime capacity, and of our 
own participation of its good and of its glory : it is the 
great principle of the universe, which is there more 



HISTORICAL NOTES TO CANTO IV. 

No I.— STATE DUNGEONS OF VENICE. 

" / stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs ; 
JL palace and a prison on each hand."— SlsLOza. i. 

The communication between the ducal palace and 
the prisons of Venice is by a gloomy bridge, or covered 
gallery, high above the water, and divided by a stone 
wall into a passage and a cell. The state dungeons, 
called pozzi, or wells, were sunk in the thick walls of 
the })alace ; and the prisoner when taken out to die 
was conducted across the gallery to the other side, and 
being then led back into the other compartment, or 
cell, upon the bridge, was there strangled. The low 
portal through which the criminal was taken into this 
cell is now 'walled up; but the passage is still open, 
and is still known by the name of the Bridge of Sighs. 
The poz/i are under the flooring of the chamber at the 
foot of (he bridge. They were formerly twelve ; but 
on the first arrival of the French, the Venetians hastily 
blocked or broke up the deeper of these dungeons. 
You may still, however, descend by a trap-door, and 
crawl down through holes, half choked by rubbish, to 
the depth of two stories below the first range. If you 
are in want of consolation for the extinction of patri- 
cian power, perhaps you may find it there ; scarcely a 
ray of light glimmers into the narrow gallery which 
leads to the cells, and the places of confinement them- 
selves are totally dark. A small hole in the wall ad- 
mitted the damp air of the passages, and served for the 
introduction of the prisoner's food. A wooden pallet, 
raised a foot from the ground, was the only furniture. 
The conductors tell you that a lisht was not allowed. 
The cells are about five paces in length, two and a half 
in width, and seven feet in height. "They are directly 
beneath one another, and respiration is somewhat diffi- 



456 



APPENDIX TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



cult in the lower holes. Only one prisoner was found 
when the republicans descended into these hideous 
recesses, and he is said to have been confined sixteen 
years. But the inmates of the dungeons beneath had 
left traces of their repentance, or of their despair, 
which are still visible, and may, perhaps, owe some- 
thing to recent ingenuity. Some of the detained ap- 
pear to have offended against, and others to have be- 
longed to, the sacred body, not only from (heir signa- 
tures, but from the churches and belfries which they 
have scratched upon the walls. The reader may not 
object to see a specimen of the records prompted by so 
terrific a solitude. As nearly as they could be copied 
by more than one pencil, three of them are as fol- 
lows : — 

1. NON TI FIDAR AD ALCUNO PENSA e TACI 
SE FDGIR VUOI DE SPIONI INSIDIE e LACCI 
IL PENTIKTI PENTIRTI NULLA GIOVA 
MA BEN DI VALOR TUO LA VERA PROVA 

1607. ADl 2. GENARO. FUl RE- 
TENTO P' LA BESTIEMMA P' AVER DATO 
DA MANZAR A UN MORTO 

lACOMO . GRITTI . SCRISSE. 

2. UN PARLAR POCHO et 
NEGARE PRONTO et 

UN PENSAR AL FINE PUO DARE LA VITA 

A NOI ALTRI MESCHINI 

1G0.5. 
EGO lOHN BAPTISTA AD 
ECCLESIAM CORTELLARIUS. 

3. DE CHI MI FIDO GUARDAMI DIO 

DE CHI NON MI FIDO Ml GUARDARO 10 



A TA 

V . LA S . 



A NA 
K . R . 



The copyist has followed, not corrected, the sole- 
cisms; some of which are, however, not quite so de- 
cided, since the letters were evidently scratched in the 
dark. It only need be observed, that bestemmia and 
mangiar may be read in the first inscription, which 
was probably written by a prisoner confined for some 
act of impiety commit'ed at a funeral : tliat Cortella- 
rivLS is the name of a parish on terra firma, near the 
sea; and that the last initials evidently are put for 
Viva la santa Chiesa Kaitolica Romana. 



No. II.— SONGS OF THE GONDOLIERS. 

" In Fenice Tasso's echoes are no more.'"— Stanza iii. 

The well-known song of the gondoliers, of alter- 
nate stanzas from Ta-so's Jerusalem, his died with tlie 
independence of Venice. Editions of the poem, with 
the original in one column, and the Venetim varia- 
tions on the other, as sung by the boatmen, were once 
common, and are still to be found. The follow ing ex- 
tract will serve to show the diiference between" the 
Tuscan epic and the " Canta alia Barcariola." 

ORIGINAL. 
Canto I'arme pietose, e '1 capitano 

Che '1 gran Sepolcro libero dl Cristo. 
Molto egli opro col set no, e con la mano 

Molto soffri nel glorioso acquisto ; 
E in van 1' Inferno a lui s' oppose, e in vano 

S'armo d'Asia, e dl Libia il popol mjsto, 
Che il Ciel gli die favore, e sotlo a i Santi 
Segni ridusse i suoi compagni erranti. 

VENETIAN. 
L' arme pietose de cantar gho vogia, 

E de Goffredo la immortal braura 
Che al fin V ha libera co strassia, e dogia 

Del nostro buon Gesu la Sepoltura 



De mezo mondo unito, e de quel Bogia 

Missier Pluton non 1' ha bu mai paura : 
Dio 1' ha agiuta, e i compagni sparpagnai_ 
Tutti '1 gh' i ha messi insieme i di del Dai. 

Some of the elder gondoliers will, however, take up 
and continue a stanza of their once familiar bard. 

On the 7th of last January, the author of Childe 
Harold, and another Englishman, the writer of this 
notice, rowed to the Lido with two singers, one of 
whom was a carpenter, and the other a gondolier. 
The form.er placed himself at the prow, the latter at 
the stern of (he boat. A little after leaving the quay 
of the Piazzetta, they began to sing, and continued 
their exercise until we arrived at the island. They 
gave us, amongst other essays, (he dea(h of Clorinda, 
and the palace of Armida ; and did not sing the Vene- 
tian, but the Tuscan verses. The carpenter, however, 
who was the cleverer of the (svo, and was frequently 
obliged to pronipt his companion, told us th it he could 
translate the original. He added, that he could sing 
almost three hundred stanzas, but had not spirits (mcr- 
bin was (he woid he used) (o learn any more, or (o 
sing wha( he already knew : a man must have idle 
time on his hands (o acquire, or to repeat, and, said the 
poor fellow, ''look at my clo(hes and at me; i am 
starving." This speech was more alfecting than his 
performance, which habit alone can make a(tractive. 
The recita{ive was shrill, screaming, ai^d monotonous ; 
and (he gondolier behind assisted his voice by holding 
his hand (o one side of his mouth. The carpenter 
used a quiet action, which he evidently endeavoured 
to restrain ; but was too much interested in his subject 
altogether to repress. From ihese men w e learnt that 
singing is not confined to the gondoliers, and that, 
although the chant is seldom, if ever, voluntary, there 
are still several amongst the lower classes who are 
acquainted with a few stanza?. 

It does not appear (hat it is usual for the performers 
to row and sing at the same time. Although (he verses 
of the Jerusalem are no longer casually heard, there is 
yet much music upon the Vene(ian canals; and upon 
holydays, (hose s(rangers whaareno( ner or informed 
enough to distinguish the words, may fancy that many 
! of the gondolas sill resound with the strains of Tasso. 
I The writer of some remarks which apj eaied in the 
*' Curiosities of Literalure" must excuse his being twice 
quo(ed ; for, with the excepdon of some phrases a 
, little (00 ambitious and extravagant, he has furnished 
a very exact, as well as agreeable, de-cription : — 

" In Venice the gondoliers know by heart long pas- 
sages from Ariosto aiid Tas^o, and of en chant ihem 
with a peculiar m.elody. But (his talent seems at pre- 
sent on (he decline : — at least, afer taking some pains, 
I could find no more than two persons who delivered 
to me in this way a passage from Tasso. I must add, 
j that the laie Mr. Berry once chanted to me a passage 
in Tasso in the manner, as he assured me, of the gon- 
doliers. 

" There are always two concerned, who alternately 
sing the strophes. We know the mtlody eventually 
by Rousseau, to whose songs it is frinted ; it has pro- 
perly no melodious movement, and is a sor( of medium 
between the canto fermo and the canto figurato ; it 
approaches to the former by recitativical declamation, 
and to the lat'er by passages and c )urse, by which one 
syllable is detained and embellished. 

'• I entered a gondola by moonlight ; one singer 
placed himself forwards and the other aft, and thus 
proceeded to St. Georgio. One began the song : when 
he had ended his stropfie, the oiiier took up the lay, 
and so continued the song alternately. Throughout 
the whole nf it, (he same no(es invariably returned ; 
but, according to (he subject mat(er of the strophe, 
they laid a greater or a smaller stress, sonjctimes on 
one, and some imes on mother note, and indeed 
changed (he enuncia'ion of the whole strophe as the 
object of (he poem altered. 

"On (he whole, however, the sounds wefe hoarse 
and screaming: (hey seemed, in (he manner of all 
rude uncivili ed men, to m<ke the excellency of (heir 



APPENDIX TO CHILDE HAROLD 



457 



singing in the force of their voice : one seemed desi- 
rous of conquering the oiher by the strength of his 
lungs; and so far from receiving delight from Ihis 
scene (shut up as I was in the box of ihe gondola), I 
found myself in a very unpleasant situation. 

"My companion, to whom 1 coinniunicaled this cir- 
cumstance, being very desirous to keep up the credit 
of his countrymen, assured me that this singing was 
very delightful when heard at a distance. Accord- 
ingly we got out upon the shore, leaving one of the 
singers in the gondola, while the other went to the dis- 
tance of some hundred paces. They now began to 
sing against one another, and I kept walking up and 
down between them both, so as always to leave him 
who was to begin his part. I frequently stood stiil 
and hearkened to the one and to the other. 

" Here the scene was properly introduced. The 
strong declamatory, and, as it were, shrieking sound, 
met the ear from far, and called forth the attention; 
the quickly succeeding transitions, which necessarily 
required to be sung in a lower tone, seemed i;ke plain- 
tive strains succeeding the vociferati ms of emotion or 
of pain. The other, who listened attentively, imme- 
diately began where the former left oft", answering 
him in milder or more vehement notes, according as 
the purport of the strophe required. The sleepy ca- 
nals, the lofty buildings, the splendour of the moon, 
the deep shadows of the few gondolas that moved like 
spirits hither and thither, increased the striking pecu- 
liarity of the scene; and, amidst all these circum- 
stances, it was easy to confess the character of this 
wonderful harmony. 

"It suits perfectly well with an idle solitary mari- 
ner, lying at length in his vessel at rest on one of these 
canals, waiting for his company, or for a fare, the tire- 
someness of which situation is somewhat alleviated by 
the songs and poetical stories he h»s in memory. He 
often raises his voice as loud as he can, which extends 
itself (0 a vast distance over the tranquil mirror ; and 
as all is stiil around, he is, as it were, in a solitude in 
the rnidst of a large and populous town. Here is no 
rattling of cairiages, no noise of foot passengers ; a 
silent gondola glides now and then by him, of which 
the spiashings of the oars are scarcely to be heard. 

" At a distance he hears another, perhaps utterly un- 
known to him. Melody and verse immediately attach 
the two strangers ; he becomes the responsive echo to 
the former, and exerts himself to be heard as he had 
heard the other. By a tacit convention they alternate 
verse for verse ; though the song should last the whole 
•ght through, they entertain themselves without 
fatigue: the hearers, who are passing between the two, 
take part in the amusement. 

"This vocal performance sounds best at a great dis- 
tance, and is then inexpressibly charming, as it only 
fulfils its design in the sentiment of remoieness. It is 
plaintive, but not dismal in its sound, and at times it 
is scarcely possible to refrain from tears. My com- 
panion, who otherwise was not a very delicately or- 
ganised person, said quite unexpectedly : — E singolare 
come quel canto inteuerisce, e molto piu quando lo 
cantano meglio. 

" I was told that the women of Libo, the long row 
of islands that divides the Adriatic from 'heLagoons,! 
particularly the women of the extreme distric's of Ma- 
lamocco and Palestriua, sing in like manner the works 
of Tasso to these and similar tunes. 

"They have the custom, when their husbands are 
fishing out at sea, to sit along the sliore in the evenings 
and vociferate these songs, and continue to do so with 
great violence, till each of them can distinguish the 
responses of her own husband at a distance."^ 

The love of music and of p)oetry distinguishes all 
classes of Venetians, even amongst the tuneful sons of 
Italy. The city itself can occasionally furnish respect- 
able audiences for two and even three opera-houses at 

1 The writer meant Li(fo, which is not a long row of 
islands, but a long island : littus, the shore. 

2 Curiosities of Literature, vol. ii. p. 156. edit. 1807; 
and Appendix xxix. to Black's Life of Tasso. 



39 



a time ; and there are few events in private life that 
do not call forth a printed and circulated sonnet. Does 
a physician or a lawyer take his degree, or a clergy- 
man pieach his maiden sermon, has a surgeon per- 
formed an operation, would a harlequin announce his 
departure or his benefit, are you (o be congratulated on 
a marriage, or a birth, or a lawsuit, the Muses are in- 
voked to furnish the same number of syllables, and the 
individual triumphs blaze abroad in virgin white or 
party-coloured placards on half Ihe corners of the 
] capit.il. The last curtsy of a favourite " prima don- 
na" brings down a shower of these poetical tributes 
from those upper regions, from which, in our theatres, 
nothing but cupids and snow-storms are accustomed to 
descend. There is a poetry in the very life of a Vene- 
tian, which, in its common course, is varied with those 
surprises and changes so recommendable in fiction, but 
so different from the sober monotony of northern ex- 
istence ; amusements are raised into duties, du'ies are 
sofened iirto amusements, and every object being con- 
sidered as equally muking a part of the business of life, 
is announced and performed with the same earnest 
inditlerence and gay assiduity. The Venetian gazette 
constantly closes its columns with the following triple 
advertisement ; — 



Charade. 



Exposition of the most Holy Sacrament in the church 
of St. 



Theatres. 
St. Moses, opera. 

St. Benedict, a comedy of characters. 
St. Luke, repose. 

When it is recollected what the Catholics believe 
their consecrated water to be, we may perhaps think 
it worthy of a more respectable niche than between 
poetry and the playhouse. 



No. III. — THE LION AND HORSES OF ST. 
MARK'S. 

" St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood 
Stand," Stanza xi. 

The Lion has lost nothing by his journey to the In- 
valides, but the gospel which supported the paw that 
is now on a level with the other foot. The Horses 
also are returned to the ill-chosen spot whence they 
set out, and are, as before, half hidden, under the porch 
window of St. Mark's church. Their history, after a 
desperate struggle, has been satisfactorily explored. 
The decisions "and doubts of Erizzo and Zanetti, and 
lastly, of the Count Leopold Cicngnaia, would have 
given them a Roman extraction, ;ind a pedigree not 
more ancient than the reign of Nero. But M. de 
Schlegel stepped in to teach the Venetians the value of 
their own treasures, and a Greek vindicated, at last and 
for ever, the pretension of his countrymen to this noble 
production. 3 M. Mustoxidi has not been left without 
a reply; but, as yet, he has received no answer. It 
should seem that the horses are irrevocably Chian, and 
were trarrsferred to Constantinople by Theodosius. 
Lapidar-y writing is a favourite play of the Italians, 
and has conferred reputation on more than one of their 
literary characters. One of the best specimens of Bo- 
doni's typography is a respectable volume of inscrip- 
tions, all written by his friend Pacciaudi. Several 
were prepared for the recovered horses. It is to be 
hoped Ihe best was not selected, when the following 
words were ranged in gold letters above the cathedral 
porch : — 

QUATUOR • EQUORUM * SIGNA * A * VENE- 
TIS • BYZANTIO * CAPTA * AD * TEMP ' D ' 



8Sui quattro cavalli della Basilica di S. Marco in Vene- 
zia. Lettera di Andrea Mustoxidi Corcirese. Padua, 1816. 



458 



APPENDIX TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



POSIT A • QUiE • 
MDCCIIIC • AB- 
IMP • PACIS • ORBI • 
A • MDCCCXV • VIC- 



MAR • A • R • S • MCCIV 
HOSTILIS • CUPIDITAS • A 
STULERAT * FRAISC * I 
DATAE • TROPHAEUM 
TOR • REDUXIT. 

Nothing shall be said of the Latin, but it may be 
permitted to observe, that the injustice of the Vene- 
tians in transporiing the horses from Constantinople 
was at least equal to that of the French in carrying 
them to Paris, and that it would have been more pru- 
dent to have avoided all allusions to either robbery. 
An apostolic prince should, perhaps, have objected to 
affixing over the principal entrance of a metropolitan 
church an inscription having a reference to any other 
triumphs than those of religion. Nothing less than 
the pacification of the world can excuse such a sole- 
cism. 



No. IV.— SUBMISSION OF BARBAROSSA TO 
POPE ALEXANDER III. I 

" The Suabian sued, and novo the Austrian reigns— 
Jin Emperor tramples where an Emperor hndt." 

Stanza xii. 
After many vain efforts on the part of the Italians 
entirely to throw off the yoke of Frederic Barbarossa, 
and as fruitless attempts of the Emperor to make him- 
self absolute master throughout the whole of his Cis- 
alpine dominions, the bloody s:ruggles of four and 
twenty years were happily brought to a close in the 
city of Venice. The articles of a treaty had been pre- 
viously agreed upon between Pope Alexander III. and 
Barbarossa ; and the former having received a safe- 
conduct, had already arrived at Venice from Ferrara, 
in company with the ambissadors of the King of Sicily 
and the consuls of the Lombard league. There still 
remained, however, many points to adjust, and for 
several days the peace was believed to be impractica- 
ble. At this juncture it was suddenly reported that 
the Emperor had arrived at Chioza, a town fifteen 
miles from the capital. The Venetians ro>e tumultu- 
ously, and insisted upon immediately conducting him 
to the city. The Lombards took the alarm, and de- 
parted towards Treviso. The Pope himself was appre- 
hensive of some di^aster if Frederic should suddenly 
advance upon him, but was reassured by the prudence 
and address of Sebastian Ziani, the Doge. Several em- 
bassies passed between Chioza and the capital, until, 
at last, the Emperor, relaxing somewhat of his pre'en- 
sions, " laid aside his leonine ferocity, and put on the 
mildnes> of the lamb." i 

On Saturday the 23d of July, in the year 1177, six 
Venetian galleys transferred Frederic, in great pomp, 
from Chioza to the island of Lido, a mile from Venice. 
Early the next morning the Pope, accompanied by the 
Sicilian ambassadors, and by the envoys of Lombardy, 
whom he had recalled from the main land, together 
with a great concourse of people, repaired from the 
patriarchal palace to St, Mark's churcli, and solemnly 
absolved the Emperor and his partisans from the ex- 
communication pronounced against him. The Chan- 
cellor of the Empire, on the part of his master, re- 
nounced the ami-popes and their schismatic adherents. 
Immediately the Doge, with a great suite both of the 
clergy and laity, got on boird ;he galleys, and wailing 
on Frederic, rowed him in mighty sta'e fr m the Lido 
to the capital. The Emperor^descended from the gal- 
ley at the quay of the Piazzetta. The Do^e, the patri- 
arch, his bishops and clergy, and the people of Venice 
with their crosses and their standards, marched in 
solemn procession before him to the church of St. 
Mark. Alexander was seated before the vestibule of 



l"Quibu8 auditis, imperator, operante eo, qui corda 
principum eicut vult et quando vult humiliter inclinat, 
leonina feritate deposita, ovinara mansuetudinem induit." 
— Romualdi Salernitani Chronicon, apud Script. Rer. Ital. 
torn. vii. p. 229. 



the basilica, attended by his bishops and cardinals, by 
the patriarch of Aquileja, by the archbishops and 
bishops of Lombardy, all of them in state, and clothed 
in their church robes. Frederic approached — " moved 
by the Holy Spirit, venerating the Almighty in the per- 
son of Alexander, laying aside his imperial dignity, 
and throwing off his manle, he prostrated himself at 
full length at the feet of the Pope. Alexander, with 
tears in his eyes, raised him benignaiitly from the 
ground, kissed him, blessed him; and immediately the 
Germans of the train sang, with a loud voice, ' We 
praise thee, Lord.' The Emperor then taking the 
Pope by the right hand, led him to the church, sfnd 
having received his benediction, returned to the ducal 
palace." 2 The ceremony of humiliation was repeated 
the next day. The Pope himself, at the request of 
Frederic, said mass at St. Mark's. The Emperor again 
laid aside his imperial man'de, and, taking a wand in 
his hand, ofKci ited as verger, driving the laity from the 
choir, and preceding the pontiff to the altar. Alexan- 
der, after reciting the gospel, preached to the jieople. 
The Emperor put himself close to the puljiit in the 
attitude of listening; and the pontiff, touched by this 
mark of his at'ention (for he knew that Frederic did 
not understand a word he said), commanded the patri- 
arch of Aquileja to translate the Latin discourse into 
the German tongue. The creed was then chanted. 
Frederic made his oblation, and kissed the Pope's feet, 
and, mass being over, led him by the hand to his white 
horse. He held the stirrup, and would have led the 
horse's rein to the water side, had not the Pope ac- 
cepted of the inclination for the performance, and 
affectionately dismissed him with his benediction. 
Such is the substance of the account left by the arch- 
bishop of Salerno, who was present at the ceremony, 
and whose story is confirmed by every subsequent nar- 
ration. It would be not worth so minute a record, 
were it not the triumph of liberty as well as of super- 
stition. The states of Lombardy owed to it the con- 
firmation of their privileges; and Alexander had rea- 
son to thank the Almighty, who had enabled an infirm, 
unarmed old man to subdue a terrible and potent sove- 
reign. 3 



No. v.— HENRY DANDOLO. 

" Oh, for one hour of blind old Dandolo ! 

Th^ octogenarian chief, Jiyzantium^s conquering 
foe.'' — Stanza xii. 

The reader will recollect the exclamation of tbe 
highlander. Oh for one hour of Dundee! Henry 
Dandolo, when elected Doge, in 1192, was eighty-five 
years of age. When he commanded the Venetians at 
the taking of Constantinople, he was consequently 
ninety-seven years old. At this age he annexed the 
fourth and a half of the whole em'pire of Romania,* 
for so the Roman empire was then called, to the title 
and to the territories of tlie Vei^etian Doge. The three 
eighths of this empire were preserved in the diplomas 
until ihe dukedom of Giovanni Dolfino, who made use 
of the above designation in the year 1357.5 

2 Rer. Ital. torn. vii. p. 231. 

3 See the above-cited Romuald of Salerno. In a second 
sermon which Alexander preached, on the first day of 
August, before the Emperor, he compared Frederic to tbe 
prodigal son, and himself to the forgiving father. 

4 Mr. Gibbon has omitted the important ae, and has 
written Romani instead of Romaniae. Recline and Fall, 
chap. Ixi- note 9. But the title acquired by Dandolo runs 
thus in the chronicle of his namesake, the Doge Andrew 
Dandolo. " Ducali titulo addidit, ' Quarta partis et dimi- 
dia totius imperii Romaniae.'" And. Dand. Chronicon, 
cap. iii. pars xxxvii. ap. Script. Rer. Ital. torn. xii. page 
331. And the Romaniae is observed in the subsequent 
acts of the Doges. Indeed, the continental possessions of 
the Greek empire in Europe were then generally known 
by the name of Romania, and that appellation is still seen 
in the maps of Turkey as applied to Thrace. 

5 See the continuation of Dandoln's Chronicle, ibid. p. 
49S. Mr. Gibbon appears not to include Dolfino, following 



Mik 



APPENDIX TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



459 



Dandolo led the attack on Constantinople in person : 
two ships, the Paradise and the Pilgrim, were tied to- 
gether, and a dravvbridgeorlidder let down from their 
higher yards to the walls. The Doge was one of the 
first to rush into the city. Then was completed, said 
the Venetians, the pro|)hecy of the Erythraean sibyl : 
— "A gathering together of the powerful shall be 
made amidst the waves of the Adriatic, under a blind 
leader ; they shall beset the goat — they shall profane 
Byzantium — they shall blacken her buildings — her 
spoils shall be dispersed ; a new goat shall bleat until 
they have measured out and run over fifty-four feet, 
nine inches, and a half." i Dandolo died on the first 
day of June, 1205, having reigned thirteen years, six 
months, and five days, and was buried in the church 
of St. Sophia, at Constantinople. Strangely enough it 
must sound, that the name of the rebel apothecary who 
received the Doge's sword, and annihilated the ancient 
government, in 1796-7, was Dandolo. 



for the inexorable answer of Doria, would have gladly 
reduced their dominion to the city of Venice. An ac- 
count of these transactions is found in a work called 
the War of Chioza, written by Daniel Chinazzo, who 
was in Venice at the time. 



No. VI.— THE WAR OF CHIOZA. 

*^JBut is not Dcrria^s menace come to pass; 
Are they not bridled ?" — Stanza xiii. 

After the loss of the battle of Pola, and the taking 
of Chioza on the 16th of August, 1379, by the united 
armament of the Genoese and Francesco da Carrara, 
Signor of Padua, the Venetians were reduced to the 
utmost despair. An embassy was sent to the conquer- 
ors with a blank sheet of paper, praying them to pre- 
scribe what terms they pleased, and leive to Venice 
only her independence. The Prince of Padua was 
inclined (o listen to these proposals, but the Genoese, 
who, after the victory at Pola, had shouted, "To Ve- 
nice, to Venice, and long live St. George ! " determined 
to annihilate their rival ; and Peter Doria, their com- 
mander-in-chief, returned this answer to the suppli- 
ants : " On God's faith, gentlemen of Venice, ye shall 
have no peace from the Signor of Padua, nor from our 
commune of Genoa, until we have first put a rein 
upon those unbridled horses of yours, that are upon the 
porch of your evangelist St. Mark. When we have 
bridled them, we shall keep you quiet. And this is 
the pleasure of us and of our commune. As for these 
my brothers of Genoa, that you have brought with you 
to give up to us, I will not have them '. take them 
back ; for, in a few days hence, I shall come and let 
them out of prison niyself, boih these and all the 
others." In fact, the Genoese did advance as far as 
Malamocco, within five miles of the capital ; but their 
own danger and the pride of their enemies gave cour- 
age to the Venetians, who made prodigious efforts, and 
many individual sacrifices, all of them carefully re- 
corded by their historians. Vettor Pisani was put at 
the head of thirty-four galleys. The Genoese broke 
up from Malamocco, and retired to Chioza in October ; 
but they again threatened Venice, which was reduced 
to extremities. At this time, the 1st of January, 1380, 
arrived Carlo Zeno, who had been cruising on the Ge- 
noese coast with fourteen galleys. The Venetians 
were now strong enough to besiege the Genoese. Do- 
ria was killed on the 22d of January, by a stone bullet 
195 pounds weight, discharged from a tjombard called 
the Trevisan. Chioza was then closely invested ; 5000 
auxiliaries, amongst whom were some English condot- 
tieri, commanded by one Captain Ceccho, joined the 
Venetians. The Genoese, in their turn, prayed for 
conditions, but none were granted, until, at last, they 
surrendered at discretion ; and, on the 24th of June, 
1380, the Doge Contarini made his triumphal entry 
into Chioza. Four thousand prisoners, nineteen gal- 
leys, many smaller vessels and barks, with all the am- 
munition and arms, and outfit of the expedition, fell , 
into the hands of the conquerors, who, had it not been ' 



Sanudo, who says, " il qual tilolo bi uso fin al Doge Gio- 
vanni Dolfino. " See Vitede'DuchidiVenezia.ap. Script. 
Eer. Ital. torn. xxii. 530. 041. 
IChronicon, ibid, pars xxxiv. 



No. VII. — VENICE UNDER THE GOVERN- 
MENT OF AUSTRIA. 

" Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as mitst 
Too oft remind her who and what enthrals. ^^ 

Stanza xv. 
The population of Venice at the end of the seven- 
j teenth century amounted to nearly two hundred thou- 
' sand souls. At the last cen-us, taken two years ago, it 
I was no more than about one hundred and three thou- 
sand : and it diminishes daily. The commerce and 
the official employments, which were to be the unex- 
hausted source of Venetian grandeur, have both ex- 
pired. Most of the patrician mansions are deserted, 
and would gradually disappear, had not the govern- 
ment, alarmed by the demolition of seventy-two, dur- 
ing the last two years, expressly forbidden this sad 
re!,ource of poverty. Many remnants of the Venetian 
nobility are now scattered, and confounded with the 
wealthier Jews upon the banks of the Brenta, whose 
Palladian palaces have sunk, or are sinking, in the 
general decay. Of the " gentiluomo Veneto," the name 
is still known, and that is all. He is but the shadow 
of his former self, but he is polite and kind. It surely 
may be pardoned to him if he is querulous. What- 
ever may have been the vices of the republic, and 
although the natural term of its existence may be 
thought by foreigners to have arrived in the due course 
of mortality, only one sentiment can be expected from 
the Venetians themselves. At no time were the sub- 
jects of the republic so unanimous in their resolution 
to rally round the standard of St. Mark, as when it 
was for the last time unfurled ; and the cowardice and 
the treachery of the few patricians who recommended 
the fatal neutrality were confined to the persons of the 
traitors themselves. The present race cannot be 
thought to regret the loss of their arisiocratical forms, 
and too despotic government ; they think only on their 
vanished independence. They pine away at the re- 
membrance, and on this subject suspend for a moment 
their gay good humour. Venice may be said, in the 
words of the scripture, " to die daily;" and so general 
and so apparent is the decline, as to become painful to 
a stranger, not reconciled to the sight of a whole nation 
expiring as it were before his eyes. So artificial a 
creation, having lost that principle which called it into 
life and supported its existence, must fall to pieces at 
once, and sink more rapidly than it rose. The abhor- 
rence of slavery which drove the Venetians to the sea, 
has, since their disaster, forced them to the land, where 
they may be at least overlooked amongst the crowd of 
dependants, and not present the humiliating spectacle 
of a whole nation loaded with recent chains. Their 
liveliness, their affability, and that happy indifference 
which constitution alone can give (for philosophy 
aspires to it in vain), have not sunlc under circum- 
stances; but many peculiarities of costume and man- 
ner have by degrees been lost, and the nobles, with a 
pride common to all Italians who have been masters, 
have not been persuaded to parade their insignificance. 
That splendour which was a proof and a portion of 
their power, they would not degrade into the trappings 
of their subjection. They retired from the space 
which they had occupied in the eyes of their fellow- 
citizens; their continuance in which would have been 
a symptom of acquiescence, and an insult to those who 
sullered by the common misfortune. Those, who re- 
mained in the degraded capital might be said rather to 
haunt the scenes of their departed power, than to live 
in them. The reflection, " who and what enthrals," 
will hardly bear a comment from one who is, nation- 
ally, the friend and the ally of the conqueror. It may, 
however, be allowed to say thus much, that to those 



460 



APPENDIX TO CHILDE HAfiOLD. 



who wish to recover their independence, any masters 
must be an object of detestation ; and it mny be safely 
foretold that this unprofitable aversion will not have 
been corrected before Venice bhali have sunk into the 
slime of her choked canals. 



No. VIII.- LAURA. 

" Watering the tree which bears his lady^s name 
With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame." 

Stanza XXV. 

Thanks to the critical acumen of a Scotchman, we 
DOW know as little of Laura as ever.i The discoveries 
of the Abbe de Sade, his triumphs, his sneers, can no 
longer instruct or amuse. VVe must not, however, 
think that these memoirs are as much a romance as 
Belisarius or the Incas. although we are told so by Dr. 
Bealtie, a great name, but a little authority.'Z His 
" labour" has not been in vain, notwithstanding his 
" love" has, like most other pas^ions, made him ridicu- 
lous.3 The hypothesis which overpowered the strug- 
gling Italians, and carried along less interested critics 
in its current, is run out. We have another proof that 
we can be never sure that the paradox, the most singu- 
lar, and therefore having the most agreeable and au- 
thentic air, will not give place to the re-established an- 
cient prejudice. 

It seems, then, first, that Laura was born, lived, died, 
and was buried, not in Avignon, but in the country. 
The fountains of the Sorga, the thickets of Cnbrieres, 
may resume their pretensions, and the exploded de la 
Bastie again be heard with complacency. The hypo- 
thesis of the Abbe had no stronger props than the 
parchment sonnet and medal found on the skeleton of 
the wife of Hugo de Sade, and the manuscript note to 
the Virgil of Petrarch, now in the Ambrosian library. 
If these proofs were both incontestable, the poetry was 
written, the medal composed, cist, and deposited within 
the space of twelve hours : and these deliberate duties 
were performed round the carcass of one who died of 
the plague, and was hurried to the grave on the day of 
her death. These documents, therefore, are too deci- 
sive : they prove not the fact, but the forgery. Either 
the sonnet or the Virgilian note must be a falsification. 
The Abbe cites both as incontestably true ; the conse- 
quent deduction is inevitable— they are both evidently 
false. 4 

Secondly, Laura was never married, and was a 
haughty virgin rather than that tender and prudent 
wife who honoured Avignon, by makin? that town the 
theatre of an honest French passion, and played off for 
one and twenty years her little machinery of alternate 
favours and refusals s upon the first poet of the age. 
It was, indeed, rather too unfair that a female should 
be made responsible for eleven children upon the faith 
of a misinterpreted abbreviation, and the decision of a 
librarian. 6 It is, however, satisfactory to think that 



1 See An Historical and Critical Essay on the Life and 
Character of Petrarch ; and a Dissertation on an Historical 
Hypothesis of the Abbe de Sade. 

2 Life of Beattie, by Sir W. Forbes, vol. ii. p. 106. 

3 Mr. Gibbon called his Memoirs "a labour of love" 
(see Decline and Fall, chap. Ixx. note 1.), and followed him 
with confidence and delight. The compiler of a very volu- 
minous vfork must take much criticism upon trust. Mr. 
Gibbon has done so, though not as readily as some other 
authors. 

4 The fonnet had before awakened the suspicions of Mr. 
Horace Walpole. See his letter to Warfon in 1763. 

5" Par ce petit manege, cette alternative de faveurs et 
de rigueurs bieu menagee, une femme tendre et sage amuse, 
pendant vingt et un ans, le plus grind poete de son siecle, 
sans faire la moindre breche a eon honneur." Mem pour 
la Vie de Petrarque, Preface aux Francais. 

6 In adialogue with St. Augustin, Petrarch has described 
Laura as having a body exhausted with repeated ptuhs. 
The old editors read and printed perturbationibus ; but 
M. Capperonier, librarian to the French king in 1762, who 
saw the MS. in the Paris library, made an attestation that 
"on lit et qu'on doit lire, partubus exhaustum." De 



the love of Petrarch was not platonic. The happiness 
which he prayed to possess but once and for a moment 
was surely not of the niind,"! and something so very 
real as a liiarriage project, with one who has been idly 
called a shadowy nymph, may be, perhaps, delecied in 
at least six places of his own sonnets. The love of 
Petrarch was neither platonic nor poetical: and if in 
one passage of his works he calls it " amore veemen- 
teissimo ma unico ed onesto,'' he confesses, in a letter 
to a friend, that it was guilty and perverse, that it 
absorbed him quite, and masleied his heart. 

In this case, however, he was perhaps alarmed for 
the culpability of his wishes; for the Abbe de Sade 
himself, who certainly would not have been scrupu- 
lously delicate if he could have proved his descent 
from Petrarch as well as Lauia, is forced into a stout 
defence of his virtuous grandmother. As far as relates 
to the poet, we hsve no security for the innocence, ex- 
cept perhaps in the constancy of his pursuit. He 
assures us in his epistle to posterity, thaf, when arrived 
at his fortieth year, he not only had in horror, but had 
lost all recollection and image of any " irregularity," 
But the birth of his natural daughter cannot be assigned 
earlier than his thirty-ninth year; and either (he me- 
mory or the moraliiy of the poet must have f .iled him, 
when he forgot or was guilty of this slip.^ The weak- 
est argument for the purity of this love has been drawn 
from the permanence of its effects, which survived the 
object of his passion. The reflection of M. de la Bas- 
tie, that virtue alone is capable of making impressions 
which death cannot efface, is one of those which every 
body applauds, and every body finds not to be true, the 
moment he examines his own breast or the records of 
hiiman feeling.s Such apophthegms can do nothing 
for Petrarch or for the cause of morality, except with 
the very weak and the very young. He that has made 
even a little progress beyond ignorance and pupilage 
cannot be edified with any thing but truth. What is 
called vindicating the honour of an individual or a na- 
tion, is the most futile, tedious, and uninstructiveof all 
writing; although it will always meet with more ap- 
plause than that'sober criticism, which is attributed to 
the malicious desire of reducing a great man to the 
common standard of humanity. It is, after all, not 
unlikely that our historian was right in retaining his 
favouri'e hypothetic salvo, which secures the author, 
although it scarcely saves the honour of the still un- 
known mistress of Petrarch.^" 



No. IX.- PETRARCH. 

" They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died.^^ 
Stanza xxxi. 

Petrarch retired to Arqua immediately on his return 
from the unsuccessful attempt to visit Urban V. at 
Rome, in the year 1370, and, with the exception of his 
celebrated visit to Venice in company with Francesco 
Novello da Carrara, he appears to have passed the 



Sade joined the names of Messrs. Boudot and Bejot with 
M. Capperonier, and, in the whole discussion on this ptubs, 
showed himself a downright literary rogue. See Rifles- 
sioni, &c. p. 267. Thomas Aquinas is called in to settle 
whether Petrarch's mistress was a chaste maid or a con- 
tinent wife. 
7 " Pigmalion, quanto lodar ti dei 

Dell' imagine tua, se mille volte 

N' avesti quel ch' i' sol una vorrei." 

Sonetto 58. quando giunse a Simon I'alto con- 

cetto. Le Rime, &c. par. i. pag. 169. edit. 

Ven. 1756. 

8"Aquesta confessione cosi sincera diede forse occa- 

sione una nuova caduta ch. et fece." Tiraboschi, Storia, 

&c. V. 492. 

9 M. de Bimard, Baron de la Bastie, in the Memoires de 
I'Academie des Inscriptions et Belles Lettres for 1740 and 
1751. See also RiflesRioni, &c. p. 295. 

10 "And if the virtue or prudence of Laura was inexo- 
rable, he enjoyed, and might boast of enjoying, the nymph 
of poetry." Decline and Fall, chap. Ixx. p. 327. vol. xii. 
8vo. Perhaps the if is here meant for although. 



APPENDIX TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



461 



four last years of his life between that charming soli- 
tude and Padua. For four months previous to his 
death he was in a state of continual languor, and in 
the morning of July the 19lh, in the year 1374, was 
found dead in his library chair with his head resting 
upon a book. The chair is still shown amongst the 
precious relics of Arqua, which, from the uninter- 
rupted veneration that has been attached to every thing 
relative to this great man from the moment of his 
death to the present hour, have, it may be hoped, a bet- 
ter chance of authenticity than the Shakspearian me- 
morials of Stratford upon Avon. 

Arqua (for the last syllable is accented in pronuncia- 
tion, although the analogy of the English language has 
been observed in the verse) is twelve miles from Pa- 
dua, and about three miles on the right of the high 
road to Rovigo, in the bosom of theEuganean hills. 
After a walk of twenty minutes across a flat well- 
wooded meadow, you come to a little blue lake, clear 
but fathomless, and to the foot of a succession of accli- 
vities and hills, clothed with vineyards and orchards, 
rich with fir and pomegranate trees, and every sunny 
fruit shrub. From the banks of the lake the road 
winds into the hills, and the church of Arqua is soon 
seen between a cleft where two ridges slope towards 
each other, and nearly enclose the village. The 
houses are scattered at intervals on the bteep sides of 
these summits; and that of the poet is on the edge of 
a little knoll overlooking two descents, and command- 
ing a view, not only of the glowing gardens in the 
dales immediately beneath, but of the wide plains, 
above whose low woods of mulberry and willow, 
thickened into a dark mass by festoons of vines, tall, 
single cypresses, and the spires of towns, are seen in 
the distance, which stretches to the mouths of the Po 
and the shores of the Adriatic. The climate of these 
volcanic hills is warmer, and the vintage begins a 
week sooner than in the plains of Padua. Petrarch is 
laid, for he cannot be said to be buried, in a sarcopha- 
gus of red marble, raised on four pilasters on an ele- 
vated base, and preserved from an association with 
meaner tombs. It stands conspicuously alone, but will 
be soon overshadowed by four lately planted laurels. 
Petrarch's Fountain, for here every thing is Petrarch's, 
springs and expands itself beneath an artificial arch, a 
little below the church, and abounds plentifully, in the 
driest season, with that soft water which was the an- 
cient wealth of the Euganean hills. It would be more 
attractive, were it not, in some seasons, beset with hor- 
nets and wasps. No other coincidence could assimi- 
late the tombs of Petrarch and Archilochus. The 
revolutions of centuries have spared these sequestered ! 
valleys, and the only violence which has been offered \ 
to the ashes of Petrarch was prompted, not by hate, 
but veneration. An attempt was made to rob the sar- 
cophagus of its treasure, and one of the arms was stolen j 
by a Florentine through a rent wliich is still visible, j 
The injury is not forgotten, but has served to identify i 
the poet with the country where he was born, but j 
where he would not live. A peasant boy of Arqua ' 
being asked who Petrarch was, replied, "that the 
people of the parsonage knew all about him, but that 
he only knew that he was a Florentine." 

Mr. Forsyth i was not quite correct in saying that 
Petrarch never returned to Tuscany afier he had quit-| 
ted it w^hen a boy. It appears he did pass through ' 
Florence on his way from I'arma to Rome, and on his i 
return in the year 1350, and remained there long| 
enough to form some acquaintance with its most dis-i 
tinguii^hed inhabitants. A Florentine gentleman, I 
ashamed of the aversion of the poet for his native; 
country, was eager to point out this trivial error in | 
our accomplished traveller, whom he knew and re- j 
spected for an extraordinary capacity, extensive erudi- 
tion, and refined taste, joined to that engaging simpli- 
city of manners which has been so frecjuently recog-j 
nised as the surest, though it is certainly not an indis-S 
pensable, trait of superior genius. j 

Every footstep of Laura's lover has been anxiously j 



Remarks, &c. on Italy, p. 95. note, 2d edit. 



traced and recorded. The house in which he lodged 
is shown in Venice. The inhabitants of Arezzo, in 
order to decide the ancient controversy between their 
city and the neighbouring Ancisa, where Petrarch was 
carried when seven months old, and remained until 
his seventh year, have designated by a long inscription 
the spot where their great fellow-citizen was born. A 
tablet has been raised to him at Parma, in the chapel 
of St. Agatha, at the cathedral, because he was arch- 
deacon of that society, and was only snatched from his 
intended sepulture in their church "by a foreign death. 
Another tablet, with a bust, has been erected to him 
at Pavia, on account of his having passed the autumn 
of 136S, in that city, with his son-in-law Brossano. 
The political condition which has forages precluded 
the Italians from the criticism of the living, has con- 
centrated their attention to the illustration of the dead. 



No. X.— TASSO. 



" In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire; 
And Boileau, whoie rash envy," 4-c. 

Stanza xxxviij. 

Perhaps the couplet in which Boileau depreciates 
Tasso may serve as well as any other specimen to jus- 
tify the opinion given of the harmony of French 
verse : — 

" A Malherbe, a Racan, prefere Theophile, 
Et le clinquant du Tasse a tout Tor deViigile."— Sat. ix. 

The biographer Serassi,2 out of tenderness to the 
reputation either of the Italian or the French poet, is 
eager to observe that the satirist recanted or explained 
away this censure, and subsequently allowed the author 
of the Jerusalem to be a "genius, sublime, vast, and 
happily born for the higher flights of poetry." To 
this we will add, that the recantation is far from satis- 
factory, when we examine the whole anecdote as re- 
ported by (31ivel.3 The sentence pronounced against 
him by Bohours^ is recorded only to the confusion of 
the critic, whose paZmodm the Italian makes no eflbrt 
to discover, and would not, perhaps, accept. As to 
the opposition which the Jerusalem encountered from 
the Cruscan academy, who degraded Tasso from all 
competition with Ariosto, below Bojardo and Pulci, 
the disgrace of such opj)osiiion must also in some mea- 
sure be laid to the charge of Alfonso, and the court of 
Ferrata. For Leonard Salviati, the principal and 
nearly the sole origin of this attack, was, there can be 
no doubt, 5 influenced by a hope to acquire the favour 
of the House of Ebte : an object which he thought 
attainable by exalting the reputation of a native poet 
at the expense of a rival, then a prisoner of state. 
The hopes and efforts of Salviati must serve to show 
the contemporary opinion as to the nature of the poet's 
imprisonment; and will fill up the measure of our 
indignation at the tyrant jailer.6 In fact, the antago- 
nist of Tasso was not disappointed in the reception 
given to his criticism; he was called to the court of 



2 La Vita del Tasso, lib. iii. 

3 Histoire de I'Acadenaie Francaise depuis 1652 jusqu'a 
1700, par I'Ab'Dc d'Olivet. " Mais, ensuite, veiiant a 
I'usage qu'il a fait de ses talens, j'aurais montre que le 
bun 8en« ii'est pas toujours ce qui domine chez lui," p. 
182. Boilcau'said, he had not chanj/ed his opinion. "J'en 
ai si peu ctiange, dit-il," &;i'. p. 181. 

4 La Maniere de bien Penser. Fhilanthes is for Tasso, 
and pays in the outset, " De tous les beaux esprits que 
I'ltalie a portes, le Tasse est peut-etre ct'lui qui pense le 
plus noblfment." But Bohours seems to speak in Ku- 
dnxus, who closes with the absurd comparison; "Foites 
valoir le Tasse tant qu'il vous plaira, je m'en tiens pour 
moi a Virgile," <kc. 

5 La Vita, &c. lib. iii. p. 90. torn. ii. The English 
reader may see an account of tlie opposition of the Crusca 
to Tasso, in Dr. Black, Life, &c. chap. xvii. vol. ii. 

6 For further, and, it is hoped, decisive proof, that Tasso 
was neither more nor less than a prisoner of state, the 
reader is referred to" Historical Illustrations of the IVth 
Canto of Childe Harold," page 5. and following. 



39* 



462 



APPENDIX TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



Ferrara, where, having endeavoured to heighten his 
claims to favour, by panegyrics on the family of his 
sovereign,! he was in turn abandoned, and expired in 
neglected poverty. The opposition of the Cruscans 
was brought to a close in six years after the commence- 
ment of the controversy ; and if the academy owed its 
first renown to having almost opened with such a para- 
dox,^ it is probable that, on the other hand, the care 
of his reputation alleviated rather than aggravated the 
imprisonment of the injured poet. The defence of his 
father and of himself, for both were involved in the 
censure of Salviati, found employment for many of his 
solitary hours, and the captive could have been but 
little embarrassed to reply to accusations, where, 
amongst other delinquencies, he was charged with invi- 
diously omitting, in his comparison between France 
and Italy, to make any mention of the cupola of St. 
Maria del Fiore at Florence. 3 The late biographer of 
Ariosto seems as if willing to renew the controversy 
by doubting the interpretation of Tasso's self-estima- 
tion •* related in Serassi's life of the poet. But Tira- 
boschi had before laid that rivalry at rest,6 by showing, 
that between Ariosto and Tasso "it is not a question of 
comparison, but of preference. 



a recent inscription. The Ferrarese are more jealous 
of their claims since the animosity of Ueuina, arising 
from a cause which their apologists mysteriously hint 
is not unknown to them, ventured to degrade their soil 
and climate to a Boeotian incapacity for all spiritual 
productions. A quarto volume has been called forth 
by the detraction, and this supplement toBarotti's Me- 
moirs of the illustrious Ferrarese has been considered 
a triumphant reply to the " Quadro Slorico Statistico 
dell' Alia Italia." 



No. XL— ARIOSTO. 

" The lightning rent from Ariostd's bust, 
The iron crown of laurel's mimicked leaves.''^ 
Stanza xli. 

Before the remains of Ariosto were removed from 
the Benedictine church to the library of Ferrara, his 
bust, which surmounted the tomb, was struck by light- 
ning, and a crown of iron laurels melted away. The 
event has been recorded by a writer of the last cen- 
tury, 6 The transfer of these sacred ashes, on the 6th 
of June, ISOl, was one of the most brilliant spectacles 
of the short-lived Italian Republic; and to consecrate 
the memory of the ceremony, the once famous fallen 
Intrcpidi were revived and reformed into the Arios- 
tean academy. The large public place through which 
the procession paraded was then for the first time 
called Ariosto Square. The author of the Orlando is 
jealously claimed as the Homer, not of Italy, but Fer- 
rara. i The mother of Ariosto was of Reggio, and the 
house in which be was born is carefully distinguished 
by a tablet with these words : " Qui nacque Ludovico 
Ariosto il giorno 8. di Settembre dell' anno 1474." 
But the Ferrarese make light of the accident by which 
their poet was born abroad, and claim him exclusively 
for their own. They possess his bones, they show his 
arm-chair, and his inkstand, and his autographs. 

" Hie illius arma. 

Hie currus fuit " 



The house where he lived, the room where he died, 
are designated by his own replaced memorial,8 and by 



1 Orazioni funebri . . . delle lodi di Don Luigi, Cardinal 
d'Este . . . delle odi di Donno Alfonso d'Este. See La 
Vita, lib. iii. p. 117, 

2 It was founded in 1582, and the Cruscan answer to 
Pellegrino's Caraffa, or epica poesia, was published in 
1584. 

3"Cotantopote sempre in lui ilvelenodella sua pessima 
volonta contro alia nazion Fiorentina." La Vita, lib. iii. 
pp. 96, 98, torn. ii. 

4 La Vita di M. L. Ariosto, seritta dall' Abate Girolamo 
Barutfaldi Giuniore, &c. Ferrara, 1807, lib. iii. p. 262. See 
"Historical Illustrations," &c. 

5 Sturia della Lett. &c. lib. iii. torn. vii. par. iii. p. 
1220. sect. 4. 

6 Op. di Bianconi, vol. iii. p. 176. ed. Milano, 1802 ; let- 
tera al Signer Guido Savini Arcifisiocritico, suU' indole 
di un fulmine caduto in Dresda I'anno 1759. 

7 " Appassionata ammiratore ed invitto apologista dell' 
Omcro Ferrarese." The title was first given by Tasso, 
and is quoted to the confusion of the Tassisti, lib. iii. pp, 
262. 265. La Vita di M. L. Ariosto, &c. 

8 "Parva sed apta inihi, sed nulli obnoxia, sed non 

Sordida, parta meo sed tamen ere domus." 



No. XII. — ANCIENT SUPERSTITIONS RE- 
SPECTING LIGHTNING. 

" For ilie true laurel-vxreath which Glory weaves 
Is of the tree no holt of thunder cleaves.'''' 

Stanza xli. 

The eagle, the sea-calf, the laurel, and the white 
vine, were amongst the most approved preservatives 
against lightning: Jupiter chose the first, Augustus 
Caesar the second, and Tiberius never failed to wear a 
wreath of the third when the sky threatened a thun- 
der-storm. 9 These superstitions may be received 
without a sneer in a country where the magical pro- 
perties of the hazel twig have not lost all their credit ; 
and perhaps the reader may not be much surprised to 
find that a commentator on Suetonius has taken upon 
himself gravely to disprove the imputed virtues of the 
crown of Tiberius, by mentioning that a few years 
before he wrote a laurel was actually struck by light- 
ning at Rome. 10 



No. XIII. 



*' Know that the lightning sanctifies below.^ 
Stanza xli. 

The Curtian lake and the Ruminal fig-tree in the 
Forum, having been touched by lightning, were held 
sacred, and the memory of the accident was preserved 
by a puteal, or altar resembling the mouth of a well, 
with a little chapel covering the cavity supposed to be 
made by the thunderbolt. Bodies scathed and persons 
struck dead were thought to be incorruptible ; " and 
a stroke not fatal conferred perpetual dignity upon the 
man so distinguished by heaven. i2 

Those killed by lightning were wrapped in a white 
garment, and buried where they fell. The superstition 
was not confined to the worshij;per, of Jupiter : the 
Lombards believed in the omens furnished by light- 
ning ; and a Christian priest confesses that, by a dia- 
bolical skill in interpreting thunder, a seer foretold to 
Agilulf, duke of Turin, an event which came to pass, 
and gave him a queen and a crown. i3 There was, 
however, something equivocal in this sign, which the 
ancient inhabitants of Rome did not always consider 
propitious; and as the fears are likely to last longer 
than the consolations of superstition, it is not strange 
that the Romans of the age of Leo X. should have 
been so much terrified at ?ome misinterpreted storms 
as to require the exhortations of a scholar, who arrayed 
all the learning on thunder and lightning to prove the 
omen favourable ; beginning with the flash which 
struck the walls of Veli'rae, and including that which 
played upon a gate at Florence, and foretold the pon- 
tificate of one of its citizens.** 



9 Plin. Nat. Hist. lib. ii. cap. 55, Columella, lib. x. 
Sueton. in Vit. August, cap. xc. et in Vit. Tiberii, cap. 
Ixix. 

10 Note 2. p. 409. edit. Lugd. Bat. 1667. 

11 Vid. J. C. BuUenger, de Terrae Motu et Fulminib. 
lib. V. rap. xi, 

12 Oidsls KEpavviadds aVi/idj io-ri, oOev Kal tfij 
■9-ecS TLixaTat. Plut. Sympos. vid. J. C. Bulleng. ut eup. 

13 Pauli Diaconi de Gestis Langobard. lib. iii. cap. xiv. 

14 I. P. Valeriani de fulminum aignifirationibus decla- 
matio, ap. Graev. Antiq. Rom. torn. v. p. 693. The de- 
clamation is addressed to Julian of Medicis. 



APPENDIX TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



463 



No. XIV.— THE VENUS OF MEDICIS. 

" There, too, the Goddess loves in stone.^^ 

Stanza xlix. 

The view of the Venus of Medicis instantly suggests 
the lines in the Seasons, and the comparison of the 
object with the description proves, not only the cor- 
rectness of the portrait, but the peculiar turn of 
thought, and, if the term may be used, the sexual 
imagination of the descriptive poet. The same con- 
clusion may be deduced from another hint in the same 
episode of Musidora ; for Thomson's notion of the 
privileges of favoured love must have been either very 
primitive, or rather deficient in delicacy, when he 
made his grateful nymph inform her discreet Damon 
that in some happier moment he might perhaps be the 
companion of her bath : — 

"The time may come you need not fly." 

The reader will recollect the anecdote told in the 
Life of Dr. Johnson. We will not leave the Floren- 
tine gallery without a word on the IVfietter, It seems 
strange that the character of that disputed statue should 
not be entirely decided, at least in the mind of any one j 
who has seen a sarcophagus in the vestibule of the Ba- , 
silica of St. Paul without the w.ills, at Rome, where 
the whole group of the fable of Marsyas is seen in tole- 
rable preservation ; and the Scythian slave whetting 
the knife is represented exactly in the same position as 
this celebrated masterpiece. The slave is not naked ; 
but it is easier to get rid of this difliculty than to sup- 
pose the knife in the hand of the Florentine statue an 
instrument for shaving, which it must be, if, as Lanzi 
supposes, the man is no other than the baiber of Julius 
Ca°sar. Winkelmann, illustrating a bas-relief of the 
same subject, follows the opinion of Leonard Agostini, 
and his authority might have been thought conclusive, 
even if the resemblance did not strike the most care- 
less observer.! Amongst the bronzes of the same 
princely collection is still to be seen the inscribed 
tablet copied and commented upon by Mr. Gibbon. ^ 
Our historian found some difficulties, but did not desist 
from his illustration : he might be vexed to hear that 
his criticism has been thrown away on an inscription 
now generally recognised to be a forgery. 



No. XV.- MADAME DE STAEL. 

"7n Santa Croce^s holy precincts Zi'e,"— Stanza liv. 

This name will recall the memory, not only of those 
whose tombs have raised the Santa Croce into the 
centre of pilgrimage, the Mecca of Italy, but of her 
whose eloquence was poured overthe illusirious ashes, 
and vvliose voice is now as mute as those she sung. 
Corinna is no morej and with her should expire the 
fear, the flattery, and the envy, which threw too 
dazzling or too dark a cloud around the march of ge- 
nius, and forbad the steady gaze of disinterested criti- 
cism. We have her picture embellished or distorted, 
as friendship or detraction has held the pencil : the im- 
partial portrait was hardly to be expected from a con- 
temporary. The immediate voice of her survivors 
will, it is probable, be far from affnding a just esti- 
mate of her singular capacity. The gallantry, the 
love of wonder, and the hope of associated fame, 
which blunted the edge of censure, must cease to exist. 
— The dead have no sex ; they can surprise by no new 
miracles J they can confer no privilege: Corinna has 
ceased to be a woman— she is only an author: and it 
may be foreseen that many will repay themselves for 
former complaisance, by a severity to which the extra- 
vagance of previous praises may perhaps give the co- 
lour of truth. The latest posterity, for to the latest 
posterity they will assuredly descend, will have to pro- 



nounce upon her various productions ; and the longer 
the vista through which they are seen, the more accu- 
rately minute will be the object, the more certain the 
justice, of the decision. She will enter into that exis- 
tence in which the great writers of all ages and nations 
are, as it were, associated in a world of their own, 
and, from that superior sphere, shed their eternal influ- 
ence for the control and consolation of mankind. But 
the individual will gradually disappear as the author is 
more distinctly seen : some one, therefore, of all those 
whom the charms of involuntary wit, and of easy hos- 
pitality, attracted within the friendly circles of Cojjpet, 
should rescue from oblivion those virtues which, al- 
though they are said to love the shade, are, in fact, 
more frequently chilled than excited by (he domestic 
cares of private life. Some one should be found to 
portray the unaffected graces with which she adorned 
those dearer relationships, the performance of whose 
duties is rather discovered amongst the interior secrets, 
than seen in the outward management, of family in- 
tercourse; and which, indeed, it lequires the delicacy 
of genuine affiection to qualify for the eye of an indif- 
ferent spectator. Some one should be found, not to 
celebrate, but to describe, the amiable mistress of an 
open mansion, the centre of a society, ever varied, and 
always pleased, the creator of which, divested of the 
ambition and the arts of public rivalry, shone forth only 
to give fresh animation to those around her. The mo- 
ther tenderly afl'eciionate and tenderly beloved, the 
friend unboundedly generous, but still esteemed, the 
charitable patroness of all distress, cannot be forgotten 
by those whom she cherished, and protected, and fed. 
Her loss will be mourned the most where she was 
known the best ; and, to the sorrows of very many 
friends, and more dependants, may be offered the dis- 
interested regret of a stranger, who, amidst the suhlimer 
scenes of the Leman lake, received his chief satisfac- 
tion from contemplating the engaging qualities of the 
incomparable Corinna. 



1 See Monim. Ant. Ined. par. i. cap. xvii. n. xlii. png. 
60.; and Storia dcU' Arti, Stc. lib. xi. cap. i. torn. ii. pag. 
314. not. B. 

2 Nomina gentesque Antiqua Italia, p. 204. edit. oct. 



No. XVI.-ALFIERL 

" Here repose 
AngeMs, Alfieri's bones.^^ — Stanza liv. 

Al fieri is the great name of this age. The Italians, 
without waiting for the hundred years, consider him 
as "a poet good in law." — His memory is the more 
dear to them because he is the bard of freedom ; and 
because, as such, his tragedies can receive no counte- 
nance from any of their sovereigns. They are but 
very seldom, and but very few of them, allowed to be 
acted. It was observed by Cicero, that nowhere were 
the true opinions and feelings of the Romans so clearly 
shown as at the theatre.3 In the autumn of 1816, a 
celebrated improvisatore exhibited his talents at the 
Opera-house of Milan. The reading of the theses 
handed in for the subjects of his poetry was received 
by a very numerous audience, for the most part in 
silence, or with laughter; but when the assistant, un- 
folding one of the papers, exclaimed, The apotheosis 
of Victor Mlfieri, the whole theatre burst into a shout, 
and the applause was continued for some moments. 
The lot did not fall on Alfieri ; and the Signer Sgricci 
had to pour forth his extemporary common-places on 
the bonibrirdment of Algiers. The choice, indeed, is 



3 The free expression of their honest sentiments sur- 
vived their liberties. Titius, the friend of Antony, pre- 
sented them with games in the theatre of Pompey. They 
did not sutrer the brillianry of the spectacle to efface from 
their memory that the man who furnished them with the 
entertainment had murdered the son of Pompey : they 
drove him from the theatre with curses. The moral f<ense 
of a populace, spontaneously expressed, is never wrong. 
Even the soldiers of the triumvirs joined in the execration 
of the citizens, by shouting round the chariots of I.epidus 
and PlancuH, who had proscribed their brothers, De Oer- 
mania non de Oallis duo triumphant Consules ; a saying 
worth a record, were it nothing but a good pun. [C. Veil. 
Palerculi Hist. lib. ii. cap. Ixxix. pag. 78. edit. Elzevir. 
1639. Ibid. lib. ii. cap. Ixxvii.] 



464 



APPENDIX TO CHILDE HAROLD 



not left to accident quite so much as might be thought 
from a first view of the ceremony ; and the police not 
only takes care to look at the papers beforehand, but, 
in case of any prudential after-thought, steps in to cor- 
rect the blindness of chance. The proposal for deify- 
ing Aifieri was received with immediate enthusiasm, 
the rather because it was conjectured there would be 
no opportunity of carrying it into eflfect. 



No. XVIL- MACHIAVELLI. 

" Here MachiavellVs earth rdurri'd to whence it rose.'''' 

Stanza liv. 

The aflfectation of simplicity in sepulchral inscrip- 
tions, which so often leaves us uncertain whether the 
structure befote us is an actual depository, or a ceno- 
taph, or a simple memorial not of death but life, has 
given to the tomb of Machiavelli no information as to 
the place or time of the birth or death, the age or pa- 
rentage, of the historian. 

TANTO NOMINI NVLLVM PAR ELOGIVM 
NICCOLAVS MACHIAVELLI. 

There seems at least no reason why the name should 
not have been put above the sentence which alludes 
to it. 

It will readily be imagined that the prejudices which 
have passed the name of Machiavelli into an epithet 
proverbial of iniquity exist no longer at Florence. 
His memory was persecuted, as his life had been, for 
an attachment to liberty incompatible with the new- 
system of despotism which succeeded the fall of the 
free governments of Italy. He was put to the torture 
for being a "libertine," that is, for wishing to restore 
the republic of Florence ; and such are the undying 
eflForts of those who are interested in the perversion, 
not only of the nature of actions, but the meaning of 
words, that what was once patriotism, has by degrees 
come to signify debauch. We have ourselves outlived 
the old meaning of " liberality,"' which is now another 
word for treason in one country atid for infatuation in 
all. It seems to have been a strange mistake to accuse 
the author of "The Prince," as being a pander to 
tyranny ; and to think that the Inquisition would con- 
demn his work for such a delinquency. The fact is, 
that Machiavelli, as is usual with those against whom 
no crime can be proved, was suspected of and charged 
with atheism ; and the first and last most violent op- 
posers of "The Prince" were both Jesuits, one of 
whom persuaded the Inquisition "benche fosse tardo," 
to prohibit the treatise, and the other qualified the 
secretary of the Florentine republic as no better than 
a fool. The father Possevin was proved never to have 
read the book, and the father Lucchesiui not to have 
understood it. It is clear, however, that such critics 
must have objected not to the slavery of the doctrines, 
but to the supposed tendency of a lesson which shows 
how distinct are the interests of a monarch from the 
happiness of mankind. The Jesuits are re-established 
in Italy, and the last chapter of "Ihe Prince" may 
again call forth a particular refutation from those who 
are employed once more in m-oulding the minds of the 
rising generation, so as to receive the impressions of 
despotism. The chapter bears for title, " Esortazione 
a liberare h Italia dai Barbari," and concludes with a 
libertine excitement to the future redemption of Italy. 
" Non si deve adunque lasciar passare questa occa- 
sione, acciocclie la Italia vegga dopo tanto tempo ap- 
parire un suo redentore. Ne posso esprimere con qual 
amore ei fusse ricevuto in tutte quelle provincie, che 
hanno patito per queste illuvioni eslerne, con qual sete 
di vendetta, con che ostinafa fade, con che lacrime. 
Quali porte se li serrerebeno ? Quali popoli li neghe- 
rebbono la obbedienza ? Quale Italiann li negherebbe 
1' ossequio ? ad ognuno puzza questo barbaro domi- 
nio:^ 1 



1 II Principe di Niccolo Machiavelli, Sec. con la prefa- 
Zione e le note istoriche e politiche di M. Amelot de la 



No. XVIIL— DANTE. 

" Ungrateful Florence ! Dante sleeps afar." 
Stanza Ivii. 

Dante was born in Florence, in the year 1261. He 
fought in two battles, was fourteen times ambassador, 
and once prior of the republic. When the party of 
Charles of Anjou triumphed over the Bianchi, he was 
absent on an embassy to Pope Boniface VIII., and was 
condemned to two years' banishment, and to a fine of 
80C0 lire; on the non payment of which he was fur- 
ther punished by the sequestration of all his property. 
The republic, however, was not content with this satis- 
faction, for in 1772 was discovered in the archives at 
[ Florence a sentence in wliich Dante is the eleventh of 
I a list of fifteen condemned in 1302 to be burnt alive; 
j Talis perveniens igne cumburatur sic quod moriatur. 
The pretext tor this judgment was a proof of unfair 
barter, ex'oitions, and illicit gains. Baracteriarum 
iniquaruin, extorsionunx, ct illicitorum lucrorum," 
and with such an accusation it is not strange that Dante 
should have always protested his innocence, and the 
injustice of his fellow-ciiizens. His appeal to Flor- 
ence was accompanied by another to the Emperor 
Henry; and the death of that sovereign in 1313 was 
the signal for a sentence of irrevocable banishment. 
He had before lingered near Tuscany with hopes of 
recall ; then travelled into the north of Italy, where 
Verona had to boast of his longest residence'; and he 
finally settled at Ravenna, which was his ordinary but 
not constant abode until his death. The refusal of the 
Venetians to grant him a public audience, on the part 
of Guido Novello da Polenta, his protector, is said to 
have been the principal cause of this event, which 
j happened in 1321. He was buried (" in sacra mino- 
\ rum aede") at Ravenna, in a handsome tomb, which 
j was erected by Guido, restored by Bernardo Bembo in 
1483, prjetor for that republic which had refused to 
i hear him, again restored by Cardinal Corsi, in 1692, 
I and replaced by a more magnificent sepulchre, con- 
j structed in 1780 at the expense of the Cardinal Luigi 
j Valenti Gonzaga. The otience or misfortune of Dante 
j was an attachment to a defeated party, and, as his 
j least favourable biographers allege against him, too 
great a freedom of speech and haughtiness of manner. 
I But the next age paid honours almost divine to the 
exile. The Florentines, having in vain and frequently 
attempted to recover his body, crowned his image in a 
church, 3 and his picture is still one of the idols of their 
cathedral. They struck medals, they raised statues to 
him. The cities of Italy, not being able to dispute 
about his own birth, contended for that of his great 
poem, and the Florentines thought it for their honour 
to prove that he had finished the seventh Canto before 
they drove him from his native city. Fifty-one years 
after his death, they endowed a professorial chair for 
the expounding of his verses, and Boccaccio was ap- 
pointed to this patriotic employment. The example 
was imitated by Bolojna and Pisa, and the commenta- 
tors, if thev performed but little service to literature, 
augmented the veneration which beheld a sacred or 
moral allegory in all the images of his mystic muse. 
His birth and his infancy were discovered to have been 
distinguished above those of ordinary men : the author 
of the Decameron, his earliest biographer, relates that 
his mother was warned in a dream of the importance 
of her pregnancy : and it was found, by others, that at 
ten years of age he had manifested his precocious pas- 
sion for that wisdom or theology, which, under the 
name of Beatrice, had been mistaken for a substantial 
mistress. When the Divine Comedy had been recog- 
nised as a mere mortal production, and at the distance 
of two centuries, when criticism and competition had 



Houssaye e 1' esame e confutazione dell' opera . . . Cos- 
mopoli, 1769. 

astoria delta Lett. Ital. torn. v. lib. iii. par. 2. p. 448. 
Tiraboschi is incorrect ; the dates of the three decrees 
against Dante are A. D. 1302, 1314, and 1316. 

3 So relates Ficino, but some think his coronation only 
an allegory. See Storia,&c. ut sup. p. 453. 



APPENDIX TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



465 



sobered the judgment of the Italians, Dante was seri- 
ously declared superior to Homer ; i and though the 
preference appeared to some casuists " an heretical 
blasphemy worthy of the flames," the contest was 
vigorously maintained for nearly fifty years. In later 
times it was made a question which of the Loids of 
Verona could boast of having patronised him,'^ and the 
jealous scepticism of one writer would not allow Ra- 
venna the undoubted possession of his bones. Even 
the critical Tiraboschi was inclined to believe that the 
poet had foreseen and foretold one of the discoveries of 
Galileo. — Like the great originals of other nations, his 
popularity has not always maintained the same level. 
The last age seemed inclined to undervalue him as a 
model and a study : and Bettinelli one day rebuked 
his pupil Monti, for poring over the harsh and obso- 
lete extravagances of the Commedia. The present 
generation having recovered from the Gallic idolatries 
of Cesarotti, has returned to the ancient worship, and 
the Danteggiare of the northern Italians is thought 
even indiscreet by the more moderate Tuscans. 

There is still much curious information relative to 
the life and writings of this great poet, which has not 
as yet been collected even by the Italians ; but the 
celebrated Ugo Foscolo meditates to supply this defect, 
and it is not to be regretted that this national work has 
been reserved for one so devoted to his country and the 
cause of truth. 



No. XIX. — TOMB OF THE SCIPIOS. 

" Like Scipio, buried by the wpbraiding shore ; 
Thy factions, in their worse than civil war. 
Proscribed,^' <^c.— Stanza Ivii. 

The elder Scipio Africanus had a tomb if he v/as not 
buried at Liternum, whither he had retired to volun- 
tary banishment. This tomb was near the sea-shore, 
and the story of an inscription upon it, Ingrata Pa- 
tria, having given a name to a modern tower, is, if not 
true, an agreeable fiction. If he was not buried, he 
certainly lived there.3 

In cosi angusta e solitaria villa 

Era '1 grand' uomo che d' Africa s' appella 

Perche prima col feno al vivo aprilla.4 

Ingratitude is generally supposed the vice peculiar to 
republics ; and it seems to be forgotten that for one 
instance of popular inconstancy, we have a hundred 
examples of the fall of courtly favourites. Besides, a 
people have often repented — a monarch seldom or 
never. Leaving apart many familir\r proofs of this 
fact, a short story may show (he difference between 
even an aristocracy and the multitude. 

Vettor Pisani, having been defeated in 1354 at Por- 
tolongo, and many years afterwards in the more deci- 
sive action of Pola, by the Genoese, was recalled by 
the Venetian government, and thrown into chains. 
The Avvogadori proposed to behead him, but the su- 
preme tribunal was content with the sentence of im- 
prisonment. Whilst Pisani was suffering this unmer- 
ited disgrace, Chioza, in the vicinity of "the capital, s 
was, by the assistance of the Signor of Padua, deli- 
vered into the hands of Pietro Doria. At the intelli- 
gence of that disaster, the great bell of St. Mark's 
tower tolled to arms, and the people and the soldiery 
of the galleys were summoned to the repulse of the 
approaching enemy ; but they protested they would 
not move a step, unless Pisani were liberated and 
placed at their he;id. The great council was instantly 
assembled : the prisoner was called before them, and 

1 By Varchi, in his Ercolano. The controversy con- 
tinued from l.')70 to 1G16, See Storia, &c. torn. vii. lib. iii. 
par. iii. p. 12b0. 

2 Gio. Jacopo Dionisi Canoniro di Verona. Serie di 
Aneddoli, n. % See Storia, &c. torn. v. lib. i. par. i. p. 24. 

3 Vitam Literni egit sine desiderio urbis. See T. Liv. 
Hist. lib. xxxviii. Livy reports that some said he was 
buried at-Liternum, others at Rome. Ibid. cap. Iv. 

4 Trionfo della Castita. 5 See Note VI. page 468. 



30 



the Doge, Andrea Contarini, informed him of this de- 
mands of the people, and the necessities of the state, 
whose only hope of safety was reposed in his efforts, 
and who implored him to forget the indignities he had 
endured in her service. " I have submitted," replied 
the magnanimous republican, " I have submitted to 
your deliberations without complaint; I have sup- 
ported patiently the pains of imprisonment, for they 
were inflicted at your command: this is no time to 
inquire whether I deserved them — the good of the 
republic may h ive seemed to require it, and that which 
the republic resolves is always resolved wisely. Be- 
hold me ready to lay down my life for the preservation 
of my country." Fisani was appointed generalissimo, 
and by his exertions, in conjunction with those of 
Carlo Zeno, the Venetians soon recovered the ascend- 
ency over their maritime rivals. 

I'he Italian communities were no less unjust to their 
citizens than the Greek republics. Liberty, both with 
the one and the other, seems to have been a national, 
not an individual oljject: and, notwithstanding the 
boasted equality before the laws, which an ancient 
Greek writers considered the great distinctive mark 
between his countrymen and the barbarians, the mutual 
rights of fellow-citizens seem never to have been the 
principal scope of the old democracies. The world 
may have not yet seen an essay by the author of the 
Italian Republics, in which the distinction between the 
liberty of former states, and the signification attached 
to that word by the happier constitution of England, is 
ingeniously developed. The Italians, however, when 
they had ceased to be free, still looked back with a 
sigh upon those times of turbulence, when every citi- 
zen might rise to a share of sovereign power, and have 
never been taught fully to appreciate the repose of a 
monarchy. Sperone Speroni, when Francis Maria II. 
Duke of Roveie proposed the question, " which was 
preferable, the republic or the principality — the per- 
fect and not durable, or the less perfect and not so liable 
to change," replied, " that our happiness is to be mea- 
sured by its quality, not by its duration ; and that he 
preferred to live; for one day like a man, than for a 
hundred yeacs like a brute, a stock, or a stone." This 
was thought, and called, a magnificent answer, down 
to the last days of Italian servitude.'' 



No. XX.— PETRARCH'S CROWN. 

" And the crown 
Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely were 
Upon a far and foreign soil had grown." 

Stanza Ivii. 

The Florentines did not fake the opportunity of Pe- 
trarch's short visit to their city in 1350 to revoke the 
decree which confiscated the property of his father, 
who had been banished shortly after the exile of 
Dante. His crown did not dazzle them ; but when in 
the next year (hey were in want of his assistance in 
the formation of their university, they repented of their 
injustice, and Rocciccio was sent to Padua to entreat 
the laureate to conclude his wanderings in the bosom 
of his native country, where he might finish his im- 
mortal Africa, and enjoy, with his recovered pos- 
sessions, the esteem of all classes of his fellow-citizens. 
They gave him the option of the book and the science 
he might condescend to expound : they called him the 
glory of his country, who was dear, and who would 
be dearer to them ; and they added, that if there was 
any thing unpleasing in their letter, he ought to return 
amongst them, were it only to correct their style. 8 



6 The Greek boasted that he was 1<T0V6}10S. See the 
last chapter of the ftrst book of Dionysius of Halicarnassus. 

7 "E intorno alia magnifica risposta," &c. Serassi, 
Vita del Tasso, lib. iii. pag. 149. torn. ii. edit. 3. Bergamo. 

8 " Accinpili innoltre, se ci e lecito ancor 1' esortarti, a 
compire 1' immortal tua Africa . . . Se ti avviene d' in- 
contrare nel nostro stile cosa che ti dispiaccia, cio debb' 
essere un altro motivo ad esaudire i desiJerj della tua pa- 
tria. " Storia della Lett. Ital. torn. v. par.i. lib. i. pag. 76. 



466 



APPENDIX TO CHILDE HAROLD 



Petrarch seemed at first to listen to the flattery and to 
the entreaties of his friend, but he did not return to 
Florence, and preferred a pilgrimage to the tomb of 
Laura and the shades of Vaucluse. 



No. XXL — BOCCACCIO. 

" Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeathed 
Hts dust.'^— Stanza Iviii. 

Boccaccio was buried in the church of St. Michael 
and St. James, at Certaldo, a small town in the Val- 1 
delsa, which was by some supposed the place of his 
birth. There he passed the latter part of his life in a 
course of laborious study, which shortened his exis- 
tence ; and there might his ashes have been secure, if 
not of honour, at least of repose. But the '• hyena 
bigots" of Certaldo tore up the tombstone of Boccaccio, 
and ejected it from the holy precincts of St. Michael 
and St. James. The occasion, and, it may be hoped, 
the excuse, of this ejectment was the making of a new 
floor for the church ; but the fact is, that the tomb- ' 
stone was taken up and thrown aside at the bottom of 
the building. Ignorance may share the sin with big- 
otry. It would be painful to relate such an exception 
to the devotion of the Italians for their great names, 
could it not be accompanied by a trait more honourably 
conformable to the general character of the nation. 
The principal person of the district, the last branch of 
the house of Medicis, afforded that protection to the 
memory of the insulted dead which her best ancestors 
had dispensed upon all contemporary merit. The 
Marchioness Lenzoni rescued the tombstone of Boc- 
caccio from the neglect in which it had some time 
lain, and found for it an honourable elevation in her 
own mansion. She has done more : the house in 
which the poet lived has been as little respected as 
his tomb, and is falling to ruin over the head of one 
indifferent to the name of its former tenant. It con- 
sists of two or three little chambers, and a low tower, 
on which Cosmo II. aflSxed an inscription. This 
house she has taken measures to purchase, and pro- 
poses to devote to it that care and consideration which 
are attached to the cradle and to the roof of genius. 

This is not the place to undertake the defence of 
Boccaccio ; but the man who exhausted his little patri- 
mony in the acquirement of learning, who was amongst 
the first, if not the first, to allure the science and the 
poetry of Greece to the bosom of Italy ; — who not 
only invented a new style, but founded, or certainly 
fixed, a new language ; who, besides the esteem of 
every polite court of Europe, was thought worthy of 
employment by the predominant republic of his own 
country, and, what is more, of the friendship of Pe- 
trarch, who lived the life of a philosopher and a free- 
man, and who died in the pursuit of knowledge, — 
such a man might have found more consideration than 
he has met with from the priest of Certaldo, and from 
a late English traveller, who strikes off his portrait as 
an odious, contemptible, licentious writer, whose im- 
pure remains should be suffered to rot without a re- 
cord.! That English traveller, unfortunately for those 
who have to deplore the loss of a very amiable person, 
is beyond all criticism j but the mortality which did 

1 Classical Tour, chap. ix. vol. ii, p. 355. edit. 3d. "Of 
Boccaccio, the modern Petronius, we say nothing; the 
abuse oif genius is more odious and more contemptible than 
its absence; and it imports little where the impure re- 
mains of a licentious author are consigned to their kin- 
dred dust. For the same reason the traveller may pass 
unnoticed the tomb of the malignant Aretino." This 
dubious phrase is hardly entjugh to save the tourist from 
the suspicion of another blunder respecting the burial- 
place of Aretine, whose tomb was in the church of St. 
Luke at Venice, and gave rise to the famous controversy 
of which some notice is taken in Bayle. Now the words 
of Mr. Eustace would lead us to think the tomb was at 
Florence, or at least was to be somewhere recognised. 
Whether the inscription so much disputed was ever writ- 
ten on the tomb cannot now be decided, for all memorial 
of this author has disappeared from the church of St. Luke. 



not protect Boccaccio from Mr. Eustace, must not de- 
fend Mr. Eustace from the impartial judgment of his 
successors. Death may canonise his virtues, not his 
errors; and it may be modestly pronounced that he 
transgressed, not only as an author, but as a man, when 
he evoked the shade of Boccaccio in company with 
that of Aretine, amidst the sepulchres of Santa Croce, 
merely to dismiss it with indignity. As far as respects 

" II flagello de' Principi, 
II divin Pietro Aretino," 

it is of little import what censure is passed upon a 
coxcomb who owes his present existence to the above 
burlesque character given to him by the poet, whose 
amber has preserved many other grubs and worms: 
but to classify Boccaccio with such a person, and to 
excommunicate his very ashes, must of itself make us 
doubt of the qualification of the classical tourist for 
writing upon Italian, or, indeed, upon any other lite- 
rature ; for ignorance on one point may incapacitate 
an author merely for that particular topic, but subjec- 
tion to a professional prejudice must render him an 
unsafe director on all occasions. Any perversion and 
injustice may be made what is vulgarly called " a case 
of conscience," and this poor excuse is all that can be 
offered for the priest of Certaldo, or the author of the 
Classical Tour. It would have answered the purpose 
to confine the censure to the novels of Boccaccio ; and 
gratitude to that sojirce which supplied the mu^ of 
Dryden with her last and most harmonious numbers 
might, perhaps, have restricted that censure to the ob- 
jectionable qualities of the hundred tales. At any rate 
the repentance of Boccaccio might have arrested his 
exhumation, and it should have been recollected and 
told, that in his old age he wrote a letter entreating his 
friend to discourage the reading of the Decameron, for 
the sake of modesty, and for the sake of the author, 
who would not have an apologist always at hand to 
state in his excuse that he wrote it when young, and 
at the command of his superiors. 2 It is neither the 
licentiousness of the writer, nor the evil propensities 
of the reader, which have given to the Dectmeron 
alone, of all the works of Boccaccio, a perpetual popu- 
larity. The establishment of a new and delightful dia- 
lect conferred an immortality on the works in which 
it was first fixed. The sonnets of Petrarch were, for 
the same reason, fated to survive his self-admired Africa, 
the " favourite of kings." The invariable traits of na- 
ture and feeling with svhich the novels, as well as the 
verses, abound, have doubtless been the chief source of 
the foreign celebrity of both authors ; but Boccaccio, 
as a man, is no more to be estimated by that work, than 
Petrarch is to be regarded in no other light than as the 
lover of Laura. Even, however, had the father of 
the Tuscan, prose been known only as the author of 
the Decameron, a considerate writer would have been 
cautious to pronounce a sentence irreconcilable with 
the unerring voice of many ages and nations. An 
irrevocable value has never been stamped upon any 
work solely recommended by impurity. 

The true source of the outcry against Boccaccio, 
which began at a very early period, was the choice of 
i his scandalous personages in the cloisters as well as the 
, courts ; but the princes only laughed at the gallant ad- 
j ventures so unjustly charged upon queen Theodelinda, 
] whilst the priesthood cried shame upon the debauches 
I drawn from the convent and the hermitage ; and most 
i probably for the opposite reason, namely, that the pic- 
I ture was faithful to the life. Two of the novels are 
allowed to be facts usefully turned into tales to deride 
the canonisation of rogues and laymen. Ser Ciappel- 
letto and Marcellinus are cited with applause even by 
; the decent Muralori.s The great Aruaud, as he is 
quoted in Bayle, states, that a new edition of the 



2"Non enim ubique est, qui in excusationem meam 
consurgens dicat, juvenis scripsit, et majoris coactus im- 
perio. " The letter was addrei«sed to Maghinard of Caval- 
canti, marshal of the kingdom of Sicily. See Tiraboschi, 
Storia, &c. tom. v. par. ii. lib. iii. 

3 Dissertazioni sopra le Antichita Italiene, Diss. Iviii. 



APPENDIX TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



467 



novels was proposed, of which the expurgation con- 
sisted in omitting the words "monk" and " nun," and 
tacking the immoralities to other names. The literary 
history of Italy particularises no such edition ; but it 
was not long before the whole of Europe had but one 
opinion of the Decameron ; and the absolution of the 
author seems to have been a point settled at least a hun- 
dred years ago : " On se feroit sitHer si I'on pretendoit 
convaincre Boccace de n'avoir pas ete honnete homme, 
puis qu'il a fait le Decameron." So said one of the 
best znen, and perhaps the best critic, that ever lived — 
the very martyr to impartiality.! But as this informa- 
tion, that in the beginning of the last century one 
would have been hooted at for pretending that Boccac- 
cio was not a good man, may seem to come from one 
of those enemies who are to be suspected, even when 
they make us a present of truth, a more acceptable 
contrast with the proscription of the body, soul, and 
muse of Boccaccio may be found in a few words from 
the virtuous, the patriotic contemporary, who thought 
one of the tales of this impure writer worthy a Latin 
version from his own pen. " I have remarked else- 
ivhere," says Petrarch, writing to Boccaccio, " that the 
book itself has been worried by certain dogs, but 
stoutly defended by your staff and voice. Nor was I 
astonished, for I have had proof of the vigour of your 
mind, and I know you have fallen on that unaccom- 
modating incapable race of mortals, who, whatever 
they either like not, or know not, or cannot do, are 
sure to reprehend in others ; and on those occasions 
only put ou a show of learning and eloquence, but 
otherwise are entirely dumb." ^ 

It is satisfactory (o find that all the priesthood do not 
resemble those of Certaldo, and that one of them who 
did not possess the bones of Boccaccio would not lose 
the opportunity of raising a cenotaph to his memory. 
Bevius, canon of Padua, at the beginning of the six- 
teenth century, erected at Arqua, opposite to the tomb 
of the Laureate, a tablet, in wliich he associated Boc- 
caccio to the equal honours of Dante and of Petrarch. 



No. XXII.- THE MEDICL 

" What is her pyramid of precious simxes .?" 
Stanza Ix. 

Our veneration for the Medici begins with Cosmo 
and expires with his grandson ; that stream is pure 
only at the source ; and it is in search of some memo- 
rial of the virtuous republicans of the family that we 
visit the church of St. Lorenzo at Florence. The 
tawdry, glaring, unfinished chapel in that church, de- 
signed for the mausoleum of the Dukes of Tuscany, 
set round with crowns and coffins, gives birth to no 
emotions but those of contempt for the lavish vanity 
of a race of despots, whilst the pavement slab, simply 
inscribed to the Father of his Country, reconciles us 
to the name of Medici. 3 It was very natural for Co- 
rinna* to suppose that the statue raised to the Duke of 
Urbino in the capella de' depositi was intended for his 
great namesake ; but the magnificent Lorenzo is only 
the sharer of a coffin half hidden in a niche of the 
sacristy. The decay of Tuscany dates from the sove- 
reignty of the Medici. Of the sepulchral peace which 
succeeded to the establishment of the reigning families 
in Italy, our own Sidney has given us a glowing, but a 
faithful picture. "Notwithstanding all the seditions 
of Florence, and other cities of Tuscany, the horrid 
factions of Guelphs and Ghibelins, Neri and Bianchi, 
nobles and commons, they continued populous, strong, 
and exceeding rich ; but in the space of less than a 
hundred and fifly years, the peaceable reign of the 
Medices is thought to have destroyed nine parts in ten 
of the people of that province. Amongst other things, 



1 Eclaircissement, (fee. &c. p. 638. edit. Basle, 1741, in 
the Supplement to Psayle's Dictionary. 

2 0pp. torn. i. p. 540. edit. Basil. 

3 Cosmus Medices, Decreto Publico, Pater Patriae. 

4 Corinne, liv. xviii. chap. iii. vol. iii. page 218. 



it is remarkable, that when Philip II. of Spain gave 
Sienna to the Duke of Florence, his ambassador then 
at Rome sent him word, that he had given away more 
than 650,000 subjects; and it is not believed there are 
now 20,000 souls inhabiting that city and territory. 
Pisa, Pistoia, Arezzo, Cortona, and other towns, that 
were then good and populous, are in the like propor- 
tion diminished, and Florence more than any. When 
that city had beeu long troubled with seditions, tu- 
mults, and wars, for the most p.irt unprosperous, they 
still retained such strength, that when Charles VI II. of 
France, being admitted as a friend with his whole 
army, which soon after conquered the kingdom of 
Naples, thought to master them, the people, taking 
arms, struck such a terror into him, that he was glad 
to depart upon such conditions as they thought fit to 
impose. Machiavel reports, that in that time Florence 
alone, with the Val d'Arno, asmall territory belonging 
to that city, could, in a few hours, by the sound of a 
bell, bring together 135,000 well-armed men ; whereas 
now that city, with all the others in that province, are 
brought to such despicable weakness, emptiness, po- 
verty, and baseness, that they can neither resist the op- 
pressions of their own prince, nor defend him or 
themselves if they were assaulted by a foreign enemy. 
Tiie people are dispersed or destroyed, and the best 
families sent to seek habitations in Venice, Genoa, 
Rome, Naples, and Lucca. This is not the effect of 
war or pestilence : they enjoy a perfect peace, and suf- 
fer no other plague than the government they are un- 
der." 5 From the usurper Cosmo down to the imbe- 
cile Gaston, we look in vain for any of those unmixed 
qualities which should raise a patriot to the command 
of his fellow-citizens. The Grand Dukes, and par- 
ticularly the third Cosmo, had operated so entire a 
change in the Tuscan character, that the candid Flo- 
rentines, in excuse for some imperfections in the phi- 
lanthropic system of Leopold, are obliged to confess 
that the sovereign was the only liberal man in his do- 
minions. Yet that excellent prince himself had no 
other notion of a national assembly, than of a body to 
represent the wants and wishes, not the will, of the 
people. 



No. XXIII.— BATTLE OF THRASIMENE. 

''An earthquake reeVd unheededly away.^' 

Stanza Ixiii. 

" And such was their mutual animosity, so intent 
were they upon the battle, that the earthquake, which 
overthrew in great part many of the cities of Italy, 
which turned the course of rapid streams, poured back 
the sea upon the rivers, and tore down the very moun- 
tains, was not felt by one of the combatants." s Such 
is the description of Livy. It may be doubted whe- 
ther modern tactics would admit of such an abstraction. 

The site of the battle of Thrasimene is not to be 
mistaken. The traveller from the village under Cor- 
tona to Casa di Piano, the next stage on the way to 
Rome, has for the first two or three miles, around him, 
but more particularly to the right, that flat land which 
Hannibal laid waste in order to induce the Consul Fla- 
minius to move from Arezzo. On his left, and in front 
of him, is a ridge of hills bending down towards the 
lake of Thrasimene, called by Livy "montes Corto- 
nenses," and now named the Gualandra. These hills 
he approaches at Ossaja, a village which the itineraries 
pretend to have been so denominated from the bones 
found there : but there have been no bones found 
there, and the battle was fought on the other side of 
the hill. From Ossaja the road begins to rise a little, 
but does not pass into the roots of the mountains until 
the sixty-seventh mile-stone from Florence. The as- 
cent thence is not steep but perpetual, and continues 
for twenty minutes. The lake is soon seen below on 



5 On Government, chap. ii. sect. xxvi. pag. 208. edit. 
1751. Sidney is, together with Locke and Hoadley, one 
of Mr. Hume's "despicable" writers. 

6 Tit. Liv. lib. xxii. cap. xii. 



468 



APPENDIX TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



the right, with Borghetto, a round tower, close upon [ 
the water; and the undulating hills partially covered 
with wood, amongst which the road winds, sink by i 
degrees into the marshes near to this tower. Lowei' | 
than the road, down to the right amidst the-e wondy | 
hillocks, Hannibal placed his horse, i in the jaws of, ; 
or rather above the pass, which was between the 1 ike j 
and the present road, and most probably close to Bor- ; 
ghetto, just under the lowest of the " tumuli." 2 On ' 
a summit to the left, above the road, is an old circular , 
ruin, which the peasants call " the tower of Hannibal 
the Carthaginian." Arrived at the highest point of 
the road, the traveller has a partial view of the fatal 
I plain, which opens fully upon him as he descends the 
Gualandra. He soon finds himself in a vale enclosed 
to the left, and in front, and behind him by the Gua- ' 
landra hills, bending round in a segment larger than a 
semicircle, and running down at each end to the lake, 
which obliques to the right and forms the chord of this 
mountain arc. The position cannot be guessed at from 
the plains of Cortona, nor appears to be so completely i 
enclosed unless to one who is fairly within the hills. 
It then, indeed, appears " a place made as it were on 
purpose for a snare," locus insidiis natus. " Bor- 
ghetto is then found to stand in a narrow marshy pass 
close to the hill, and to the lake, whilst there is no 
other outlet at the opposite turn of the mountains than 
through the little town of Passignano, which is pushed 
into the water by the foot of a~'high rocky acclivity." 
There is a woody eminence branching down from the 
mountains into the upper end of the plain nearer to i 
the side of Passignano, and on this stands a white vil- 1 
lage called Torre. Polybius seems to allude to this | 
eminence as the one on which Hannibal encamped, 
and drew out his heavy-armed Africans and Spaniards 
in a conspicuous position.^ From this spot he de- 
spatched his Balearic and light-armed troops round 
through the Gualandra heights to the right, so as to 
arrive unseen and form an ambush amongst the broken 
acclivities which the road now passes, and to be ready 
to act upon the left flank and above the enemy, whilst 
the horse sliut up the pass behind. Flaminius came to 
the lake near Borghetto at sunset ; and, without send- 
ing any spies before him, marched through the pass 
the next morning before the day had quite broken, so j 
that he perceived nothing of the horse and light troops I 
above and about him, and sasv only the heavy-armed 
Carthaginians in front on the hill of Torre. The con- 
sul began to draw out his army in the fiat, and in the 
mean time the horse in ambush occupied the pass be- 
hind him at Borghetto. Thus the Romans were com- 
pletely enclosed, having the lake on the right, the 
main army on the hill of Torre in front, the Gualan- 
dra hills filled with the light-armed on their left flank, 
and being prevented from receding by the cavalry, 
who, the farther they advanced, stopped up all the 
outlets in the rear. A fog rising from the lake now 
spread itself over the army of the consul, but the high 
lands were in the sunshine, and all the ditferent corps 
in ambush looked toward the hill of Torre for the 
order of attack. Hannibal gave the signal, and moved 
down from his post on the height. At the same mo- 
ment all his troops on the eminences behind and in 
the flank of Flaminius rushed forwards as it were 
with one accord into the plain. The Romans, who 
were forming their array in the mist, suddenly heard 
the shouts of the enemy amongst them, on every side, 
and before they could fall into their ranks, or draw 
their swords, or see by whom they were attacked, felt 
at once that they were surrounded and lost. 

There are two little rivulets which run from the 
Gualandra into the lake. The traveller crosses the 
first of these at about a mile after he comes into the 
plain, and this divides the Tuscan from the Papal ter- 



ritories. The second, about a quarter of a mile fur- 
ther on, is called " the bloody rivulet ;" and the peas- 
ants point out an open spot to the left between the 
" Sanguinetto" and the hills, which, they say, was the 
princi{)al scene of slaughter. The other part of the 
plain is covered with thick-set olive-trees in corn 
grounds, and is nowhere quite level except near the 
ed;;e of the lake. It is, indeed, most probable that the 
battle was fought near this end of the valley, for the 
six thousand Romans, who, at the beginning of the 
action, broke through the enemy, escaped to the sum- 
mit of an eminence which must ha\.e been in this 
quarter, otherwise they would have had to traverse the 
whole plain, and to pierce through the main army of 
Hannibal. 

The Romans fought desperately for three hours ; but 
the death of Flaminius was the signal for a general 
dispersion. The Carthaginian horse then burst in 
upon the fugitives, and the lake, the marsh about Bor- 
ghetto, but chiefly the plain of the Sanguinetto and the 
passes of the Gualandra, were strewed with dead. 
Near some old walls on a bleak ridge to the left above 
the rivulet, many human bones have been repeatedly 
found, and this has confirmed the pretensions and the 
name of the "stream of blood." 

Every district of Italy has its hero. In the north 
some painter is the usual genius of the place, and the 
foreign Julio Romano more than divides Mantua with 
her native Virgil. 4 To the south we hear of Roman 
names. Near Thrasimene tradition is still faithful to 
the fame of an enemy, and Hannibal the Carthiginian 
is the only ancient name remembered on the banks of 
the Perugian lake. Flaminius is unknown; but the ] 
postilions on that road have been taught to show the 
very spot where II Console Rotnano was slain. Of all 
who fought and fell in the battle of Thrasimene, the 
historian himself has, besides the generals and Mahar- 
bal, preserved indeed only a single name. You over- 
take the Carthaginian ajcain on the same road to Rome, i 
The antiquary, that is, the hostler of the posfhouse at i 
Spoleto, tells you that his town repulsed the victorious i 
enemy, and shows you the gate sfill called Porta di 
Annihale. It is hardly worth while to remark that a ' 
French travel-writer, well known by the name of the 
President Dupaty, saw Thrasimend in the lake of Bol- 
sena, which lay conveniently on his way from Sienna 
to Rome. 



1 Tit. Liv. lib. xxii. cap. iv. 2 Ibid. 

3 Hist. lib. ill. cap. 83. The account in PoIybiu8 is not 
80 easily reconcilable with present appearances as that in 
LiTy; he talks of hills to the right and left of the pass 
and valley ; but when Flaminius entered he had the lake 
at the right of both. 



No. XXIV.— STATUE OF POMPEY. 

" And thou, dread statue .' still existent in 
The austerest form of naked majesty.^' 

Stanza Ixxxvii. 

The projected division of the Spada Pompey has 
already been recorded by the historian of the Decline | 
and Fall of the Roman Empire. Mr. Gibbon found it ' 
in the memorials of Fl miinius Vacca ; and it may be i 
added to his mention of it, that Pope Julius III. gave 
the contending owners five hundred crowns for the 
statue, and presented it to Cardinal Capo di Ferro, who 
had prevented the judgment of Solomon from being 
executed upon the image. In a more civilised age this 
statue was exposed to an actual operation : for the 
French, who acted the Brutus of Voltaire in the Coli- 
seum, resolved that their Caesar should fall at the base 
of that Pompey, which was supposed to have been 
sprinkled with the blood of the original dictator. The 
nine-foot hero was therefore removed to the arena of 
the amphitheatre, and, to facilitate its transport, suf- 
fered the temporary amputation of its right arm. The 
republican tragedians had to plead that the arm was a 
restoration : but their accusers do not believe that the 
integrity of the statue would have protected it. The 
love of finding every coincidence has discovered the 
true Caesarian ichor in a stain near the right knee ; but 

4 About the middle of the twelfth century the coins of 
Mantua bore on one side the image and ligiire of Virgil. 
Zecca d' Italia, p'- xvii. i. 6. Voyage dans le Milanais, 
&c. par. A. Z. Millin, torn. ii. pag. 294. Paris, 1817. 



APPENDIX TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



469 



colder criticism has rejected not only the blood, but the 
portrait, and assigned the globe of power rather to the 
first of the emperors than to the last of the republican 
masters of Rome. Wiukelmann i is loth to allow an 
heroic statue of a Roman citizen, but the Grimani 
Agiippa, a contempoiary almost, is heroic ; and naked 
Roman figures were only very rare, not absolutely for- 
bidden. The face accords much better with the •' ho- 
minem integrum et castum et gravem," 2 than with 
any of the busts of Augustus, and is too stern for him 
who was beautiful, says Suetonius, at all periods of his 
life. The pretended likeness to Alexander the Great 
cannot be discerned, but the traits resemble the medal 
of Pompey.3 The objectionable globe may not have 
been an ill applied flattery to him who found Asia Mi- 
nor the boundary, and left it ihe centre of the Roman 
empire. It seeins that VVinkelmaim has made a mis- 
take in thinking that no proof of the identity of this 
statue with that which received the bloody sacrifice 
can be derived from the sjiot where it was discovered. * 
Flaminius Vacca says sotlo una cantina, and Ihiscan- 
tina is known to have been in the Vicolo de' Leutari, 
near the Cancellaria ; a position corresponding exactly 
to that of the Janus before the basilica of Pompey's 
theatre, to which Augustus transferred the statue after 
the curia was either burnt or taken down.s Part of 
the Pompeian shade, the portico, existed in the begin- 
ning of the XVlh century, and the atrium was still 
c lUed Sairwm. So says Blondus. At all events, so 
imposing is the stern majesty of the statue, and so me- 
morable is the story, that the play of the imagination 
leaves no room for the exercise of the judgment, and 
the fiction, if a fiction it is, operates on the spectator 
with an effect not less powerful than truth. 



No, XXV.— THE BRONZE WOLF. 

" ^nd thou, the thunder -stricken nurse of Rome ! " 
Stanza Ixxxviii. 
Ancient Rome, like modern Sienna, abounded most 
probibly with images of the foster-mother of her 
founder ; but there were two she-wolves of whom his- 
tory makes particulir mention. One of these, of brass 
in ancient work, was seen by Dionysius 6 at the temple 
of Romulus, under the Palatine, and is universally be- 
lieved to be that mentioned by the Latin historian, as 
having been made from ihe money collected by a fine 
on usurers, and as standing under the Ruminal fig;-tree.i 
The other was that which Cicero 8 has celebrated both 
in prose and verse, and which the historian Dion also 
records as having suffered the same accident as i< al- 
luded to by the orator. 9 The question agitated by the 
antiquaries is, whether the wolf now in the Conserva- 
tor's Palace is that of Livy and Dionysius, or that of 
Cicero, or whether it is neither one nor the other 
The earlier writers difler as much as the moderns 



1 Storia delle Arti, &c. lib. ix. cap. 1. pag. 321, 322. 
torn. ii. 

2 Cicer. Epist. ad. Atticum, xi. 6. 

3 Published by Causeus, in his Museum Romanum. 

4 Storia delle Arti, ikc. 1. ix. c. i. 

5 Sueton. in vit. August, cap. 31. and in vit. C. J. Ce- 
sar, cap. i:8. Appiaii says it was burnt down. See a note 
of Pitiscus to Si\etonius, pag. 224. 

6 Antiq. Rom. lib. 1. 7 Liv. Hist. lib. x. cap. Ixix. 
8"Tum statua Naltae, turn simulacra Deorum, Romu- 

lusque et Remus cum altrice belkia vi fulminis ictis com i- 
derunt." De Divinat. ii. 20. " Tactus est ilia etiam qui 
hanc urbemcondidit Romulus, quem inauratum inCapito- 
lio parvum atque lactantem, uberibus lupinis iuhiantem 
fuisse meministis." In Catilin. iii. 8. 

" Hie silvestris erat Romani nominis altrix 
Martia, quae parvos Mavortis semine natog 
■Uberibus gravidis vitali rore rigebat 
Que turn cum pueris flammato fulminis ictu 
Coucidit, atque avulsa pedum vestigia liqnat." 

De Consulatu, lib. ii. (lib. i.de Divinat, cap. ii.) 
9 Dion. Hist. lib. xxxvii. p. 37. edit. Rob. Steph. 1648. 



Lucius Faunas lo says, that it is the one alluded to by 
both, which is impossible, and also by Virgil, which 
may be. Fulvius UrsinusH calls it the wolf of Dio- 
nysius, and Marliauusi^ talks of it as the one men- 
tioned by Cicero. To him Rycquius tremblingly as- 
sents.13 Nardini is inclined to suppose it may be one 
of the many wolves preserved in ancient Rome; but 
of the two rather bends to the Ciceronian statue.i* 
Montfaucon 15 mentions it as a point without doubt. 
Of the latter writers the decisive Winkelmann is pro- 
claims it as having been found at the church of Saint 
Theodore, where, or near where, was the temple of 
Romulus, and consequently makes it the wolf of Dio- 
nysius. His authority is Lucius Faunus, who, howe- 
ver, only says that it was placed, not found, at the 
Ficus Ruminalis, by the Comitium, by which he does 
not seem to allude to the church of Saint Theodore. 
Rycquius was the first to make the mistake, and Win- 
kelmann followed Rycquius. 

Flaminius Vacca tells quite a different story, and 
says he had heat d the wolf w ith the twins was found n 
near the arch of Septimius Severus. The commenta- 
tor on Winkelmann is of the same opinion with that 
learned person, and is incensed at Nardini for not hav- 
ing remarked that Cicero, in speaking of the wolf 
struck with lightning in the Capitol, makes use of the 
pa:t tense. But, with the Abate's leave, Nardini does 
not positively assert the statue to be that mentioned by 
Cicero, and, if he had, the assumption would not per- 
haps have been so exceedingly indiscreet. The Abate 
himself is obliged to own that there are marks very 
like the scathing of lightning in the hinder legs of the 
present wolf; and, to get rid of this, adds, that the 
wolf seen by Dionysius might have been also struck by 
lightning, or otherwise injured. 

Let us examine the subject by a reference to the 
words of Cicero. The o.>-ator in two places seems to 
particularise the Romulus and the Remus, especially 
the first, which his audience remembered to have been 
in the Capitol, as being struck wiih lightning. In his 
verses he records that the twins and wolf both fell, and 
that the latter left behind the marks of her feet. Ci- 
cero does not say that the wolf was consumed : and 
Dion only mentions that it fell down, without alluding, 
as the Abate has made him, to the force of the blow, 
or the firmness with which it had been fixed. The 
whole strength, therefore, of the Abate's argument 
hangs upon the past tense; which, however, may be 
somewhat diminished by remarking that the phrase 
only shows that the statue was not then standing in its 
former position. Winkelmann has observed that the 
present twins are modern; and it is equally clear that 
there are marks of gilding on the wolf, which might 
therefore be supposed to make part of the ancient 
group. It is known that the sacred images of the Ca- 
pitol were not destroyed when injured by time or acci- 
dent, but were put into certain under-ground deposito- 
ries called favissx.^^ It may be thought possible that 
the wolf had been so deposited, and had been replaced 
in some conspicuous situation when the Capitol was 
rebuilt by Vespasian. Ryc^ius, without mentioning 
his authority, tells that it was transferred from the Co- 
mitium to the Lateran, and thence brought to the Capi- 
tol. If it was found near the arch of Severus, it may 



10 Luc. Fauni de Aniiq. Urb. Rom. lib, ii. cap. vii, ap. 
Sallengre, torn. i. p. 217. 

11 Ap. Nardini. Roma Vetus, 1. v. c. iv. 

12 Marliani Urb. Rom. Topograph, lib. ii. cap. ix. 

13 Just. Rycquii de Capit. Roman. Comm. cap. xxiv, 
pag. 250. edit. Lugd. Bat. 1696. 

14 Nardini, Roma Vetus, lib. v. cap. iv. 

15 Diarium Italic, tom. i. p. 174. 

16 Storia delle Arti, &c. lib. iii. cap. iii. s. ii. note 10. 
Winkelmann has made a strange blunder in the note, by 
saying the Ciceronian wolf was not in the Capitol, and 
that Dion was wrong in saying so. 

17 Flam. Vacca, Memorie, num. iii. pag. i. ap, Monttou- 
con, Diar. Ital. tom. i. 

18 Luc. Faun. ibid. 



40 



470 



APPENDIX TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



have been one of the images which Orosius i says was 
thrown down in the Forum by lightning when Alaric 
took the city. That it is of very high antiquity the 
workmanship is a decisive proof; and that circum- 
stance Induced Winkelmann to believe it the wolf of 
Dionysius. The Capitoline wolf, however, may have 
been of the same early date as that at the temple of 
Romulus. Lactantius "^ asserts that in his time the Ro- 
mans worshipped a wolf; and it is known that the 
Lupercalia held out to a very late period 3 after every 
other observance of the ancient superstition had totally 
expired. This may account for the preservation of the 
ancient image longer than the other early symbols of 
Paganism. 

It may be permitted, however, to remark, that the 
wolf was a Roman symbol, but that the worship of 
that symbol is an inference drawn by the zeal of Lac- 
tantius. The early Christian writers are not to be 
trusted in the charges which they make against the 
Pagans. Eusebius accu-ed the Romans to their faces 
of worshipping Simon Magus, and raising a statue to 
him in the island of the Tyber. The Romans had 
probably never heard of such a person before, who 
came, however, to play a considerable, though scanda- 
lous part in the church history, and has left several 
tokens of his aerial combat with St. Peter at Rome ; 
notwithstanding that an inscription found in this very 
island of the Tyber showed the Simon Magus of Eu- 
sebius to be a certain indigenal god called Semo Sangus 
or Fidius.4 

Even when the worship of the founder of Rome 
had been abandoned, it was thought expedient to hu- 
mour the habits of the good matrons of the city, by 
sending them with their sick infants to the church of 
Saint Theodore, as they had before carried them to the 
temple of Romulus. s The practice is continued to 
this day ; and the site of the above church seems to be 
thereby identified with that of the temple; so that if 
the wolf had been really found there, as VVinkelmann 
says, there would be no doubt of the present statue be- 
ing that seen by Dionysius. But Faunus, in saying 
that it was at tjie Ficus Ruminalis by the Comitium, 
is only talking of its 'ancient position as recorded by 
Pliny; and even if he had been remarking where it 
was found, would not have alluded to the church of 
Saint Theodore, but to a very different place, near 
which it was then thought the Ficus Ruminalis had 
been, and also the Comitium ; that is, the three columns 
by the church of Santa Maria Liberatrice, at the cor- 
ner of the Palatine looking on the Forum. 

It is, in fact, a mere conjecture where the image 
was actually dug up ; and perhaps, on the whole, the 
marks of the gilding, and of the lightning, are a better 
argument in favour of its being the Ciceronian wolf 
than any that can be adduced for the contrary opinion. 
At any rate, it is reasonably selected in the text of the 
poem as one of the most interesting relics of the an- 



1 See note to stanza Ixxx. in " Historical Illustra- 
tions." 

2"Romuli nutrix Lupa fionoribus est aifecta divinis, et 
ferrem, si animal ipsum fuisset, cujus flguram gerit." 
Lactant. de Falsa Religione, lib. i. cap. xx. pag. 101. edit, 
varior. 1660.; that is to say, he would rather adore a wolf 
than a prostitute. His comraentator has observed that 
the opinion of Livy concerning Laurentia being figured in 
this wolf was not universal. Strabo thought so. Ryc- 
quius is wrong in saying that Lactantius mentions the 
wolf was in the Capitol. 

3 To A. D. 496. "Quia credere possit," says Baronius 
[Ann. Eccles. torn. viii. p. 602. in an. 496.], " viguisse 
adhuc Roma ad Gelasii tempora, qua fuere ante exordia 
urbis allata in Haliam Lupercalia?" Gelasitis wrote a let- 
ter, which occupies four folio pages, to Andromachus the 
senator, and others, to show that the rites should be 
given up. 

4 Eccles. Hist. lib. ii. cap. xiii. p. 40. Justin Martyr 
had told the story before; but Barouius himself was 
obliged to detect this fable. See Nardini, Roma Vet. lib. 
vii. cap. xii. 

5 Rione xii. Ripa, accurata e succinctaDescrizione, &c. 
di Roma Moderna, dell' Ab. Ridolf. Venuti, 1766. 



cient city,6 and is certainly the figure, if not the very 
animal to which Virgil alludes in his beautiful verses : — 
" Geminos huic ubera eircum 
Ludere pendentes pueros, et lambere matrem 
Impavidos : illam tereti cervice reflexam 
Mulcere alternos, et corpora fingere lingua." 7 



No XXVI.— JULIUS C5:SAR. 

" For the Romaii's mivd 
Was modelVd in a less terrestrial mould." 

Stanza so. 

If is possible to be a very great man and to be still 
very inferior to Julius Csesar, the most complete cha- 
racter, so Lord Bacon thought, of all antiquity. Na- 
ture seems incapable of such extraordinary combina- 
tions as cbmposed his versatile capacity, which was 
the wonder even of the Romans themselves. The first 
general — the only triumphant politician — inferior to 
none in eloquence — comparable to any in the attain- 
ments of wisdom, in an age made up of the greatest 
commanders, statesmen, orators, and philosophers that 
ever appeared in the world — an author who composed 
a perfect specimen of military annals in his travelling 
carriage — at one time in a controversy with Cato, at 
another writing a treatise on punning, and collecting a 
set of good sayings — fighting and making love at the 
same moment, and willing to abandon bo'h his empire 
and his mistress for a sight of the Fountains of the 
Nile. Such did Julius Caesar appear to his contempo- 
raries and to those of the subsequent ages who were 
the most inclined to deplore and execrate his fatal 
genius. 

But we must not be so much dazzled with his sur- 
passing glory, or with his magnanimous, his amiable 
qualities, as to forget the decision of his impartial 
countrymen : — 

HE WAS JUSTLY SLAIN.^ 



No, XXVII.— EGERIA. 

" Egeria ! sweet creation of some heart 
Which foimd no mortal resting-flace so fair 
As thine ideal breast.'' — Stanza cxv. 

The respectable authority of Flaminius Vacca would 
incline us to believe in the claims of the Egerian grot- 
to.9 He assures us that he saw an inscription in the 
pavement, stating that the fountain was that of Egeria, 
dedicited to the nyniphs. The inscription is not there 
at this day; but Montfaucon quotes two lines lO of 
Ovid from a stone in the Villa Giusfiniani, which he 
seems to think had been brought from the same grotto. 

This grotto and vaHey were formerly frequented in 
summer, and particularly the first Sunday in May, by 



6 Donatus, lib. xi. cap. 18. gives a medal representing 
on one side the wolf in the same position as that in the 
Capitol; and in the reverse the wolf with the head not 
reverted. It is of the time of Antoninus Pius. 

7 En. viii. 631. See Dr. Middleton, in his Letter from 
Rome, who inclines to the Ciceronian wolf, but without 
examining the subject. 

8" Jure cesus existimetur," says Suetonius, after a fair 
estimate of his character, and making use of a phrase 
which was a formula iu Livy's time. "Melium jure cae- 
sum pronuntiavit, etiam si regni crimine insons fuerit:" 
[lib. iv. cap. 48.] and which was continued in the legal^ ' 
judgments pronounced in justifiable homicides, such as~ 
killing housebreakers. See Sueton. in Vit. C. J. Cesar, 
with the commentary of Pitiscus, p. 164. 

9 IVIemorie, &c. ap. Nardini, pag. 13. He does not give 
the inscription. 

10 " In villa Jiistiniana extat ingens lapis quadratus so- 
lidus, in quo sculpta haec duo Ovidii carmina sunt : — 

•Egeria est quae praebet aquas dea grata Camenis 
Ilia Numae conjunx consiliuinque fuit.' 
Qui lapis videtur eodem Egeria fonte, aut ejus vicinia 
isthuc cornportatus." Diarium Italic, p. 153. 



APPENDIX TO CHILDE HAROLD 



471 



the modern Romans, who attached a salubrious quality 
to the fountain which trickles trom an orifice at the 
boltom of the vault, and, overflowing the little pools, 
creeps down the matled grass into the brook below. 
The brook is the Ovidian Almo. whose name and quali- 
ties are lost in the modern Aquataccio. The valley 
itself is called Valle di Cailarelii, from the dukes of 
that name who made over their fountain to the Palla- 
vicini, with sixty rubbia of ad joining land. 

There can be little doubt that this long dell is the 
Egerian valley of Juvenal, and the paiising place of 
Umbritius, notwithstanding tiie generality of his com- 
mentators have supposed the descent of the satiiist 
and his friend to have been into ihe Arician grove, 
where the nymph met Hippolitus, and where she was 
more peculiarly worshipped. 

The step from the Porta Capena to the Alban hill, 
fifteen miles distant, would be loo considerable, unless 
we were to believe in the wild conjecture of Vossius, 
who makes that gate travel from its present station, 
where he pretends it was during the reign of the 
Kings, as far as the Arician grove, and then makes it 
recede to its old site with the shrinking cify.i The 
tufo, or pumice, which the poet prefers to marble, is 
the substance composing the bank in which the grotto 
is sunk. 

The modern topographers 2 find in the grotto the 
statue of the nymph, and nine niches for the Muses; 
and a late travellers has discoveted that the cave i* 
restored to that simplicity which the poet regretted 
had been exchanged for injudicious ornament. But 
the headless stxtue is palpably rather a male than a 
nymph, and has none of the attributes ascribed to it at 
present visible. The nine Muses could hardly have 
stood in six niches; and Juvenal certainly does not 
allude to any individual cave.4 Nothing can be col- 
lected from the satirist but that somewhere near the 
Porta Capena was a spot in which it was supposed 
Numa held nightly consultations with his nymph, and 
where there was a grove and a sacred fountain, and 
fanes once consecrated to the Muses ; and that from 
this spot there was a descent into the valley of Egeria, 
where were several artificial caves. It is clear that 
the statues of the Muses made no part of the decora- 
tion which the satirist thought misplaced in these 
caves ; for he expressly assigns other fanes (dehibra) 
to these divinities above the valley, and moreover tells 
us that they had been ejected to make room for the 
Jews. In fact, the little temple, now called that of 
Bacchus, was formerly thought to belong to the Muses, 
and Nardini 5 places them in a poplar grove, which 
was in his time above the valley. 

It is probable, from the inscription and position, 
that the cave now shown may be one of the " artificial 
caverns," of which, indeed, there is another a little 
way higher up the valley, under a tuft of alder bushes : 
but a single grotto of Egeria is a mere modern inven- 
tion, grafted upon the application of the epithet Ege- 
rian to these nymphea in general, and which might 
send us to look for the haunts of Numa upon the banks 
of the Thames. 

Our English Juvenal was not seduced into mistrans- 
lation by his acquaintance with Pope: he carefully 
preserves the correct plural — 

"Thence slowly winding down the vale, we view 
The Egerian grots : oh, how unlike the true ! " 

The valley abounds with springs,^ and over these 
springs, which the Muses might haunt from their 



1 De Magnit. Vet. Rom. ap. Graev. Ant. Rom. torn. iv. 
p. 1507. 

2 Echinard, Descrizione di Roma e dell' Agro Romano, 
corretto dair Abate Venuti, in Roma, 1750. They believe 
in the grotto and nymph. "Simulacro di questo fonte, 
CBsendovi sculpite le acque a pie di esso." 

3 Classical Tour, chap. vi. p. 217. vol. ii. 

4 Sat. III. 

5 Lib. iii. cap. iii. 

6 "Undique e solo aquae scaturiunt." Nardini, lib. iii. 
cap. iii. 



neighbouring groves, Egeria presided : hence she was 
said to supply them with water ; and she was the 
nymph of the grottos through which the fountains 
were taught to flow. 

The whole of the monuments in the vicinity of the 
Egerian valley have received names at will, which 
have been changed at will. Venuti i owns he can see 
no traces of thetemples of Jove, Saturn, Juno, Venus, 
and Diana, which Nardini found, or hoped to find. 
The mutatorium of Caracalla's circus, the temple of 
Honour and Virtue, the temple of Bacchus, and, 
above all, the temple of the god Rediculus, are the 
antiquaries' despair. 

The circus of Caracalla depends on a medal of that 
emperor cited by Fulvius Ursinus, of which the re- 
verse shows a circus, supposed, however, by some to 
represent the Circus Maximus. It gives a very good 
idea of that place of exercise. The soil has been but 
little raised, if we may judge from the small cellular 
structure at the end of the Spina, which was probably 
the chapel of the god Consus. This cell is half be- 
neath the soil, as it must have been in the circus it- 
self; forDionysius 8 could not be persuaded to believe 
that this divinity was the Roman Neptune, because 
his altar was under ground. 



No. XXVIIL— THE ROMAN NEMESIS. 
" Great Nemesis ! 

Here, where the ancient paid thee homage long.'''* 
Stanza cxxxii. 

We read in Suetonius, that Augustus, from a warn- 
ing received in a dream, 9 counterfeited, once a year, 
the beggar, sitting before the gate of his palace with 
his hand hollowed and stretched out for charity. A 
statue formerly in the villa Borghese, and which 
should be now at Paris, represents the Emperor in 
that posture of supplication. The object of this self- 
degradation was the appeasement of Nemesis, the per- 
petual attendant on good fortune, of whose power the 
Roman conquerors were also reminded by certain 
symbols attached to their cars of triumph. The sym- 
bols were the whip and the crotafo, which were dis- 
covered in the Nemesis of the Vatican, The attitude 
of beggary made the above statue pass for that of 
Belisarius : and until the criticism of Winkelmannio 
had rectified the mistake, one fiction was cilled in to 
support another. It was the snme fear of the sudden 
termination of prosj)erity that made Amasis king of 
Egypt warn his friend Polycrates of Samos, that the 
gods loved those whose lives were chequered with 
good and evil fortunes. Nemesis was i-upposed to lie 
in wait particularly for the prudent ; that is, for those 
whose caution rendered them accessible only to mere 
accidents : and her first altar was raised on the banks 
of the Phrygian ^sepus by Adrastus, probably the 
prince of that name who killed the son of Croesus by 
mistake. Hence the goddess was called Adrastea.n 

The Roman Nemesis was sacred and august : there 
was a temple to her in the Palatine under the name 
of Rhamnusia : 12 so great, indeed, was the propensity 
of the ancients to trust to the revolution of events, and 



7 Echinard, &c. Cic. cit. p. 297,298. 

8 Antiq. Rom. lib. ii. cap. xxxi. 

9 Suelon. in Vit. Augusfi, cap. 91. Cnsaubon, in the 
note, refers to Plutarch's Lives of Camillua and Emiliiie 
Paulus, and also to his apophthegms, for the character of 
this deity. The hollowed hiuid was reckontd the last de- 
gree of degradation; and when the dead body of Ihe pre- 
fect Rufinus was borne about in triumph by the people, 
the indignity was increased by putting his hand in that 
position. 

10 Storia delle Arti, &p. lib. xii. cap. iii. tom. ii. p. 
422. Visconti calls the statue, however, a Cybele. It is 
given in the Museo PioClemont. tom. i. par. 40. The 
Abate Fea (Spiegazione dei Rami. Storia, &.C. tom. iii. p. 
513.) calls it a Chrisippus. 

11 Diet, de Bayle, article Adraetea. 

12 It is enumerated by the reglonary Victor. 



472 



APPENDIX TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



to believe in the divinity of Fortune, that in the same i 
Palatine there was a temple to the Fortune of the 
day.i This is the last superstition which retains its ] 
hold over the human heart ; and, from concentrating I 
in one object the credulity so natural to man, has al- 
ways appeared strongest in those unembarrassed by ■ 
other articles of belief. The antiquaries have sup- 1 
posed this goddess to be synonymous with Fortune and ' 
with Fate: but it was in her vindictive quality that 
she was worshipped under the name of Nemesis. 



No. XXIX.— GLADIATORS. 

" He, their sire, 
Butchered to make a Roman holiday.'^ 

Stanza cxli. 

Qladiators were of two kind?, compelled and volun- 
tary ; and were supplied from several conditions; — 
from slaves sold for that purpose ; from culprits ; from 
barbarian captives either taken in war, and, after be- 
ing led in triumph, set apart for the games, or those 
seized and condemned as rebels; also from free citi- 
zens, some fighting for hire (auctorati,) others from a 
depraved ambition; at last even knights and senators 
were exhibited,— a disgrace of which the first tyrant 
was naturally the first inventor.^ In the end, dwarfs, 
and even women, fought ; an enormity prohibited by 
Severus. Of these the most to be pitied undoubtedly 
were the barbarian captives ; and to this species a 
Christian writers justly applies the epithet "inno- 
cent," to distinguish them frointhe professional gladia- 
tors, Aurelian and Claudius supplied great numbers 
of these unfortunate victims ; the one after his triumph, 
and the other on the pretext of a rebellion.* No war, 
says Lipsius,5 was ever so destructive to the human 
race as these sports. In spite of the laws of Constan- 
tine and Constans, gladiatorial shows survived the old 
established religion more than seventy years ; but they 
owed their final extinction to the courage of a Chris- 
tian. In the year 404, on the kalends of January, 
they were exhibiting the shows in the Flavian amphi- 
theatre before the usual immense concourse of people. 
Almachius, or Telemachus, an eastern monk, who had 
travelled to Rome intent on his holy purpose, rushed 
into the midst of thearena,nnd endeavoured to separate 
the combatants. The prastor Alypius, a person in- 
credibly attached to these games.t> gave instant orders 
to the gladiators to slay him ; and Telemachus gained 
the crown of martyrdom, and the title of saint, which 
surely has never either before or since been awarded 
for a more noble exploit. Honorius inmiediately 
abolished the shows, which were never afterwards 
revived. The story is told by Theodoret i and Cas- 



siodorus,8 and seems worthy of credit notwithstand- 
ing its place in the Roman martyrology.s Besides the 
torrents of blood which flowed at the funerals, in the 
amphiiheatres, the circus, the forums, and other pub- 
lic places, gladiators were introduced at feasts, and 
tore each other to pieces amidst the supper tables, to 
the great delight and applause of the guests. Yet 
Lipsius permits himself to suppose the loss of courage, 
and the evident degeneracy of mankind, to be nearly 
connected with the abolition of these bloody spec- 
tacles. 



No. XXX. 



1 Fortunae hujusce diei. Cicero mentions her, de Legib. 
lib. ii. 

DE\E NEMESI 

SIVE FORTUNAE 

nSTORIVS 

RVGIANVS 

V. C. LEG AT. 

LEG. XIIL G. 

CORD. 

See Questionea Romanae, &c. ap. Graev. Antiq. Roman. 

torn. V. p. 942. See also Muratori, >'ov. Thesaur. Iii- 

scrip. Vet. torn. i. p. 8e, i:9., where there are three Latin 

and one Greek inscription to Nemesis, and others to 

Fate. 

2 Julius Cesar, who rose by the fall of the aristocracy, 
brought Furius Leptinus and A. Calenus upon the arena. 

3 TertuUian, "certe quiclem et innocentes gladiatores 
in ludum veniunt, et voluptatis publicae hostiae fiant." 
Just. Lips. Saturn. Sermon, lib, ii. cap. iii. 

4 Vopiscus, in vit. Aurel, and in vit. Claud, ibid. 

5 Just. Lips. ibid. lib. i. cap. xii. 

6 Augustinus (lib. vi. confess, cap. viii.) "Alypium 
suum gladiatorii spectaculi inhiatu jncredibiliter abrep- 
tum," scribit, ib. lib. i. cap. xii, 

7 Hist. Eccles. cop. xxvi. lib. t. 



" Here, where the Roman million's blame or praise 
IVas death or life, the playthings of a crowd.''' 
Stanza cxlii. 

When one gladiator wounded another, he shouted, 
" he has it," ''hoc habet,"' or " habet." The wound- 
ed combatant dropped his weapon, and advancing to 
the edge of the arena, supplicated the spectators. If 
: he had fought well, the people saved him ; if other- 
I wise, or as ihey happened to be inclined, they turned 
j down their thumbs, and he was slain. They were 
j occasionally so savage that they were impatient if a 
I combat lasted longer than ordinary without wounds or 
death. The emperor's presence generally saved the 
vanquished ; and it is recorded as an instance of Cara- 
I callit's ferocity, that he sen! those who supplicated him 
! for life, in a spectacle, at Nicomedia, to ask the peo- 
j pie; in other words, handed them over to be slain. 
A similar ceremony is observed at the Spanish bull- 
i fights. The magistrate presides; and after the horse- 
j men and piccadores have fought the bull, thematadore 
! steps forward and bows to him for permission to kill 
! the animr.l. If the bull has done his duty by killing 
I two or three horses, or a man, which last is rare, the 
i people interfere with shouts, the ladies wave their 
handkerchiefs, and the animal is saved. The wounds 
and death of the horses are accompanied with the 
loudest acclamations, and many gestures of delight, 
especinlly from the female portion of the audience, 
including those of the gentlest blood. Every thing 
depends on habit. The author of Childe Harold, the 
writer of this note, and one or two other Englishmen, 
v,-ho have certainly in other days borne the sight of a 
pitched battle, were, during the summer of 1809, in 
the governor's box at the great amphitheatre of Santa 
Maria, opposite to Cadiz. The death of one or two 
horses completely satisfied their curiosity. A gentle- 
man present, observing them shudder and look pale, 
noticed that unusual reception of so delightful a sport 
to some young ladies, who stared and smiled, and con- 
tinued their apjjlauses as another horse fell bleeding 
to the ground. One bull killed three horses off his 
own horns. He was saved b\ acclamations, which 
were redoubled when it was known he belonged to a 
priest. 

An Englishman who can be much pleased with 
seeing two men beat themselves to pieces, cannot bear 
to look at a horse gallopmg round an arena with his 
bowels trailing on the ground, and turns from the 
spectacle and the spectators with horror and disgust. 



No. XXXI.— THE ALBAN HILL. 
" And afar 
The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves 
The Latian coast,''' S^c. ^-c. Stanza clxxiv. 

The whole declivi'y of the Alban hill is of unrival- 
led beauty, and from the convent on the highest point, 
which has succeeded to the temple of the Latian Jufji- 
ter, the prospect embraces all the objects alluded to in 

8 Cassicd. Tripartita, 1. x. c. xi. Saturn, ib. ib. 

9 Baronius, ad ann. et in notis ad Martyrol. Rom. I. 
Jan. ■ See — Marangon delle memorie sacre e profane dell' 
Anfileatro Fiavio, p. 26. edit. 1746. 



APPENDIX TOCHILDE HAROLD. 



473 



the cited stanza ; the Mediterranean ; the whole 
scene of the latter half of the iEneid, and the coast 
from beyond the mouth of the Tiber to the headland 
of Circaeum and the Cape of Terracina. 

The site of Cicero's villa may be supposed either 
at the Grotto Ferrata, or at the Tusculum of Prince 
Lucien Buonaparte. 

The former was thought some years ago the actual 
site, as may be seen from Myddleton's Life of Cicero. 
At present it has lost something of its credit, except 
for the Domenichinos. Nine monks of the Greek 
order live there, and the adjoining villa is a cardinal's 
summer-house. The other villa, called Rufinella, is 
on the summit of the hill above Frascaii, and many 
rich remains of Tusculum have been found there, be- 
sides seventy-two statues of different merit and pre- 
servation, and seven busts. 

From the same eminence are seen the Sabine hills, 
embosomed in which lies the long valley of Rustica. 
There are several circumsiances which fend to estab- 
lish the identity of this valley with the " Ustica^^ of 
Horace; and it seems possible that themosiic pave- 
ment which the peasants uncover by throwing up the 
earth of a vineyard may belong to his villa. Rustica 
is pronounced short, not according to our stress upon 
— "■Usticx cubantis." — It is more rational to think 
that we are wrong, than that the inhibitants of this 
secluded valley have changed their tone in this word. 
The addition of the consonant prefixed is nothing ; yet 
it is necessary to be aware that Rustica may be a 
modern name which the peasants may have caught 
from the antiquaries. 

The villa, or the mosaic, is in a vineyard on a knoll 
covered with chestnut tree?. A stream runs down the 
valley ; and although it is not true, as said in the guide 
books, that this stream is called Licenza, yet there is 
a village on a rock at the head of the valley which is 
so denominated, and which m^y have taken its name 
from the Digentia, Licenza contains 700 inhabitants. 
On a peak a little way beyond is Civitella, containing 
300. On the banks of the Anio, a little before you 
turn up into Valle Rustica, to the left, about an hour 
from the villa, is a town called Vicovaro, another 
favourable coincidence with the Varia of ihe poet.. 
At the end of the valley, towards the Anio, there is a 
bare hill, crowned with a little town called Bardela. 
At the foot of this hill the rivulet of Licenza flows, 
and is almost absorbed in a wide sandy bed before it 
reaches the Anio. Nothing can be more fortunate for 
the lines of the poet, whether in a metaphorical or 
direct sense : — 

"Me quotiens reficit gelidus Digentia rivus, 
Quem Mandela bibit rugosus frigore pagiia." 
The stream is clear high up the valley, but before it 
reaches the hill of Bardela looks green and yellow 
like a sulphur rivulet. 

Rocca Giovane, a ruined village in the hills, half an 
hour's walk from the vineyard where the pavement 
is shown, does seem to be the site of the fane of Va- 
cuna, and an inscription found there tells that this 
temple of the Sabine Victory was repaired by Ves- 
pasian, With these helps, and a position correspond- 
ing exactly to every thing which the poet has told us 
of his retreat, we may feel tolerably secure of our 
site. 

The hill which should be Lucretilis is called Cam- 
panile, and by following up the rivulet to the pretend- 
ed Bandusia, you come to the roots of the higher 
mountain Gennaro. Singularly enough, the only spot 
of ploughed land in Ihe whole valley is on the knoll 
where this Bandusia rises. 

"... . tu frigus amabile 
Fessis vomere tauria 
Praebes, et pecori vago." 
The peasants show another sprin? near the mosaic 
pavement which they call <' Oradina," and which 
flows down the hills into a tank, or mill-dam, and 
thence trickles over into the Digentia. 

But we must not hope 
" To trace the Muses upwards to their spring," 

40* ~~~~~~ 



by exploring the windings of the romantic valley in 
search of the Baadusian fountain. It seems strange 
that any one should have thought Bandusia a fountain 
of the Digentia — Horace has not let drop a word of 
it ; and this immortal spring has in fact been discover- 
ed in possession of the holders of many good things in 
Italy, the monks. It was attached to the church of 
St. Gervais and Protais near Venusia, where it was 
most likely to be found. i We shall not be so lucky 
as a late traveller in finding the occasional pine still 
pendent on the poetic villa. There is not a pine in 
the whole valley, but there are two cypresses, which 
he evidently took, or mistook, for the tree in the ode.2 
The truth is, that the pine is now, as it was in the 
days of Virgil, a garden tree, and it was not at all 
likely to be found in the craggy acclivities of the val- 
ley of Rustica. Horace probably had one of them in 
the orchard close above his farm, immediately over- 
shadowing his villa, not on the rocky heights at some 
distance from his abode. The tourist may have easily 
supposed himself to have seen this pine figured in the 
above cypresses ; for the orange and femon trees 
which throw such a bloom over his de cription of the 
royal gardens at Naples, unless they have been since 
displaced, were assuredly only acacias and other com- 
mon garden shrubs. 3 



No. XXXII.— EUSTACE'S CLASSICAL TOUR. 

The extreme disappointment experienced by choos- 
ing the Classical Tourist as a guide in Italy must be 
allowed to find vent in a few observations, which, it 
is asserted without fear of contradiction, will be con- 
firmed by every one who has selected the sime con- 
ductor through Ihe same country. This author is in 
fact one of the most inaccurate, unsatisfactory writers 
that have in our times attained a temporary reputa- 
tion, and is very seldom to be trusted even when he 
speaks of objects which he must be presumed to have 
seen. His errors, from the simple exaggeration to 
the downright misstatement, are so frequent as to in- 
duce a su'-picion that he had either never visited the 
spots described, or had trusted to the fidelity of former 
writers. Indeed, the Classical Tour has every cha- 
racteristic of a mere compilation of former notices, 
strung together upon a very slender thread of per- 
sonal observation, and swelled out by those decorations 
which are so easily supplied by a systematic adoption 
of all the common-places of praise, applied to every 
thing, and therefore signifying nothing. 

The style which one person thinks cloggy and cum- 
brous, and unsuitable, may be to the taste of others, 
and such may experience some salutary excitement in 
ploughing through the periods of the Classical Tour. 
It must be said, however, that polish and weight are 
apt to beget an expectation of value. It is amongst 
the pains of the damned to toil up a climax with a 
huge round stone. 

The tourist had the choice of his words, but there 
was no such latitude allowed to that of his sentiments. 
The love of virtue and of liberty, which must have 
distinguished the character, certainly adorns the pages 
of Mr. Eustace ; and the gentlemanly spirit, so re- 
commendatory either in an author or his productions, 
is very conspicuous throughout the Classical Tour. 
But these generous qualities are the foliage of such a 
performance, and may be spread about it so promi- 
nently and profusely, as to embarrass those who wish 
to see and find the fi uit at hand. The unction of the 
divine, and the exhortations of the moralist, may have 
made this work something more and better than a 
book of travels, but they have not made it a book of 



1 See — Historical Illustrations of the Fourth Canto, p. 
43. 

2 See — Classical Tour, &c. chap. vii. p. 250. vol. ii. 

3 " Under our windows, and bordering on the beach, is 
the royal garden, laid out in parterres, and wallts shaded 
by rows of orange trees." Ciassical Tour, &cc. chap. xl. 
vol. ii. Oct. 363. 



474 



DON JUAN. 



[Canto I. 



travels ; and this observation applies more especially 
to that enticing method of instruction conveyed by 
the perpetual introduction of the same Gallic Helot to 
reel and bluster before the rising generation, and 
terrify it into decency by the display of all the ex- 
cesses of the revolution. An animosity ngainst athe- 
ists and regicides in general, and Frenchmen speci- 
fically, may be honourable, and may be useful as a 
record ; but that antidote should either be administer- 
ed in any work rather than a tour, or, at least, should 
be served up apart, and not so mixed with the whole 
mass of information and reflection, as to give a bitter- 
ness to every page : for who would choose to have 
the antipathies of any man, however just, far his 
travelling companions ? A tourist, unless he aspires 
to the credit of prophecy, is not answerable for the 
changes which may take' place in the country which 
he describes ; but his reader may very fairly esteem 
all his political portraits and deductions as so much 
waste paper, the moment they cease to assist, and 
more particularly if they obstruct, his actual survey. 

Neither encomium nor accusation of any govern- 
ment, or governors, is meant to be here offered ; but 
it is stated as an incontrovertible fact, that the change 
operated, either by the address of the late imperial 
system, or by the disappomtment of every expectation I 
by those who hive succeeded 1o the Italian thrones, j 
has been so considerable, and is so apparent, as noti 
only to put Mr. Eustace's anti-gallican philippics en- 1 
tirely out of date, but even to throw some suspicion 
upon the competency and candour of the author him- 
self. A remarkable example may be found in the 
instance of Bologna, over whose papal attachments, 
and consequent desolation, the tourist pours forth such 
strains of condolence and revenge, made louder by 
the borrowed trumpet of Mr. Burke. Now Bologna 
is at this moment, and has been for some years, notori- 
ous amongst the states of Italy for its attachment to 
revolutionary principles, and was almost the only 
city which made any demonstntions in favour of the 
unfortunate Murat. This change may, however, have 



been made since Mr. Eustace visited this country ; but 
the traveller whom he has thrilled with horror at the 
projected stripping of the copper from the cupola of 
St. Peter's, must be much relieved to find that sacri- 
lege out of the power of the French, or any other 
plunderers, the cupola being covered with leadA 

If the conspiring voice of otherwise rival critics 
had not given considerable currency to the Classical 
Tour, it would have been unnecessary to warn the 
reader, that however it may adorn his library, it will 
be of little or no service to him in his carriage; and 
if the judgment of those critics had hitherto been sus- 
pended, no attempt would have been made to antici- 
pate their decision. As it is, those who stand in the 
relation of posterity to Mr. Eustace may be permitted 
to appeal from co'emporary praises, and are perhaps 
more likely to be just in proportion as the duses of 
love and hatred are the farther removed. This ap- 
peal had, in some measure, been made before the 
above remarks were written ; for one of the most re- 
spectable of the Florentine publishers, who had been 
persuaded by the repeated inquiries of those on their 
journey southwards to reprint a cheap edition of the 
Classical Tour, was, by the concurring advice of re- 
turning travellers, induced to abandon his design, al- 
though he had already arranged his types and paper, 
and had struck off one or two of the first sheets. 

The writer of these notes would wish to part (like 
Mr. Gibbon) on good terms with the Pope and the 
Cardintls, but he does not think it necessary to ex- 
tend the same discreet silence to their humble parti- 
sans. 



1 "What, then, win be the astonishment, or rather the 

horror, of my reader, when I inform him the 

French Committee turned its attention to Saint Peter's, 
and employed a company of Jews to estimate and purchase 
the gold, silver, and bronze that adorn the inside of the 
edifice, as well as the copper that covers the vaults and 
dome on the outside." Chap. iv. p. 130. vol. ii. The 
story about the Jews is positively denied at Rome. 



DON JUAN.' 



Difllcile est proprie communia dicere.— HOR. 

Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?— Yes, by Saint Anne, and 
ginger shall be hot i' the mouth, too I - SHAKSPEARE'S Twelfth Night, or What you Will. ' 



CANTO THE FIRST. 3 



DEDICATION. 



I. 

Bob Southey ! You 're a poet — Poet-laureate, 

And representative of all the race. 
Although 't is true that you turn'd out a Tory at 

Last, — yours has lately been a common case — 
And now, my Epic Renegade ! what are ye at ? 

With all the Lakers, in and out of place ? 



2 Fragment on the back of the Poet's MS. of Canto I. 

I would to heaven that I were so much clay, 
As I am bl.iod, bone, marrow, pas-ion, feeling — 

Because at least the past were pass'd away — 
And for the future— (but I write this reeling, 

Having got drunk exceedingly to-day. 
So that I seem to stand upon the ceiling) 

I say — the future is a serious matter — 

And so— for God's sake — hock and soda-water! 

3 Written at Venice, in the latter part of 1818; pub- 
lished, with Canto Second, at London, in July, 1819, with- 
out the name of author or bookseller. 



A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye 

Like " four and twenty Blackbirds in a pye ; 

II. 

" Which pve being open'd they began to sing" 
(This old song and new simile holds good), 

<' A dainty dish to set before the King," 

Or Resent, who admires such kind of food ; — 

And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing. 
But like a hawk encumber'd with his hood, — 

Explaining metaphysics to the nation — 

I wish he would explain his Explanation.* 

IIL 

You, Boh ! are rather insolent, you know, 

At being disappointed in your wish 
To supersede all warblers here below, 

And be the only Blackbird in the dish ; 
And then you overs'rain yourself, or so, 

And tumble downward like the flying fish 
Gasping on deck, because you soar too high. Bob, 
And fall, for lack of moisture quite a-dry, Bob ! 

4 Coleridge's "Biographia Literaria " appeared in 
1817.— E. 



Canto I.] 



DON JUAN. 



475 



IV. 

And Wordsworth, in a rather long " Excursion " 
(I think the quarto holds five hundred pages), 

Has given a sample from the vasty version 
Of his new system to perplex the sages j 

'Tis poetry — at least by his assertion, 
And may appear so when the dog-star rages — 

And he who understands it would be able 

To add a story to the Tower of Babel. 

V. 

You —Gentlemen ! by dint of long seclusion 

From better company, have kept your own 
At Keswick,! and, through still continued fusion 

Of one another's minds, at last have grown 
To deem as a most logical conclusion, 

That Poesy has wreaths for you alone : 
There is a narrowness in such a notion, 
Which makes me wish you 'd change your lakes for 
ocean. 

VI. 
I would not imitate the petty thought, 

Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice, 
For all the glory your conversion brought. 

Since gold alone should not have been its price. 
You have your salary : was 'I for that you wrought ? 

And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise.2 
You 're shabby fellows — true — but poets still, 
And duly seated ou the immortal hill. 

VII. 

Your bays may hide the boldness of your brows — 
Perhaps some virtuous blushes ; — let them go — 

To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs — 
And for the fame you would engross below, 

The field is universal, and allows 
Scope to all such as feel the inherent glow: 

Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe, will try 

'Gainst you the question with posterity. 

VIII. 

For me, who, wandering with pedestrian Muses, 
Contend not with you on the winged steed, 

I wish your fate may yield ye, when she chooses, 
The fame you envy, and the skill you need ; 

And recollect a poet nothing loses. 
In giving to his brethren their full meed 

Of merit, and complaint of present days 

Is not the certain path to future praise. 

IX. 

He that reserves his laurels for posterity 
(Who does not often claim the bright reversion) 

Has generally no great crop to spare it, he 
Being only injured by his own assertion ; 

And although here and there some glorious rarity 
Arise like Titan from the sea's immersion, 

The major part of such appellants go 

To — God knows where — for no one else can know. 



If, fallen in evil days on evil tongues, 
Miltpn appeal'd to the Avenger, Time, 

If Time, the Avenger, execrates his wrongs. 
And makes the word " Miltonic " mean " sullimeJ^ 



1 Mr. Southey is the only poet of the day that ever re- 
sided at Keswick. Mr. Wordsworth, who lived at one 
time on Grasmere, has for many years past occupied 
Mount Rydal, near Ambleside: Professor Wilson posses- 
ses an elegant villa on Windermere: Coleridge, Lambe, 
Lloyd, and others classed by the Edinburgh Review, in 
the Lake School, never, we believe, had any connection 
with that part of the country. ~ E. 

2 Wordsworth's place may be in the Customs — it is, I 
think, in that or the Excise — besides another at Lord 
Lonsdale's table, where this poetical charlatan and politi- 
cal parasite licks up the crumswith a hardened alacrity ; 
the converted Jacobin having long subsided into the 
clownish sycophant of the worst prejudices of the aris- 
tocracy. 



He deign'd not to belie his soul in songs. 

Nor turn his very talent to a crime ; 
He did not loathe the Sire to laud the Son, 
But closed the tyrant-hater he begun. 

XL 

Think'st thou, could he — the blind Old Man — arise, 
Like Samuel from the grave, to freeze once naore 

The blood of monarchs with his prophecies. 
Or be alive again — again all hoar 

With time and trials, and those helpless eyes, 
And heartless daughters — worn — and pale s — and 
poor ; 

Would he adore a sultan ? he obey 

The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh ? 4 

XII. 

Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid miscreant ! 

Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin's gore, 
And thus for wider carnage taught to pant, 

Transferr'd to gorge upon a sister shore, 
The vuigarest tool that Tyranny could want, 

With just enough of talent, and no more, 
To lengthen fetters by another fix'd. 
And offer poison long already mix'd. 

XIII. 

An orator of such set trash of phrase 

Ineffably — legitimately vile. 
That even its grossest flatterers dare not praise. 

Nor foes — all nations — condescend to smile, — 
Not even a sprightly blunder's spark can blaze 

From that Ixion grindstone's ceaseless toil. 
That turns and turns to give the world a notion 
Of endless torments and perpetual motion, 

XIV. 

A bungler even in its disgusting trade. 
And botching, patching, leaving still behind 

Something of which its masters are afraid, 
States to be curb'd, and thougtits to be confined, 

Conspiracy or Congress to be made — 
Cobbling at manacles for all mankind — 

A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old chains, 

With God and man's abhorrence for its gains. 

XV. 

If we may judge of matter by the mind, 

Emasculated to the marrow It 
Hath but two objects, how to serve, and bind. 

Deeming the chain it wears even men may fit, 
Eutropiusof its many masters,5 — blind 

To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit, 
Fearless — because no feeling dwells in ice. 
Its very courage stagnates to a vice. 



3 "Pale, but not cadaverous:" — Milton's two elder 
daughters are said to have robbed him of his books, be- 
sides cheating and plaguing him in the economy of his 
house, &c. &c. His feelings on such an outrage, both as 
a parent and a scholar, must have been singularly painful. 
Hayley compares him to Lear. See part third. Life of 
Milton, by W. Hayley (or Hailey, as spelt in the edition 
before me). 

4 Or,— 

"Would he subside into a hackney Laureate — 
A scribbling, self-sold, soul-hired, scorn'd Iscariot? " 

I doubt if "Laureate" and "Iscariot" be good rhymes, 
but must say, as Ben Jonson did to Sylvester, who chal- 
lenged him to rhyme with — 

" I, John Sylvester, 
Lay with your sister." 

Jonson answered,— " I, Ben Jonson, lay with your wife." 
Sylvester answered,--" That is not rhyme." —" No," 
said Ben Jonson; "but it is true." 

5 For the character of Eutropius, the eunuch and minis- 
ter at the court of Arcadius, see Gibbon. 



476 



DON JUAN. 



[Canto I. 



XVI. 

Where shall I turn me not to view i*s bonds, 

For I will never feel them ; — Italy I 
Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds 

Beneath the lie this State-thing breathed o'er thee— 
Thy clanking chain, and Erin's yet green wounds, 

Have voices — tongues to cry :floud for me. 
Europe has slaves — allies — kings — armies still, 
And Southey lives to sing them very ill. 

XVII. 
Meantime — Sir Laureate — I proceed to dedicate, 

In honest simple verse, this song to you ; 
And, if in flattering strains I do not predicate, 

'T is that I still retain my " bufi a;id blue ; " 1 
My politics as yet are all to educate : 

Apostasy 's so fashionable, too, 
To keep one creed 's a task grown quite Herculean ; 
Is it not so, my Tory, ultra-Julian? "^ 

Venice, September 16, 1818. 



France, too, had Punnaparte and Dumourier 
Recorded in the Moniieur and Courier. 

I III. 

Barnave,i2 Brissot,i3 Condorcet,i4 Mirabeau,!* 
I Petion,i6 Clootz,n Danton,i8 Marat,i9 La Fav- 
j etle,20 

Were French, and famous people, as we know ; 
1 And there were others, scarce forgotten yet, 
Joubert,2i Hoclie,22 Marceau,^3 Lannes,ai Desaix,25 
Moreau,26 
With many of the military set. 



I. 

I want a hero : an uncommon want. 

When every year and month sends forth a new one, 
Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant, 

The age discovers he is not the true one : 
Of such as these I should not care to vaunt, 

I '11 therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan — 
We all have seen him, in the pantomime, 
Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time. 

II. 
Vernon,3 the butcher Cumberland,* Wolfe,5 Hawke,6 

Prince Ferdinand, i Granby,3 Burgoyne,9 Kep- 
pel,io Howe,ii 
Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk. 

And fill'd their sign-posts then, like Wellesley now ', 
Each in their turn fike Banquo's monarchs stalk, 

Followers of fame, " nine farrow " of that sow : 



1 Mr. Fox and the Whig Club of his time adopted an 
viniform of blue and buff: hence the coverings of the 
Edinburgh Review. — E. 

2 I allude not to our friend Landor's hero, the traitor 
Count Julian, but to Gibbon's hero, vulgarly yclept "The 
Apostate." 

3 General Vernon, who served with considerable dis- 
tinction in the navy, particularly in the capture of Porto 
Bello, died in 1767. — E. 

4 Second son of George II., distinguished himself at the 
battles of Dettingen and Fontenoy, and still m.)re so at 
that of Cullnden, where he defeated the Chevalier, in 
1746. The Duke, however, obscured his fame by the cruel 
abuse which he made, or suffered his soldiers to make, of 
the victory. He died in 1765. — E. 

5 General Wolfe, the brave commander of the expedi- 
tion against Quebec, terminated his career in the mo- 
ment of victory, whilst fighting against the French in 
1759.— E. 

6 In 1759, Admiral Lord Hawke totally defeated the 
French fleet equipped at Brest for the invasion of England. 
In 1765, he was appointed First Lord of the Admiralty ; 
and died, full of honours, in 17fcil. — E. 

7 Ferdinand, Duke of Brunswick, who gained the vic- 
tory of Minden. In 1762, he drove tlie French out of 
Hesse. He died in 1792. — E. 

8 Son of the third Duke of Rutland — signalised him- 
self in 1745, on the invasion by Prince Charles; and was 
constituted, in 1759, commander of the British forces in 
Germany. He died in 1770. — E. 

9 An English general offieer and dramatist, who distin- 
guished himself in the defence of Portugal, in 1762, 
against the Spaniards, and also in America, by the cap- 
ture of Ticonderoga; but was at last obliged to surrender, 
with his army, to General Gates. Died in 1792.— E. 

10 Second son of the Earl of Albemarle. Placed at the 
head of the channel fleet, he partially engaged, in 177S, the 
French fleet otf U^hant, which contrived to escape ; he 
was, in consequence, tried by a court martial, and honour- 
ably acquitted. He died in 1766.— E. 

11 Lord Howe distinguished himself on many occr.sions 
during the American war. On the breaking out of the 
French war, he took the command of the English fleet, 
and, bringing the enemy to an action on the Ist of June, 
17-J4, obtained a splendid victory. He died in 1799.— E. 



12 Barnave, one of the most active promoters of the 
French revolution, was in 1791, appointed president of the 
Constituent Assembly. On the flight of the royal family, 
he was sent to conduct them to Paris. He was guillotin- 
ed, Nov. 1793. — E. 

13 Brissot de Warville, at the age of twenty, published 
several tracts, for one of which, he was, in 178-1, thrown 
into the Bastile. He was one of the principal instigators 
of the revolt of the Champ de Mars, in July, 1769. He 
was led to the guillotine, Oct. 1793. — E. 

14 Condorcet was, in 1792, appointed president of the 
Legislative Assembly. Having, in 1793, attacked the 
new constitution, he was denounced. Being thrown into 
prison, he was on the following morning found dead, ap- 
parently from poison. His works are collected in twenty- 
one volumes. — E. 

15 Mirabeau, so well known as one of the chief pro- 
moters of, and actors in, the French revolution, died in 
1791. —E. 

16 Petion» mayor of Paris, in 1791, took an active part 
in the imprisonment of the king. Becoming, in 1793, an 
object of suspicion to Robespierre, he took refuge in the 
department of the Calvados ; where his body was found in 
a held, half-devoured by wolves. — E. i 

17 John Baptiste (better known under the appellation of 
Anacharsis) Clootz. In 1790, at the bar of the Kational 
Convention, he described himself as "the orator of the 
human race." Being suspected by Robespierre, he was, 
in 1794, con-demned to death. On the scaffold he begged 
to be decapitated the last, as he wished to make some ob- 
servations essential to the establishment of certain prin- 
ciples, while the heads of the others were falling; a re- 
quest obligingly complied with. — E. 

18 Danton played a very important part during the first 
years of the French revolution. After the I'all cf the 
king, he was made Minister of Justice. His violent mea- 
sures led to the bloody scenes of September, 1792. Being 
denounced to the Committee of Safety, he ended his 
career on the guillotine, in 1794. — E. 

19 This wretch figured among the actors of the 10th 
August, and in the assassinations of September, 1792. In 
May, 1793, he was denounced, and delivered over to the 
revolutionary tribunal, which acquitted him; but his 
bloody career was arrested by the knife of an assassin, in 
the person of Charlotte Corde. — E. 

20 Of all these " famous people," the General was the 
last survivor. He died in 1634. — E. 

21 Joubert distinguished himself at the engagements of 
Laono, Montenotte, Millesimo, Cava, Montebello, Rivoli, 
and especially rn the Tyrol. He was afterwards opposed 
to Suwarrow, and was killed, in 1799, at Novi. — E. 

22 In 1796, Hoche was appointed to the command of the 
expedition against Ireland, and sailed in December, from 
Brest; but, a storm dispersing the fleet, the plan failed. 
After his return, he received the command of the army 
of the Sambre and Meuse; but died suddenly, in Septem- 
ber, 1797, it was supposed of poison. — E. 

23 General Marceau first distinguished himself in La 
Vendee. He was killed by a rifle-ball, at Alterker- 
chen. — E. 

24 Lannes, Duke of Montebello, distinguished himself at 
Millesimo, Lodi, Aboukir, Acre, Montebello, Austerliti, 
Jena, Pultusk, Preuss Eylau, Friedland, Tudela, Sara- 
gossa, Fxhmuhl, and lastly, at Esling; where, in May, 
1809, he was killed by a cannon-shot. — E. 

25 At the taking of Malta, and at the battles of Che- 
breiss and of the Pyramids, Desaix displayed the greatest 
bravery. He was mortally wounded by a cannon-ball, at 
Marengo, just as victory declared for the French. — E. 

26 One of the most distinguished of the republican gen- 
erals. In 1613, on hearing of the reverses of Napoleon, 
in Russia, he joined the allied armies. He was struck by 
a cannon-ball, at the battle of Dresden, in 1813. — £. 



Canto I.] 



DON JUAN 



477 



Exceedingly remarkable at times, 
But not at all adapted to xny rhymes. 

IV. 

Nelson was once Britannia's god of war, 
And still should be so, but the tide is turn'd ; 

There 's no more to be said of Trafalgar, 
'T is wiih our hero quietly inurn'd ; 

Because the army 's grown nioie popular, 
At which the naval people are concerned ; 

Besides, the prince is all for the land-service, 

Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis, 

V. 
Brave men were living before Agamemnon 

And since, exceeding valorous and sage, 
A good deal like him too, though quite the same none ; 

But then they shone not on the poet's page. 
And so have been forgotten : — 1 condemn none, 

But can't find any in the present age 
Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one) ; 
So, as I said, 1 '11 take my friend Don Juan. 

VI. 

Most epic poets plunge " in medias res " 
(Horace makes this the heroic turnpike road), 

And then your hero tells, whene'er you please, 
What went before — by way of episode, 

While seated after dinner at his ease. 
Beside his mistress in some soft abode, 

Palace, or garden, paradise, or cavern. 

Which serves the happy couple for a tavern. 

VII. 

That is the usual method, but not mine — 
My way is to begin with the beginning; 

The regularity of my design 

Forbids all wandering as the worst of sinning, 

And therefore I shall open with a line 

(Although it cost me half an hour in spinning) 

Narrating somewhat of Don Juan's father, 

And also of his mother, if you'd rather. 

VIII.. 

In Seville was he born, a pleasant city, 

Famous for oranges and women — he 
Who has not seen it will be much to pity. 

So says the proverb — and 1 quite agree ; 
Of all the Spanish towns is none more pretty, 

Cadiz perhaps — but that you soon may see: — 
Don Juan's parents lived beside the river, 
A noble stream, and call'd the Guadalquivir. 

IX 

His father's name was Jose — Bon, of course, 

A true Hidalgo, free from every stain 
Of Moor or Hebrew blood, he traced his source 

Through the most Gothic gentlemen of Spain; 
A better cavalier ne'er mounted horse. 

Or, being mounted, e'er got down again, 
Than Jose, who begot our hero, who 
Begot — but that 's to come Well, to renew : 

X. 

His mother was a learned lady, famed 

For every branch of every science known — 

In every Christian language ever named ; 
With virtues equall'd by her wit alone. 

She made the cleverest people quite ashamed, 
And even the good with inward envy groan, 

Finding themselves so very much exceeded 

In their own way by all the things that she did. 

XI. 

Her memory was a mine : she knew by heart 
All Calderon and greater part of Lope, 

So that if any actor miss'd his part 
She could have served him for the prompter's copy ; 



For her Feinagle's were an useless art,i 

And he himself obliged to shut up shop — he 
Could never make a memory so fine as 
That which adoru'd the brain of Donna Inez.2 

XII. 

Her favourite science was the mathematical, 
Her noblest virtue was her magnanimity. 

Her wit (she sometimes tried at wit) was Attic all. 
Her serious snyings darken'd to sublimity ; 

In short, in all things she was fairly what I call 
A prodigy — her morning dress was dimity. 

Her evening silk, or, in the summer, muslin, 

And other stuffs, with which I won't stay puzzling. 

XIII. 

She knew the Latin — that is, " the Lord's prayer," 
And Greek — the alphabet — I 'm nearly sure; 

She read some French romances here and there. 
Although her mode of speaking was not pure ; 

For native Spanish she had no greit care, 
At least her conversation was obscure; 

Her thoughts were theorems, her words a problem. 

As if she deem'd that mystery would ennoble 'em. 

XIV. 
She liked the English and the Hebrew tongue, 

And said there was analogy between 'em ; 
She proved it somehow out of sacred song, 
But I must leave the proofs to those "who've seen 
'em. 
But this I heard her say, and can't be wrong. 
And all may think which way their judgments lean 
'em, 
" 'T is strange — the Hebrew noun which means ' I 

am,' 
The English always use to govern d— n." 

XV. 
Some women use their tongues — she looVd a lecture. 

Each eye a sermon, and her brow a homily, 
An all-in-all sufficient self-director, 

Like the lamented late Sir Samuel Romilly,3 
The Law's expounder, and the State's corrector. 

Whose suicide was almost an anomaly — 
One sad example more, that " All is vanity," — 
(The jury brought their verdict in "Insanity.") 

XVI. 

In short, she was a walking calculation, 

Miss Edgeworih's novels stepping from their covers, 
Or Mrs. Trimmer's books on education,-* 

Or " Ccelebs' Wife " 5 set out in quest of lovers. 
Morality's prim personification. 

In which not Envy's self a flaw discovers ; 
To others' share let "female errors fall," 
For she had not even one — the worst of all. 

XVII. 

Oh ! she was perfect past all parallel — 
Of any modern female saint's comparison ; 

So far above the cunning powers of hell. 

Her guardian angel had given up his garrison ; 

Even her minutest motions went as well 
As those of the best time-piece made by Harrison : 



1 Professor Feinagle, of Baden, who, in 18J2, under the 
especial patronage of the " Blues," delivered a course of 
lectures at the Royal Institution on Mnemonics. ~ K. 

2 " Lady Byron had good ideas, bat could never express 
them; wrote poetry also, but it was only good by acci- 
dent. Her letters were always enigaialicnl, often unin- 
telli!,Mble. She was governed by what she called fixed 
rules and principles squared mathematically." — Byz-on 
Letters. -- E. 

3 Sir Samuel Romilly lost his lady on the 29th of Oc- 
tober, and committed suicide on the 2d of November, 
1818. — E. 

4 "Comparative View of the New Plan oi Education," 
"Teacher's Assistant," &c. &c. — E. 

5 Hannah More's " Coelelis in Search of a Wife," &c., 
a eermon-like novel, which had great success at the time, 
and ia now forgotten. — E. 



478 



DON JUAN. 



[Canto I. 



In virtues nothing earthly could surpass her, 
Save thine " incomparable oil," Macassar 1 1 

XVIII. 
Perfect she was, but as perfection is 

Insipid in this naughty world of ours, 
Where our fiist pirents never learn'd to kiss 

Till they were exiled from their earlier bowers, 
Where all was peace, and innocence, and bliss, 

(I wonder how they got through the twelve hours) 
Don Jose, like a lineal son of Eve, 
Went plucking various fruit without her leave. 

XIX. 

He was a mortal of the careless kind, 

With no great love for learning, or the learn'd, 

Who chose to go where'er he had a mind. 
And never dream'd his lady was concern'dj 

The world, as usual, wickedly inclined 
To see a kingdom or a house o'erturn'd, 

Whisper'd he had a mistress, some said two, 

But for domestic quarrels one will do. 

XX. 

Now Donna Inez had, with all her merit, 
A great opinion of her own good qualities; 

Neglect, indeed, requires a saint to bear it. 
And such, indeed, she was in her moralities ; 

But then she had a devil of a spirit. 
And sometimes mix'd up fancies with realities, 

And let few opportunities escape 

Of getting her liege lord into a scrape. 

XXI. 

This was an easy matter with a man 
Oft in the wrong, and never on his guard ; 

And even the wisest, do the best they can, 

Have moments, hours, and days, so unprepared, 

That you might " brain them with their lady's fan j " 
And sometimes ladies hit exceeding hard. 

And fans turn into falchions in fair hands. 

And why and wherefore no one understands. 

XXII. 

'T is pity learned virgins ever wed 

With persons of no sort of education, 
Or gentlemen, who, though well born and bred, 

Grow tired of scientific conversation : 
I don't choose to say much upon this head, 

I"m a plain man, and in a single station, 
But — Oh ! ye lords of ladies intellectual, 
Inform us truly, have they not hen-peck'd you all ? 

XXIII. 

Don Jose and his lady quarrell'd — why. 

Not any of the many could divine. 
Though several thousand people chose to try, 

'T was surely no concern of theirs nor mine ; 
I loathe that low vice — curiosity ; 

But if there 's any thing in which I shine, 
'T is in arranging all my friends' atFairs, 
Not having, of my own, domestic cares. 

XXIV. 
And so I interfered, and with the best 

Intentions, but their treatment was not kind; 
I think the foolish people were possess'd. 

For neither of them could I ever find, 
Although their porter afterwards confess'd — 

But that 's no matter, and the worst 's behind. 
For little Juan o'er me threw, down stairs, 
A pail of housemaid's water unawares. 

XXV. 

A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing. 

And mischief-making monkey from his birth; 

His parents ne'er agreed except in doting 
Upon the most unquiet imp on earth ; 



1 "Description des verlus incomparables de I'Huile de 
Macassur." — See the Advertisement. 



Instead of quarrelling, had they been but both in 

Their senses, they'd have sent young master forth 
To school, or had him soundly whipp'd at home, 
To teach him manners for the time to come. 

XXVI. 

Don Jose and the Donna Inez led 
For some time an unhappy sort of life, 

Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead ; 
They lived respectably as man and wife. 

Their conduct was exceedingly well-bred. 
And gave no outward signs of inward strife. 

Until at length the smother'd fire broke out, 

And put the business past all kind of doubt. 

XXVII. 

For Inez call'd some druggists, and physicians, 
And tried to prove her loving lord was mad. 

But as he had some lucid intermissions, 
She next decided he was only bad ; 

Yet when they ask'd her for her depositions, 
No sort of explanation could be had. 

Save that her duty both to man and God 

Required this conduct — which seem'd very odd. 

XXVIII. 

She kept a journal, where his faults were noted, 
And open'd certain trunks of books and letters. 

All which might, if occ;\sion served, be quoted; 
And then she had all Seville for abettors, 

Besides her good old grandmother (who doted); 
The hearers of her case became repeaters. 

Then advocates, inquisitors, and judges. 

Some for amusement, others for old grudges. 

XXIX. 

And then this best and meekest woman bore 
With such serenity her husband's woes. 

Just as the Spartan ladies did of yore. 

Who saw their spouses kiil'd, and nobly chose 

Never to say a word about them more — 
Calmly she heard each calumny that rose, 

And saw Aw agonies with such sublimity. 

That all the world exchim'd, " What magnanimity ! » 

XXX. 

No doubt this patience, when the world is damning us. 

Is philosophic in our former friends, 
'T is also pleasant to be deem'd magnanimous. 

The more so in obtaining our own ends ; 
And what the lawyers call a *' malus animus " 

Conduct like this by no means comprehends : 
Revenge in person 's certainly no virtue, 
But then 'tis not my fault, if others hurt you. 

XXXI. 

And if our quarrels should rip up old stories, 
And help them with a lie or two additional, 

I 'm not to blame, as you well know — no more is 
Any one else — they were become traditional; 

Besides, their resurrection aids our glories 
By contrast, which is what we just were wishing all: 

And science profits by this resurrection — 

Dead scandals form good subjects for dissection. 

XXXII. 

Their friends 2 had tried at reconciliation. 
Then their relations, who made matters worse, 

('T were hard to tell upon a like occasion 
To whom it may be best to have recourse — 

I can't sny much for friend or yet relation) : 
The lawyers did their utmost for divorce, 

But scarce a fee was paid on either side 

Before, unluckily, Don Jose died. 

XXXIII. 

He died : and most unluckily, because, 

According to all hints I could collect 
From counsel learned m those kinds of laws, 

(Although their talk's obscure and circumspect) 



2 Mr. Rogers, Mr. Hobhouse, &c. &c.- 



Canto I.] 



DON JUAN. 



479 



His death contrived to spoil a charmiHg cause; 

A thousand pities also with respect 
To public feeling, which on this occasion 
Was manifested in a great sensation. 

XXXIV. 

But ah ! he died ; and buried with him lay 
The public feeling and the lawyer's fees : 

His house was sold, "his servants sent away, 
A Jew took one of his two noistresses, 

A priest the other — at least so they say : 
I ask'd the doctors after his disease — 

He died of the slow fever call'd the tertian, 

And left his widow to her own aversion. 

XXXV. 

Yet Jose was an honourable man, 

That I must say, who knew him very well ; 

Therefore his frailties I '11 no furlher scan, 
Indeed there were not many more to tell : 

And if his passions now and then outran 
Discretion, and were not so peaceable 

As Numa's (who was also named Pompilius),* 

He had been ill brought up, and was born bilious. 

XXXVI. 

Whate'er might be his worthlessness or worth, 
Poor fellow ! he had many things to wound him. 

Let's own — since it can do no good on earth — 
It was a trying moment that which found him 

Standing alone beside his desolate hearth, 
Where all his household gods lay shiver'd round 
him! 

No choice was left his feelings or his pride. 

Save death or Doctors' Commons — so he died. 

XXXVII. 

Dying intestate, Juan was sole heir 

To a chancery suit, and messuages, and lands, 

Which, with a long minority and care, 
Promised to turn out well in proper hands: 

Inez became sole guardian, which was fair. 
And answered but to nature's just demands; 

An only son left with an only mother i 

Is brought up much more wisely than another. 

XXXVIII. 

Sagest of women, even of widows, she 
Resolved that Juan should be quite a paragon. 

And worthy of the noblest pedigree : 

(His sire was of Castile, his dam from Aragon.) 

Then for accomplishments of chivalry, 
In case our lord the king should go to war again. 

He learn'd the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery. 

And how to scale a fortress — or a nunnery. 

XXXIX. 

But that which Donna Inez most desired, 
And saw into herself each day before all 

The learned tutors whom for him she hired. 
Was, that his breeding should be strictly moral : 

Much into all his studies she inquired. 
And so they were submitted first to her, all. 

Arts, sciences, no branch was made a mystery 

To Juan's eyes, except in natural history. 

XL. 

The languages, especially the dead. 
The sciences, and most of all the abstruse. 

The arts, at least all such as could be said 
To be the most remote from common use, 

In all these he was much and deeply read ; 
But not a page of any thing that 's loose. 

Or hints continuation of the species, 

Was ever suffer'd, lest he should grow vicious. 



"primus qui legibus urbem 

Pundabit, curibus parvis ct paupere terra 
Missus in imperium magnum." — VIRG. 



XLI. 

His classic studies made a litile puzzle, 
Because of filthy loves of gods and goddesses, 

Who in the earlier ages raised a bustle. 
But never put on pantaloons or bodices ; 

His reverend tutors had at times a tussle, 
And for their ^neids, Iliads, and Odysseys, 

Were forced to make an odd sort of apology. 

For Donna Inez dreaded the Mythology. 

XLIL 

Ovid's a rake, as half his verses show him, 

Anacreon's morals are a still worse sample, 
Catullus scarcely has a decent poem, 

I don't think Sappho's Ode a good example. 
Although Longinus 2 tells us there is no hymn 

Where the sublime soars forth on wings more ample; 
But Virgil's songs are pure, except thathorrid one 
Beginning with " Formosum Pastor Corydon." 

XLIIL 
Lucretius' irreligion is too strong 

For early stomachs, to prove wholesome food j 
I can't help thinking Juvenal was wrong. 

Although no doubt his real intent was good, 
For speaking out so plainly in his song, 

So much indeed as to be downright rude ; 
And then what proper person can be partial 
To all those nauseous epigrams of Martial ? 

XLIV. 

Juan was taught from out the best edition, 

Expurgated by learned men, who place, 
JudiciousFy, from out the schoolboy's vision, 

The grosser parts ; but, fearful to deface 
Too much their modest bard by this omission, 

And pitying sore his mutilated case. 
They only add them all in an appendix,3 
Which saves, in fact, the trouble of an index ; 

XLV. 
For there we have them all '<at one fell swoop," 

Instead of being scatter'd through the pages ; 
They stand forth raarshall'd in a handsome troop, 

To meet the ingenuous youth of future ages. 
Till some less rigid editor shall stoop 

To call them Ijack into their separate cages, 
Instead of standing staring altogether. 
Like garden gods — and not so deceiat either, 

XLVI. 
The Missal too (it was the family Missal) 

Was ornamented in a sort of way 
Which ancient mass-books often are, and this all 

Kinds of grotesques illumined ; and how they, 
Who saw those figures on the margin kiss all, 

Could turn their optics to the text and pray, 
Is more than I know — But Don Juan's mother 
Kept this herself, and gave her son another. 

XLVII. 

Sermons he read, and lectures he endured. 
And homilies, and lives of all the saints; 

To Jerome and to Chrysostom inured. 

He did not take such studies for restraints ; 

But how faith is acquired, and then ensured, 
So well not one of the aforesaid paints 

As Saint Augustine in his fine Confessions, 

Which make the reader envy his transgressions.* 



2 See Lonpinus. Section 10., " I'va fjn) e'v Ti TTcpi 
airfiv ndOos (paivrjTat,, naOuiv dt cvvodos" 

3 Fact! There is, or was, such an edition, with all the 
obnoxious epigrams of Martial placed by themselves at the 
end. 

4 See his Confessions, 1. i. c. ix. By the representa- 
tion which Saint Augustine gives of himself in his youth, 
it is easy to see that he was what we should call a rake. 
He avoided the school as the plague ; he loved nothing 
but gaming and public shows; he robbed his father of 
every thing he could find; he invented a thousand lies to 
escape the red, which they were obliged to make use of to 
punish his irregularities. 



480 



DON JUAJN 



[Canto I. 



XLVIII. 

This, too, was a seal'd book to little Juan — 
I can't but say that his mamma was right, 

If such an education was the true one. 

She scarcely trusted him from out her si§ht ; 

Her maids were old, aud if she took a new one, 
You might be sure she was a perfect fright. 

She did this during even her husband's life — 

I recommend as much to every wife. 

XLIX. 
Young Juan wax'd in goodliness and grace; 

At six a charming child, and at eleven 
With all the promise of as fine a face 

As e'er to man's maturer growth was given : 
He studied steadily, and grew apace, 

And seem'd, at least, in the right road to heaven, 
For half his d;iys were pass'd at church, the other 
Between his tutors, confessor, and mother. 



At six, I said, he was a charming child, 
At twelve he was a fine, but quiet boy ; 

Although in infancy a little wild, 

They tamed him down amongst them : to destroy 

His natural spirit not in vain they toil'd, 
At least it seem'd so ; and his mother's joy 

Was to declare how sage, and still, and steady, 

Her young philosopher was grown already. 

LI. 

I had my doubts, perhaps I have them still. 
But what I say is neither here nor there : 

I knew his father well, and have some skill 
In character — but it would not be fair 

From sire to son to augur good or ill : 
He and his wife were an ill-sorted pair — 

But scandal 's my aversion — I protest 

Against all evil speaking, even in jest. 

LII. 

For my part I say nothing — nothing — but 
This I will say — my reasons are my own — 

That if I had an only son to put 
To school (as God be praised that I have none), 

'T is not with Donna Inez I would siiut 
Him up to learn his catechism alone. 

No — no — I 'd send him out betimes to college, 

For there it was I pick'd up my own knowledge. 

LIII. 

For there one learns — 't is not for me to boast, 
Though I acquired — but I pass over that. 

As well as all the Greek I since have lost : 
I say that there 's the place — but " Verbum sat,'>^ 

I think I pick'd up too, as well as m.ost, 
Knowledge of matters — but no matter lohcU — 

I never married — but, I think, I knovT 

That sons should not be educated so. 

LIV. 
Young Juan now was sixteen years of age. 

Tall, handsome, slender, but well knit : he seem'd 
Active, though not so sprightly, as a jjage ; 

And every body but his mother deem'd 
Him almost man ; but she flew in a raa:e 

And bit her lips (for else she might have scream'd) 
If any said so, for to be precocious 
Was in her eyes a thing the most atrocious. 

LV. 

Amongst her numerous acquaintance, all 

Selected for discretion and devotion, 
There was the Donna Julia, whom to call 

Pretty were but to give a feeble notion 
Of many charms in her as natural 

As sweetness to the flower, or salt to ocean. 
Her zone to V^enus, or his bow to Cupid, 
j But this last simile is trite and stupid). 



LVI. 

The darkness of her Oriental eye 

Accorded with her Moorish origin; 
(Her blood was not all Spanish, by the by; 
In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin.J 
When proud Granada fell, and, forced to fly, 

Boabdil wept, of Donna Julia's kin 
! Some went to Africa, some stay'd in Spain, 
i Her great-grejit-grandmamma chose to remain. 

LVII. 

I She married (I forget the pedigree) 

With an Hidalgo, who transmitted down 

His blood less noble than such blood should be; 
At such alliances his sires would frown. 

In that point so precise in each degree 
That they bred in and in, as might be shown, 

Miirrying their cousins — nay, their aunts, and nieces, 

Which always spoils the breed, if it increases. 

LVIII. 

This heathenish cross restored the breed again, 
Ruiu"d its blood, but much improved its liesh ; 

For from a root the ugliest in Old Spain 
Sprung up a branch as beautiful as fresh ; 

The sons no more were short, the daughters plain : 
But there 's a rumour which I fain would huth, 

'T is said that Donna Julia's grandmamma 

Produced her Don more heirs at love than law. 

LIX. 

However this might be, the race went on 
Improving still through every generation, 

Until it centred in an only son. 
Who left an only daughter; my narration 

May have suggested that this single one 
Could be but Julia (whom on this occasion 

I shall have much to speak about), and she 

Was married, charming, chaste, and twenty-three. 

LX. 

Her eye (I 'm very fond of handsome eyes) 

Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire 
Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise 

Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire, 
And love than either; and there would arise 

A something in them which was not desire, 
But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul 
Which struggled through and chasten'd down the 
vrhole. 

LXI. 
Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow 

Bright with intelligence, and fair, and smooth ; 
Her eyebrow's shape was like the aerial bow. 

Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth, 
Mounting, at times, to a transparent glow. 

As if lier veins ran lightning ; she, in sooth, 
Possess'd an air and grace by no means common : 
Her stature tall — I hate a dumpy woman. 

LXII. 

Wedded she was some years, and to a man 
Of fifty, and such husbands are in plenty ; 

And yet, I think, instead of such a one 

'T were better to have twooi five-and-twenty, 

Especially in countries near the sun: 
And now I think on 't, " mi vien in mente," 

Ladies even of the most uneasy virtue 

Prefer a spouse whose age is short of thirty. 

LXIII. 
'T is a sad thing, I cannot choose but say, 

And all the fault of that indecent sun, 
Who cannot leave alone our helpless clay, 

But will keep baking, broiling, burning on, 
That howsoever people fast and pray. 

The flesh is frail, and so the soul undone: 
What men call gallantry, and gods adultery. 
Is much more common where the climate's sultry. 



Canto I.] 



DON JUAN. 



481 



LXIV. 

Happy the nations of the moral North ! 

Where all is virtue, and the winter season 
Sends sin, without a rag on, shivering forth 

('T was snow that brought St. Anthony i to reason) j 
Where juries cast up what a wife is worth, 

By laying whate'er sum, in mulct, they please on 
The lover, who must pay a handsome price, 
Because it is a marketable vice. 

LXV. 
Alfonso was the name of Julia's lord, 

A man well looking for his years, and who 
Was neither much beloved nor yet abhorr'd : 

They lived together as most people do, 
Suffering each other's foibles by accord, 

And not exactly either o?ie or two ; 
Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it. 
For jealousy dislikes the world to know it. 

LXVI. 
Julia was — yet I never could see why — 

With Donna Inez quite a favourite friend ; 
Between their tastes there was small sympathy. 

For not a line had Julia ever penn'd : 
Some people whisper (but, no doubt, they lie, 

For malice still imputes some private end) 
That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso's marriage, 
Forgot with him her very prudent carriage ; 

LXVII. 

And that still keeping up the old connection. 

Which time had lately render'd much more chaste, 

She took his lady also in afifection. 
And certainly this course was much the best : 

She flatter'd Julia with her sage protection, 
And complimented Don Alfonso's taste; 

And if she could not (who can ?) silence scandal, 

At least she left it a more slender handle. 

LXVIII. 

I can't tell whether Julia saw the affair 
With other people's eyes, or if her own 

Discoveries made, but none could be aware 
Of this, at least no symptom e'er was shown; 

Perhaps she did not know, or did not care, 
Indifferent from the first, or callous grown: 

I 'm really puzzled what to think or say. 

She kept her counsel in bo close a way. 

LXIX. 

Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child, 

Caress'd him often — such a thing might be 

Quite innocently done, and harmless styled. 
When she had twenty years, and thirteen he ; 

But I am not so sure I should have smiled 
When he was sixteen, Julia twenty-three ; 

These few short years make wondrous alterations, 

Particularly amongst sun-burnt nations. 

LXX. 

Whate'er the cause might be, they had become 
Changed ; for the dame grew distant, the youth shy, 

Their looks cast down, their greetings almost dumb, 
And much embarrassment in either eye; 

There surely will be little doubt with some 
That Donna Julia knew the reason why, 

But as for Juan, he had no more notion 

Than he who never saw the sea of ocean, 

LXXI. 

Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind. 
And tremulously gentle her small hand 

Withdrew itself from his, but left behind 
A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland 

And slight, so very slight, that to the mind 
'T was but a doubt ; but ne'er magician's wand 



1 For the particulars of St. Anthony's recipe for hot 
blood in cold weather, see Mr. Alban Butler's " Lives of 
the Saints." 



Wrought change with all Armida's fairy art 
Like w hat this light touch left on Juan's heart. 

LXXII. 

And if she met him, though she smiled no more. 
She look'd a sadness sweeter than her smile, 

As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store 
She must not own, but cherish'd more the while 

For that compression in its burning core; 
Even innocence itself has many a wile, 

And will not dare to trust itself with truth, 

And love is taught hypocrisy from youth. 

LXXIII. 

But passion most dissembles, yet betrays 
Even by its darkness ; as the blackest sky 

Foretells the heaviest tenjpest, it displays 
Its workings through the vainly guarded eye. 

And in whatever aspect it arrays 
Itself, 't is still the same hypocrisy ; 

Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate, 

Are masks it often wears, and still too late. 

LXXIV. 

Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression. 
And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft, 

And burning blushes, though for no transgression. 
Tremblings when met, and restlessness when left; 

All these are little preludes to possession, 
Of which young passion cannot be bereft, 

And merely tend to show how greatly love is 

Embarrass'd at first starting with a novice. 

LXXV. 

Poor Julia's heart was in an awkward state j 
She felt it going, and resolved to make 

The noblest efforts for herself and mate. 
For honour's, pride's, religion's, virtue's sake : 

Her resolutions were most truly great, 
And almost might have made a Tarquin quake: 

She pray'd the Virgin Mary for her grace, 

As being the best judge of a lady's case. 

LXXVI. 

She vow'd she never would see Juan more. 
And next day paid a visit to his mother. 

And look'd extremely at the opening door, 
Which, by the Virgin's grace, let m another; 

Grateful she was, and yet a little sore — 
Again it opens, it can be no other, 

'T is surely Juan now — No ! I 'm afraid 

That night the Virgin was no further pray'd. 

LXXVII. 

She now determined that a virtuous, woman 
Should rather face and overcome temptation. 

That flight was base and dastardly, and no man 
Should ever give her heart the least sensation ; 

That is to say, a thought beyond the common 
Preference, that we must feel upon occasion. 

For people who are pleasanter than others, 

But then they only seem so many brothers. 

LXXVIII. 

And even if by chance — and who can 4ell ? 

The devil 's so very sly — she should discover 
That all within was not so very well, 

And, if still free, that such or such a lover 
Might please perhaps, a virtuous wife can quell 

Such thoughts, and be the better when they 're over ; 
And if the man should ask, 't is but denial : 
I recommend young ladies to make trial. 

LXXIX. 

And then there are such things as love divine, 
Bright and immaculate, unmix'd and pure, 

Such as the angels think so very fine. 
And matrons, who would be no less secure, 

Platonic, perfect, "just such love as mine : " 
Thus Julia said — and thought so, to be sure; 

And so I 'd have her think, were I the man 

On whom her reveries celestial ran. 



41 



31 



482 



DON JUAN. 



[Canto I. 



LXXX. 

Such love is innocent, and may exist 
Between young persons without any danger: 

A hand may first, and then a lip be kist ; 
For my part, to such doings 1 'm a stranger, 

But hear these freedoms form the utmost list 
Of all o'er which such love may be a ranger: 

If people go beyond, 't is quite a crime, 

But not my fault — I tell them all iu time. 

LXXXI. 

Love, then, but love within its proper limits, 

Was Julia's innocent determination 
In young Don Juan's favour, and to him its 

Exertion might be useful on occasion ; 
And, lighted at too pure a shrine to dim its 

Ethereal lustre, with what sweet persuasion, 
He might be taught, by love and her together — 
I really don't know what, nor Julia either. 

LXXXII. 

Fraught with this fine intention, and well fenced 

In mail of proof — her purity of soul. 
She, for the future of her strength convinced. 

And that her honour was a rock, or mole. 
Exceeding sagely from that hour dispensed 

With any kind of troublesome control ; 
But whether Julia to the task was equal 
Is that which must be mention'd in the sequel. 

LXtXIII. 

Her plan she deem'd both innocent and feasible. 
And, surely, with a stripling of sixteen 

Not scandal's fangs could fix on much that 's seizable, 
Or if they did so, satisfied to mean 

Nothing but what was good, her breast was peaceable : 
A quiet conscience makes one so serene ! 

Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded 

That all the Apostles would have done as they did. 

LXXXIV. 

And if in the mean time her husband died, 
But Heaven forbid that such a thought should cross 

Her brain, though in a dream ! (and then she sigh'd) 
Never could she survive that common loss ; 

But just suppose that moment should betide, 
I only say suppose it — inter nos. 

(This should be entre nous, for Julia thought 

In French, but then the rhyme would go for nought.) 

LXXXV. 

I only say suppose this supposition : 
Juan being then grown up to man's estate 

Would fully suit a widow of condition, 
Even seven years hence it would not be too late; 

And in the interim (to pursue this vision) 
The mischief, after all, could not be great. 

For he would learn the rudiments of love, 

I mean the seraph way of those above. 

LXXXVI. 

So much for Julia. Now we '11 turn to Juan.- 

Poor little fellow ! he had no idea 
Gf his own case, and never hit the true one ; 

In feelings quick as Ovid's Miss Medea.i 
He puzzled over what he found a new one, 

But not as yet imagined it could be a 
Thing quite in course, and not at ;ill alarming, 
Which, with a little patience, might grow charming. 

LXXXVII. 
Silent and pensive, idle, restless, slow, 

His home deserted for the lonely wood, 
Tormented with a wound he could not know. 

His, like all deep grief, plunged in solitude : 
I 'm fond myself of solitude or so. 

But then, I beg it may be understood, 
By solitude I mean a Sultan's, not 
A hermit's, with a harem for a grot. 



1 See Ovid, de Art. Amand. 1. ii. 



LXXXVIII. 

" Oh Love ! in such a wilderness as this, 
Where transport and security entwine, 

Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss, 
And here thou art a god indeed divine." 

The bard 1 quote from does not sing amiss,3 
With the exception of the second line, 

For that same twining " transport and security ^ 

Are twisted to a phrase of some obscurity. 

LXXXIX. 

The poet meant, no doubt, and thus appeals 

To the good sense and senses of mankind, 
The very thing which every body feels. 

As all have found on trial, or may find, 
That no one likes to be disturb'd at meals 

Or love, — I won't say more about " entwined " 
Or "transport," as we knew all that before. 
But beg " Security " will bolt the door. 

XC. 
Young Juan wander'd by the glassy brooks, 

Thinking unutterable things; he threw 
Himself at length within the leafy nooks 

Where the wild branch of the cork forest grevs^ ; 
There poets find materials for their books, 

And every now and then we read them through. 
So that their plan and prosody are eligible. 
Unless, like Wordsworth, they prove unintelligible. 

XCI. 

He, Juan, (and not Wordsworth) so pursued 
His self-communion with his own high soul, 

Until his mighty heart, in its great mood. 
Had mitigated part, though not the whole 

Of its disease ; he did the best he could 
With things not very subject to control. 

And turn'd, without perceiving his condition, 

Like Coleridge, into a metaphysician, 

xcn. 

He thought about himself, and the whole earth, 
Of man the wonderful, and of the stars. 

And how the deuse they ever could have birth ; 
And then he thought of earthquakes, and of wars. 

How many miles the moon might have in girth, 
Of air-balloons, and of the many bars 

To perfect knowledge of the boundless skies; — 

And then he thought of Donna Julia's eyes. 

xcin. 

In thoughts like these true wisdom may discern 
Longings sublime, and aspirations high. 

Which some are born with, but the mo"st part learn 
To plague themselves withal, they know not why : 

'T was strange that one so young should thus concern 
His brain about the action of the sky ; 

If you think 't was philosophy that this did, 

I can't help thinking puberty assisted. 

XCIV. 

He pored upon the leaves, and on the flowers, 

And heard a voice in all the winds ; and then 
He thought of wood-nymphs and immortal bowers. 

And how the goddesses came down to men j 
He miss'd the pathway, he forgot the hours. 

And when he look'd upon his watch again, 
He found how much old Time hnd been a winner — 
He also found that he had lost his dinner. 

XCV. 
Sometimes he turn'd to gaze upon his book, 

Boscan,3 or Garcilasso ; ■* — by the wind 



2 Campbell's Gertrude of Wyoming — (I think) — the 
opening of Canto Second — but quote from memory. 

3 Juan Boscan AlmngavH, of Barcelona, died about the 
year )543. In concert with his friend Garcilasso, he in- 
troduced the Italian style into Castilian poetry, and com- 
menced his labours by writing sonnets in the manner of 
Petrarch.— E. 

4 Garcilasso de la Vega, of a. noble family at Toledo, 



. 



Canto I.] 



DON JUAN. 



483 



Even as the page is rustled while we look, 

So by the poesy of his own mind 
Over the mystic leaf his soul was shook, 

As if 't were one whereon magicians bind 
Their spells, and give them to the passmg gale, 
According to some good old woman's tale. 

XCVI. 

Thus would he while his lonely hours away 
Dissatisfied, nor knowing what he wanted ; 

Nor glowing reverie, nor poet's lay. 

Could yield his spirit that for which it panted, 

A bosom whereon he his head might lay. 

And bear the heart beat with the love it granted, 

With .several other things, which 1 forget, 

Or which, at least, I need not mention yet. 

XCVII. 

Those lonely walks, and lengthening reveries, 
Could not escape the gentle Julia's eyes ; 

She saw that Juan was not at his ease ; 
But that which chiefly may, and must surprise. 

Is, that the Donna Inez did not tease 
Her only son with question or surmise : 

Whether it was she did not see, or would not, 

Or, like all very clever people, could not. 

XCVIII. 
This may seem strange, but yet 't is very common j 

For instance — gentlemen, whose ladies take 
Leave to o'erstep the written rights of woman, 

And break the Which commandment is 't they 

break ? 
(I have forsot the number, and think no man 

Should rashly quote, for fear of a mistake.) i 
I say, when these same gentlemen are jealous. 
They make some blunder, which their ladies tell us. 

XCIX. 
A real husband aUvays is suspicious. 

But still no less suspects in the wrong place. 
Jealous of some one who had no such wishes, 

Or pandering blindly to his own disgrace, 
By harbouring some dear friend extremely vicious ; 

The last indeed 's infallibly the case: 
And when the spouse and friend are gone off wholly, 
He wonders at their vice, and not his folly. 

C. 

Thus parents also are at times short-sighted ; 

Though watchful as the lynx, they ne'er discover, 
The while the wicked world beholds delighted. 

Young Hopeful's mistress, or Miss Fanny's lover, 
Till some confounded escapade has blighted 

The plan of twenty years, and all is over; 
And then the mother cries, the father swears, 
And wonders why the devil he got heirs. 

CI. 

But Inez was so anxious, and so clear 

Of sight, that I must think, on this occasion, 

She had some other motive much more near 
For leaving Juan to this new temptation. 

But what that motive was, I shan't say here ; 
Perhaps to finish Juan's education, 

Perhaps to open Don Alfonso's eyes, 

In case he thought bis wife too great a prize. 

CII. 

It was upon a day, a summer's day ; — 
Summer's indeed a very dangerous season, 

And so is spring about the end of May ; 
The sun, no doubt, is the prevailing reason ; 

But whatsoe'er the cause is, one may say. 
And stand convicted of more truth than treason. 



•was a warrior as well as a poet. After serving with dis- 
tinction in Germany, Africa, and Provence, he was killed, 
in 1536, by a stone thrown from a tower, which fell upon 
hie head as he was leading on his battalion. — E. 



That there are months which nature grows more 

merry in, — 
March has its hares, and May must have its heroine. 

cm. 

'T was on a summer's day — the sixth of June : — 

I like to be particular in dates. 
Not only of the age, and year, but moon ; 

They are a sort of post-house, where the Fates 
Change horses, making history change its tune, 

Then spur away o'er empires and o'er states. 
Leaving at last not much besides chronology, 
Excepting the post-obits of theology. 

CIV. 

T was on the sixth of June, about the hour 
Of half-past six — perhaps still nearer seven — 

When Julia sate within as pretty a bower 
As e'er held houri in that heathenish heaven 

Described by Mahomet, and Anacreon Moore, - 
To whom the Jyre and laurels have been given. 

With all the trophies of triumphant song — 

He won them well, and may he wear them long ! 

CV. 

She sate, but not alone ; I know not well 
How this same interview had taken place, 

And even if I knew, I should not tell — 
People should hold their tongues in any case; 

No matter how or why the thing befell, 
But there were she and Juan, face to face — 

When two such faces are so, 't would be wise. 

But very difficult, to shut their eyes. 

CVL 

How beautiful she look'd ! her conscious heart 
Glow'd in her cheek, and yet she felt no wrong. 

Oh Love ! how perfect is thy mystic art, 
Strengthening the weak, and trampling on the strdng, 

How self-deceiTful is the sagest part 

Of mortals whom thy lure hath led along — 

The precipice she stood on was immense. 

So was her creed in her own innocence. 

CVII. 

She thought of her own strength, and Juan's youth, 

And of the folly of all prudish fears, 
Victorious virtue, and domestic truth. 

And then of Don Alfonso's fifty years : 
I wish these last had not occurr'd, in sooth. 

Because that number rarely much endears. 
And through all climes, the snowy and the sunny, 
Sounds ill in love, whate'er it may in money. 

CVIII. 

When people say, " I 've told you fifty times," 
They mean to scold, and very otten do ; 

When poets say, "I've written yj/ty rhymes," 
They make you dread that they '11 recite them too ; 

In gangs of fifty, thieves commit their crimes ; 
At fifty love for love is rare, 't is true, 

But then, no doubt, it equally as true is, 

A good deal may be bought iov fifty Louis. 

CIX. 

Julia had honour, virtue, truth, and love 
For Don Alfonso ; and she inly swore. 

By all the vows below to powers above. 
She never would disgrace the ring she wore, 

Nor leave a wish which wisdom migiit reprove; 
And while she ponder'd this, besides much more. 

One hand on Juan's carelessly was thrown. 

Quite by mistake — she thought it was her own ; 

ex. 

Unconsciously she lean'd upon the other. 

Which play'd wiihin the tangles of her hair; 

And to contend with thoughts she could not smother 
She seem'd, by the distraction of her air. 

'T was surely very wrong in Junn's mother 
To leave together this imprudent pair, 



.~^^.~r'--^:^s^ 



484 



DON JUAN. 



[Canto I. 



She who for many years had watch'd her son so — 
1 'm very certain mine would not have done so. 

CXI. 

The hand which still held Juan's, by degrees 
Gently, but palpably coufirm'd its grasp, 

As if it said, " Detain me, if you please ; " 
Yet there 's no doubt she only meant to clasp 

His fingers with a pure Platonic squeeze ; 

She would have shrunk as from a toad, or asp, 

Had she imagined such a thing could rouse 

A feeling dangerous to a prudent spouse. 

CXII. 
I cannot know what Juan thought of this, 

But what he did, is much what you would do ; 
His young lip thank'd it with a grateful kiss, 

And then, abash'd at its own joy, withdrew 
In deep despair, lest he had done amiss, — 

Love is so very timid when 't is new : 
She blush'd, and frown'd not, but she strove to speak, 
And held her tongue, her voice was grown so weak. 

CXIII. 

The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon : 
The devil 's in the moon for mischief; they 

Who call'd her chaste, methinks, began too soon 
Their nomenclature ; there is not a day, 

The longest, not the twenty-first of June, 
Sees half the business in a wicked way, 

On which three single hours of moonshine smile — 

And then she looks so modest all the while. 

CXIV. 

There is a dangerous silence in that hour, 
A stillness, which leaves room for the full soul 

To open all itself, without the power 
Of calling wholly back its self-control ; 

The silver light which, hallowing tree and tower, 
Sheds beauty and deep softness o'er the whole, 

Breathes also to the heart, and o'er it throws 

A loving languor, which is not repose. 

cxv. 

And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced 
And half retiring from the glowing arm, 

Which trembled like the bosom where 't was placed ; 
Yet still she must have thought there was no harm, 

Or else 't were easy to withdraw her waist ; 
But then the situation had its charm. 

And then God knows what next — I can't go on ; 

I 'm almost sorry that I e'er begun. 

CXVI. 

Oh Plato ! Plato ! you have paved the way, 
With your confounded fantasies, to more 

Immoral conduct by the fancied sway 
Your system feigns o'er the controUess core 

Of human hearts, than all the long array 
Of poets and romancers : — You 're a bore, 

A charlatan, a coxcomb — and have been, 

At best, no better than a go-between. 

CXVII. 

And Julia's voice was lost, except in sighs, 

Until too late for useful conversation ; 
The tears were gushing from her gentle eyes, 

I wish, indeed, they hnd not had occasion ; 
But who, alas ! can love, and then be wise ? 

Not that remorse did not oppose temptation ; 
A little still she strove, and much repented, 
And whispering " I will ne'er consent " — consented. 

CXVIII. 

'T is said that Xerxes oflfer'd a reward 
To those who could invent him a new pleasure : 

Methinks, the requisition 's rather hard, 
And must have cost his majesty a treasure: 

For my part, I 'm a moderate-minded bard. 
Fond of a little love (which I call leisure) 



I care not for new pleasures, as the old 
Are quite enough for me, so they but hold. 

CXIX. 

Oh Pleasure ! you 're indeed a pleasant thing, 
Although one must be damn'd for you, no doubt : 

I make a resolution every spring 
Of reformation, ere the year run out. 

But somehow, this my vestal vow takes wing. 
Yet still, I trust, it may be kept throughout : 

I 'm very sorry, very much ashamed. 

And mean, next winter, to be quite reclaim'd. 

CXX. 
Here my chaste Muse a liberty must fake — 

Start not '. still chaster reader — she '11 be nice hence- 
Forward, and there is no great cause to quake j 

This liberty is a poetic license 
Which some irregularity may make 

In the design, and as I have a hish sense 
Of Aristotle and the Rules, 't is fit ~ 
To beg his pardon when I err a bit. 

CXXI. 

This license is to hope the reader will 
Suppose from June the sixth (the fatal day, 

Without whose epoch my poetic skill 
For want of facts would all be thrown away), 

But keeping Julia and Don Juaii still 
In sight, that several months have pass'd ; we 11 say 

'T was in November, but I 'm not so sure 

About the day — the era 's more obscure. 

CXXII. 

We '11 talk of that anon.— 'T is sweet to hear 
At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep 

The song and oar of Adria's gondolier, 
By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep ; 

'T is sweet to see the evening star appear ; 
'T is sweet to listen as the night-winds creep 

From leaf to leaf; 't is sweet to view on high 

The rainbow, based on ocean, spaa the sky. 

CXXIII. 

'T is sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark 
Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home ; 

'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark 
Our coming, and look brighter when we come ; 

'T is sweet to be awaken'd by the lark, 
Or luU'd by falling waters ; sweet the hum 

Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, 

The lisp of children, and their earliest words. 

CXXIV. 

Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes 

In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth, 
Purple and gushing ; sweet are our escapes 

From civic revelry to rural mirth ; 
Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps, 

Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth, 
Sweet is revenge — especially to women, 
Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen. 

CXXV. 

Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet 
The unexpected death of some old lady, 

Or gentleman of seventy years complete, 

Who 've made " us youth " wait too — too long al- 
ready 

For an estate, or cash, or country-seat, 
Still breaking, but with stamina so steady, 

That all the Israelites are fit to mob its 

Next owner for their double-damn'd post-obits. 

CXXVI. 

'T is sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels, 
By blood or ink; 't is sweet to put an end 

To strife ; 't is sometimes sweet to have our quarrels, 
Particularly with a tiresome friend : 

Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels; 
Dear is the helpless creature we defend 



tfliiifiH 



Canto I.] 



DON JUAN. 



485 



I 



Against the world j and dear the schoolboy spot 
We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot. 

CXXVII. 

But sweeter still than this, than these, than all, 
Is first and passionate love — it stands alone, 

Like Adam's recollection of his fall ; 
The tree of knowledge has been pluck'd — all's 
known — 

And life yields nothing further to recall 
Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown, 

No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven 

Fire which Prometheus filch'd for us from heaven. 

CXXVIII. 

Man's a strange animal, and makes strange use 
Of his own nature, and the various arts, 

And likes particularly to produce 
Some new experiment to show his parts ; 

This is the age of oddities let loose, 

Where different talents find their different marts ; 

You'd best begin with truth, and when you've lost 
your 

Labour, there 's a sure market for imposture. 

CXXIX. 

What opposite discoveries we have seen ! 

(Signs of true genius, and of empty pockets.) 
One makes new noses, one a guillotine, 

One breaks your bones, one sets them in their 
sockets ; 
But vaccination certainly has been 

A kind antithesis to Congreve's rockets, 
With which the Doctor paid off an old pox, 
By borrowing a new one from an ox. 

cxxx. 

Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes ; 

And galvanism has set some corpses grinning. 
But has not ansvver'd like the apparatus 

Of the Humane Society's beginning, 
By which men are unsuffocated gratis : 

What wondrous new machines have late been spin- 
ning ! 
I said the small-pox has gone out of late ; 
Perhaps it may be folio w'd by the great. 

CXXXL 

'T is said the great came from America ; 

Perhaps it may set out on its return, — 
The population there so spreads, they say 

'T is grown high time to thin it in its turn, 
With war, or plague, or famine, any way, 

So that civilisation they may learn ; 
And which in ravage the more loathsome evil is — 
Their real lues, or our pseudo-syphilis? 

CXXXIL 

This is the patent-age of new inventions 
For killing bodies, and for saving souls, 

All propagated with the best intentions ; 

Sir Humphry Davy's lantern, by which coals 

Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions, 
Timbuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles, 

Are ways to benefit mankind, as true, 

Perhajjs, as shooting them at Waterloo. 

cxxxin. 

Man's a phenomenon, one knows not what, 
And wonderful beyond all wondrous measure ; 

'T is pity though, in this sublime world, that 
Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin 's a pleasure ; 

Few mortals know what end they would be at. 
But whether glory, power, or love, or treasure, 

The path is through perplexing ways, and when 

The goal is gain'd, we die, you Know — and then 

cxxxiv. 

What then ? — I do not know, no more do you — 
And so good night. — Return we to our story : 

'T was in No^'ember, when fine days are few, 
And the far mountains wax a little hoary, 

41* 



And clap a white cape on their mantles blue ; 
And the sea dashes round the promontory. 
And the loud breaker boils against tlie rock, 
And sober suns must set at five o'clock. 

cxxxv. 

'T was, as the watchmen say, a cloudy night ; 

No moon, no stars, the wind was low or loud 
By gusts, and many a sparkling hearth was bright 

With the piled wood, round which the family crowd} 
There 's something cheerful in that sort of light. 

Even as a summer sky 's without a cloud : 
I 'm fond of fire, and crickets, and all that, 
A lobster, salad, and champagne, and chat. 

CXXXVL 

'Twasmidnight — Donna Julia was in bed, 

Sleeping, most probably,— when at her door 
Arose a clatter might awake the dead. 

If they had never been awoke before. 
And that they have been so we all have read. 

And are to be so, at the least, once more ; — 
The door was faslen'd, but with voice and fist 
First knocks were heard, then " Madam — Madam — 
hist! 

CXXXVII. 
« For God's sake, Madam — Madam — here 's my 
master. 

With more than half the city at his back — 
Was ever heard of such a curst disaster ! 

'T is not my fault — I kept good watch — Alack ! 
Do pray undo the bolt a liiile faster — 

They 're on the stair just now, and in a crack 
Will all be here ; perhaps he yet may fly — 
Surely the window 's not so very high ! " 

CXXXVIIL 

By this time Don Alfonso was arrived, 

With torches, friends, and servants in great nomber; 
The major part of them had long been wived, 

And therefore paused not to disturb the slumber 
I Of any wicked woman, who contrived 

By stealth her husband's temples to encumber : 
Examples of this kind are so contagious. 
Were one, not punish'd, all would be outrageous. 

CXXXIX. 

I can't tell how, or why, or what suspicion 

Could enter into Don Alfonso's head j 
But for a cavalier of his condition 

It surely was exceedingly ill-bred. 
Without a word of previous admonition. 

To hold a levee round his lady's bed. 
And summon lackeys, arm'd with fire and sword. 
To prove himself the thing he most abhorr'd. 

CXL. 

Poor Dontia Julia ! starting as from sleep, 

(Mind — that I do not say — she had not slept) 

Bes:an at once to scream, and yawn, and weep ; 
Her maid Autonia, who was an adept, 

Contrived to fling the bed-clothes in a heap, 
As if she had just now from out them crept : 

I can't fell why she should take all this trouble 

To prove her mistress had been sleeping double. 

CXLI. 

But Julia mistress, and Antonia maid, 
Appear'd like two poor harmless women, who 

Of goblins, but still more of men afraid. 
Had thought one man might be deterr'd by two. 

And therefore side by side were gently laid. 
Until the hours of absence should run through, 

And truant husband should return, and say, 

" My dear, I was the first who came away." 

CXLII. 

Now Julia found at length a voice, and cried, 

" In heaven's name, Don Alfonso, what d'ye mean ? 

Has madness seized you ? would that I had died 
Ere such a monster's victim I had been ! 



486 



DON JUAN. 



[Canto I. 



What may this midnight violence betide, 
A sudden fit of drunkenness or spleen ? 
Dare you suspect me, whom the thought would kill ? 
Search, then, the room ! " — Alfonso said, " I will." 

CXLIII. 

He search'd, they search'd, and rummaged every where. 
Closet and clothes-press, chest and window-seat, 

And found much linen, lace, and several pair 
Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete, 

With other articles of ladies fair, 
To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat : 

Arras they prick'd and curtains with their swords, 

And wounded several shutters, and some boards. 

CXLIV. 

Under the bed they search'd, and there they found — 
No matter what — it was not that they sought j 

They open'd windows, gazing if the ground 
Had signs or footmarks, but the earth said nought; 

And then they stared each others' faces round : 
'T is odd, not one of all these seekers thought, 

And seems to me almost a sort of blunder, 

Of looking in the bed as well as under. 

CXLV. 
During this inquisition, Julia's tongue 

Was not asleep ~ " Yes, search and search," she 
cried, 
"Insult on insult heap, and wrong on wrong ! 

It was for this that I became a bride ! 
For this in silence I have sutfer'd long 

A husband like Alfonso at my side ; 
But now I'll bear no more, nor here remain, 
If there be law or lawyers, in all Spain. 

CXLVI. 

" Yes, Don Alfonso I husband now no more, 

If ever you indeed deserved the name. 
Is 't worthy of your years ? — you have threescore — 

Fifty, or sixty, it is all the same — 
Is 't wise or fitting, causeless to explore 

For facts against a virtuous woman's fame ? 
Ungrateful, perjured, barbarous Don Alfonso, 
How dare you think your lady would go on so ? 

CXLVII. 
" Is it for this I have disdain'd to hold 

The common privileges of my sex ? 
That I have chosen a confessor so old 

And deaf, that any other it would vex. 
And never once he has had cause to scold, 

But found my very innocence perplex 
So much, he always doubted I was married — 
How sorry you will be when I 've miscarried I 

CXLVI II. 
" Was it for this that no Cortejo i e'er 

I yet have chosen from out the youth of Seville ? 
Is it for this I scarce went any where, 

Except to bull-fights, mass, play, rout, and revel ? 
Is it for this, whate'er my suitors were, 

I favour'd none — nay, was almost uncivil ? 
Is it for this that Genefil Count O'Reilly, 
Who took Algiers,*^ declares I used him vilely ? 

CXLIX. 
" Did not the Italian Musico Cazzani 

Sing at my heart six months at least in vain ? 
Did not his countryman, Count Corniani, 

Call me the only virtuous wife in Spain ? 
Were there not also Russians, English, many ? 

The Count StrongstroganofF I put in pain. 
And Lord Mount Cofleehouse, the Irish peer, 
Who killd himself for love (with wine) last year. 



1 The Spanish "Cortejo" is much the same as the 
Italian "Cavalier Servente." 

2 Donna Julia here made a mistake. Count O'Reilly 
did not take Algiers — but Alg;ier.s very nearly took him : 
he and his army and fleet retreated with ereat loss, and 
not much credit, from before that city, in the year 1775. 



CL. 
" Have I not had two bishops at my feet ? 

The Duke of Ichar, and Don Fernan Nunez ; 
And is it thus a faithful wife you treat ? 

I wonder in what quarter now the moon is : 
I praise your vast forbearance not to beat 

Me also, since the time so opportune is — 
Oh, valiant man 1 with sword drawn and cock'd trigger, 
Now, tell me, don't you cut a pretty figure ? 

CLL 

" Was it for this you took your sudden journey. 
Under pretence of business indispensable, 

With that sublime of rascals your attorney. 
Whom I see standing there, and looking sensible 

Of having play'd the fool ? though both 1 spurn, he 
Deserves the worst, his conduct 's le>s defensible. 

Because, no doubt, 't was for his dirty fee. 

And not from any love to you nor me." 

CLII. 

" If he comes here to take a deposition. 
By all means let the gentleman proceed ; 

You 've made the apartment in a tit condition : — 
There 's pen and ink for you, sir, when you need — 

Let every thing be noted with precision, 

I would not you for nothing should lie fee'd — 

But as my maid 's undrest, pray turn your spies out." 

" Oh I " sobb'd Antonia, "I could tear their eyes out." 

CLIH. 

" There is the closet, there the toilet, there 
The antechamber — search them under, over; 

There is the sofa, there the great arm-ctiair, 
The chimney — which would really hold a lover. 

I wish to sleep, and beg you will take care 
And make no further noise, till you discover 

The secret cavern of this lurking treasure — 

And when 't is found, let me, too, have that pleasure. 

CLIV. 

"And now, Hidalgo I now that you have thrown 

Doubt upon me, confusion over all. 
Pray have the courtesy to make it known 

Who is the man vou search for ? how d'ye call 
Him ? what 's his lineage ? let him but be shown — 

I hope he 's young and handsome — is he tall ? 
Tell me — and be assured, that since you stain 
My honour thus, it shall not be in vain. 

CLV. 

" At least, perhaps, he has not sixty years, 
At that age he would be too old for slaughter, 

Or for so young a husband's jealous fears — 
(Antonia ! let me have a glass of water.) 

I am ashamed of having shed these tears. 
They are unworthy of my father's daughter; 

My mother dream'd not in my natal hour, 

That I should fall into a monster's power. 

CLVI. 

" Perhaps 't is of Antonia you are jealous, 
You saw that she was sleeping by my side, 

When you broke in upon us with your fellows : 
Look where you please — we've nothing, sir, to 
hide ; 

Only another time, I trust, you '11 tell us, 
Or for the sake of decency abide 

A moment at the door, that we may be 

Drest to receive so much good company. 

CLVII. 
" And now, sir, I have done, and say no more ; 

The little I have said may serve to show 
The guileless heart in silence m ly grieve o'er 

The wrongs to whose exposure it is slow : — 
I leave you to your conscience as btfore, 

'T will one day ask vou, why you used me so? 
God grant vou feel not'then the bitterest grief! — 
Antonia ! where 's my pocket-handkerchief?" 



flfeer r 



I Canto I.] 



DON JUAN. 



487 



CLVIII. 

She ceased, and turn'd upon her pillow ; pale 
She lay, her dark ej'es flashing through their tears, 

Like skies that rain and lighten: as a veil, 

Waved and o'ershading her wan cheek, appears 

Her streaming hair ; the black curls strive, but fail, 
To hide the glossy shoulder, which uprears 

Its snow through all ; — her soft lips lie apart, 

And louder than her breathing beats her heart. 

CLIX. 

The Senhor Don Alfonso stood confused ; 

Anfonia bustled round the ransack'd room. 
And, turning up her nose, with looks abused 

Her master, and his myrmidons, of whom 
Not one, except the attorney, was amused ; 

He, like Achates, faithful to the tomb. 
So there were quarrels, cared not for the cause, 
Knowing they must be settled by the laws 

CLX. 

With prying snub-nose, and small eyes, he stood, 
Following Antonia's motions here and there, 

With much suspicion in his attitude ; 
For reputations he had little care ; 

So that a suit or action were made good. 
Small pity had he for the young and fair, 

And ne'er believed in negatives, till these 

Were proved by competent false witnesses. 

CLXI. 

But Don Alfonso stood with downcast looks, 
And, truth to say, he made a foolish figure ; 

When, after searching in five hundred nooks. 
And treating a young wife with so much rigour, 

He gain'd no point, except some self-rebukes, 
Added to those his lady with such vigour 

Had pour'd upon him for the last half-hour, 

Quick, thick, and heavy — as a thunder-shower. 

CLxn. 

At first he tried to hammer an excuse. 

To which the sole reply was tears, and sobs, 

And indications of hysterics, whose 
Prologue is always certain throes, and throbs, 

Gasps, and whatever else the owners choose : 
Alfonso saw his wife, and thought of Job's ; 

He saw too, in perspective, her relations. 

And then he tried to muster all his patience. 

CLXHI. 

He stood in act to speak, or rather stammer. 

But sage Antonia cut him short before 
The anvil of his speech received the hammer, 

With " Pray, sir, leave the room, and say no more, 
Or madam dies."— Alfonso mutter'd, " D — n her," 

But nothing else, the time of words was o'er; 
He cast a rueful look or two, and did, 
He knew not wherefore, that which he was bid. 

CLXIV. 
With him retired his ^^ posse comitatus,^^ 

The attorney last, who linger'd near the door 
Reluctantly, still tarrying there as late as 

Antonia let him — not a little sore 
At this most strange and unexplain'd " hiatus^' 

In Don Alfonso's facts, which just now wore 
An awkward look ; as he revolved the case, 
The door was fasten'd in his legal face. 

CLXV. 

No sooner was it bolted, than — Oh shame ! 

Oh sin ! Oh sorrow ! and Oh womankind ! 
How can you do such things and keep your fame, 

Unless this world, and t' other too, be blind ? 
Nothing so dear as an unfilch'd good name ! 

But to proceed — for there is more behind : 
With much heartfelt reluctance be it said. 
Young Juan slipp'd, half-smother'd, from the bed. 



CLXVI. 
He had been hid — I don't pretend to say 

How, nor can I indeed describe the where — 
Young, slender, and pack'd easily, he lay, 

No doubt, in little compass, round or square j 
But pity him I neither must nor may 

His suffocation by that pretty pair; 
'T were better, sure, to die so, than be shut 
With maudlin Clarence in his Malmsey butt. 

CLXVII. 

And, secondly, I pity not, because 

He had no business to commit a sin. 
Forbid by heavenly, fined by human laws, 

At least 't was rather early to begin ; 
But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws 

So much as when we call our old debts in 
At sixty years, and draw the accompts of evil, 
And find a deused balance with the devil. 

CLXVIII. 
Of his position I can give no notion : 

'Tis written in the Hebrew Chronicle, 
How the physicians, leaving pill and potion, 

Prescribed, by way of blister, a young belle, 
When old King David's blood grew dull in motion, 

And that the medicine ansvver'd very well j 
Perhaps 't was in a different way applied, 
For David lived, but Juan nearly died. 

CLXIX. 

What 's to be done ? Alfonso will be back 
The moment he has sent his fools away. 

Antonia's skill was put upon the rack. 
But no device could be brought into play — 

And how to parry the renew'd attack ? 
Besides, it wanted but few hours of day : 

Antonia puzzled ; Julia did not speak. 

But press'd her bloodless lip to Juan's cheek. 

CLXX. 

He turn'd his lip to hers, and with his hand 
CalI'd back the tangles of her wandering hair ; 

Even then their love they could not all command. 
And half forgot their danger and despair : 

Antonia's patience now was at a stand — 

" Come, come, 't is no time now for fooling there," 

She whisper'd, in great wrath — "I must deposit 

This pretty gentleman within the closet : 

CLXXI. 

" Pray, keep your nonsense for some luckier night — 
Who can have put my master in this mood ? 

What will become on 't — I 'm in such a fright, 
The devil 's in the urchin, and no good — 

Is this a time for giggling ? this a plight ? 

Why, don't you know that it may end in blood ? 

You '11 lose your life, and I shall lose my place, 

My mistress all, for that half-giilish face. 

CLXXII. 

" Had it but been for a stout cavalier 
Of twenty-five or thirty — (come, make haste) 

But for a child, what piece of work is here! 
I really, madam, wonder at your taste — 

(Come, sir, get in) — my master must be near : 
There, for the present, at the least, he 's fast. 

And if we can but till the morning keep 

Our counsel— (Juan, mind, you must not sleep.") 

CLXXIII. 

Now, Don Alfonso entering, but alone. 

Closed the oration of the trusty maid : 
She loiter'd, and he told her to be gone. 

An order somewhat sullenly obey'd ; 
However, present remedy was none. 

And no great good seeni'd answcr'd if she stay'd : 
Regarding both with slow and sidelong view. 
She snufl'd the candle, curtsied, and withdrew. 



I 



^jjjssm^^ms^a^ 



s^- 



488 



DON JUAN. 



[Canto I. 



CLXXIV. 

Alfonso paused a minute — then begun 
Some strange excuses for his late proceeding j 

He would not justify what he had done, 
To say the best, it was extreme ill-breeding ; 

But there were ample reasons for it, none 
Of which he specified in this his pleading : 

His speech was a fine sample, on the whole, 

Of rhetoric, which the learn'd call " rigmarole.^^ 

CLXXV. 
Julia said nought ; though all the while there rose 

A ready answer, which at once enables 
A matron, who her husband's foible knows, 

By a few timely words to turn the tables, 
Which, if it does not silence, still must pose, — 

Even if it should comprise a pack of fables j 
'T is to retort with firmness, and when he 
Suspects with o?ie, do you reproach with three. 

CLXXVI. 

Julia, in fact, had tolerable grounds,— 
Alfonso's loves with Inez were well known ; 

But whether 't was that one's own guilt confounds — 
But that can't be, as has been often shown, 

A lady with apologies abounds ; — 
It might be that her silence sprang alone 

From delicacy to Don Juan's ear. 

To whom she knew his mother's fame was dear. 

CLXXVII. 
There might be one more motive, which makes two, 

Alfonso ne'er to Juan had alluded, — 
Mention'd his jealousy, but never who 

Had been the happy lover, he concluded, 
Conceal'd amongst his premises ; 't is true. 

His mind the more o'er this its mystery brooded; 
To speak of Inez now were, one may say, 
Like throwing Juan in Alfonso's way. 

CLxxvni. 

A hint, in tender cases, is enough ; 

Silence is best, besides there is a tact — 
(That modern phrase appears to me sad stuff, 

But it will serve to keep my verse compact)— 
Which keeps, when push'd by questions rather rough, 

A lady always distant from the fact : 
The charming creatures lie with such a grace, 
There 's nothing so becoming to the face. 

CLXXIX. 

They blush, and we believe them ; at least I 
Have always done so ; 't is of no great use, 

In any case, attempting a reply. 
For then their eloquence grows quite profuse ; 

And when at length they 're out of breath, they sigh, 
And cast their languid eyes down, and let loose 

A tear or two, and then we make it up ; 

And then — and then — and then — sit down and sup. 

CLXXX. 

Alfonso closed his speech, and begged her pardon, 
Which Julia half withheld, and then half granted. 

And laid conditions, he thought, very hard on, 
Denying several little things he wanted : 

He stood like Adam lingering near his garden, 
With useless penitence perplex'd and haunted, 

Beseeching she no further would refuse, 

When, lo ! he stumbled o'er a pair of shoes. 

CLXXXI. 

A pair of shoes ! — what then ? not much, if they 
Are such as fit with ladies' feet, but these 

(No one can tell how much I grieve to say) 
Were masculine ; to see them, and to seize, 

Was but a moment's act.— Ah 1 vvell-a-day ! 
My teeth begin to chatter, my veins freeze — 

Alfonso first examined well their fashion, 

And then flew out into another passion. 



CLXXXII. 

He left the room for his relinquish'd sword, 

And Julia instant to the closet flew. 
" Fly, Juan, fly ! for heaven's sake — not a word — 

The door is open — you may yet slip through 
The passage you so ofien have explored — 

Here is the garden-key — Fly — fly — Adieu ! 
Haste — haste ! I hear Alfonso's hurrying feet — 
Day has not broke — there 's no one in the street." 

CLXXXIII. 

None can say that this was not good advice, 
The only mischief was, it came too latej 

Of all experience 't is the usual price, 
A sort of income-tax laid on by fate : 

Juan had reach'd the room-door in a trice, 
And might have done so by the garden-gate, 

But met Alfonso in his dressing-gown. 

Who threaten'd death — so Juan knock'd him down. 

CLXXXIV. 
Dire was the scuffle, and out went the light ; 

Antonia cried out " Rape ! " and Julia " Fire ! " 
But not a servant stirr'd to aid the fight. 

Alfonso, pommell'd to his heart's desire. 
Swore lustily he 'd be revenged this night ; 

And Juan, too, blasphemed an octave higher; 
His blood was up : though young, he was a Tartar, 
And not at all disposed to prove a martyr. 

CLXXXV. 

Alfonso's sword had dropp'd ere he could draw it, 
And they continued battling hand to hand, 

For Juan very luckily ne'er saw it ; 
His temper not being under great command. 

If at that moment he had chanced to claw it, 
Alfonso's days had not been in the land 

Much longer.— Think of husbands', lovers' lives ! 

And how ye may be doubly widows — wives! 

CLXXXVI. 

Alfonso grappled to detain the foe. 

And Juan throttled him to get away. 
And blood ('t was from the nose) began to flow; 

At last, as they more family wrestling lay, 
Juan contrived to give an awkward blow. 

And then his only garment quite gave way ; 
He fled, like Joseph, leaving it ; but there, 
I doubt, all likeness ends between the pair. 

CLXXXVII. 

Lights came at length, and men, and maids, who found 
An awkward spectacle their eyes before ; 

Antonia in hysterics, Julia swoon'd, 
Alfonso leaning, breathless, by the door ; 

Some half-torn drapery scatter'd on the ground. 
Some blood, and several foots'eps, but no more : 

Juan the gate gain'd, turn'd the key about, 

And liking not the inside, lock'd the out. 

CLXXXVHL 

Here ends this canto. — Need I sing, or say, 
How Juan, naked, favour'd by the night. 

Who favours what she should not, found his way, 
And reach'd his home in an unseemly plight? 

The pleasant scandal which arose next day, 
The nine days' wonder which was brought to light, 

And how Alfonso sued for a divorce, 

Were in the English newspapers, of course. 

CLXXXIX. 

If you would like to see the whole proceedings, 

The depositions, and the cause at full. 
The names of all the witnesses, the pleadings 

Of counsel to nonsuit, or to annul, 
There 's more than one edition, and the readings 

Are various, but they none of them are dull ; 
The best is that in short-hand ta'en by Gurney.i 
Who to Madrid on purpose made a journey. 



1 William Brodie Gurney.Esq., the eminent staort^band 
writer to the houses of parliament. — E. 



I 



Canto I.J 



DON JUAN. 



489 



cxc. 

But Donna Inez, to divert the train 
Of one of the most circulating scandals 

That had for centuries been known in Spain, 
At least since the retirement of the Vandals, 

First vow'd (»nd never had she vow'd in vain) 
To Virgin Mary several pounds of candles j 

And then, by the advice of some old ladies, 

She sent her son to be shipp'd off from Cadiz. 

CXCI. 

She had resolved that he should travel through 

All European climes, by land or sea, 
To mend his former morals, and get new, 

Especially in France and Italy, 
(At least this is the thing most people do.) 

Julia was sent into a convent : she 
Grieved, but, perhaps, her feelings may be better 
Shown in the following copy of lier Letter : — 

CXCII. 

"They tell me 't is decided ; you depart : 
^T is wise — 't is well, but not the less a pain ; 

I have no further claim on your young heart, 
Mine is the victim, and would be again : 

To love too much has been the only art 
I used ; — I write in haste, and if a stain 

Be on this sheet, 't is not what it appears; 

My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears. 

CXCIII. 
"I loved, I love you, for this love have lost 

State, station, heaven, mankind's, my own esteem, 
And yet cannot regret what it hath cost. 

So dear is still the memory of that dream; 
Yet, if I name my guilt, 't is not to boast. 

None can deem harshlier of me than I deem : 
I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest — 
I 've nothing to reproach, or to request. 

CXCIV. 

"Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 
'T is woman's whole existence ; man may range 

The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart, 
Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange 

Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart, 

And few there are whom these cannot estrange ; 

Men have all these resources, we but one. 

To love again, and be again undone. 

CXCV. 

" You will proceed in pleasure, and in pride, 

Beloved and loving many; all is o'er 
For me on earth, except some years to hide 

My shame and sorrow deep in my heart's c&rs: 
These I could bear, but cannot cast aside 

The passion which still rages as before,— 
And so farewell — forgive me, love me — No, 
That word is idle now — but let it go. 

CXCVI. 
" My breast has been all weakness, is so yet; 

But still I think I can collect my mind ; 
My blood still rushes where my spirit 's set, 

As roll the waves before the settled wind ; 
My heart is feminine, nor can forget — 

To all, except one image, madly blind ; 
So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole, 
As vibrates my fond heart to my lix'd soul. 

CXCVII. 

" I have no more to say, but linger still, 
And dare not set my seal upon this sheet, 

And yet I may as well the task fulfil. 
My misery can scarce be more complete: 

I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill ; 
Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would 
meet, 

And I must even survive this last adieu, 

And hear with life, to love and pray for you !" 



CXCVIII. 

This note was written upon gilt-edged paper 
With a neat little crow-quill, slight and new; 

Her small white hand could hardly reach the taper, 
It trembled as magnetic needles do, 

And yet she did not let one tear escape her; 

The seal a sun-flower ; " Elle vous suit partout,^' 1 

The motto, cut upon a white cornelian ; 

The wax was superfine, its hue vermilion. 

CXCIX. 

This was Don Juan's earliest scrape ; but whether 

I shall proceed with his adventure is 
Dependent on the public altogether; 

We '11 see, however, what they say to this. 
Their favour in an author's cap 's a feather, 

And no great mischief 's done by their caprice ; 
And if their approbation we experience. 
Perhaps they 'U have some more about a year hence, 

CC. 

My poem 's epic, and is meant to be 

Divided in twelve books; each book containing, 
With love, and war, a heavy gale at sea, 

A list of ships, and captains, and kings reigning. 
New characters ; the episodes are three : 

A panoramic view of hell 's in training. 
After the style of Virgil and of Homer, 
So that my name of Epic 's no misnomer. 

CCI. 

All these things will be specified in tirhe, 

With strict regard to Aristotle's rules. 
The Vade Mecum of the true sublime, 

Which makes so many poets, and some fools : 
Prose poets like blank-verse, I 'm fond of rhyme. 

Good workmen never quarrel with their tools; 
I 've got new mythological machinery, 
And very handsome supernatural scenery. 

ecu. 

There 's only one slight difference between 
Me and my epic brethren gone before. 

And here the advantage is my own, I ween 
(Net that I have not several meri-ts more, 

But this will more peculiarly be seen); 
They so embellish, that 't is quite a bore 

Their labyrinth of fables to thread through, 

Whereas this story 's actually true. 

CCIII. 

If any person doubt it, I appeal 

To history, tradition, and to facts. 
To newspapers, whose truth all know and feel, 

To plays in five, and operas in three acts; 
All these confirm my statement a good deal, 

But that which more completely faith exacts 
Is, that myself, and several now in Seville, 
Saw Juan's last elopement with the devil. 

CCIV. 
If ever I should condescend to prose, 

I '11 write poetical commandments, which 
Shnll supersede beyond a doubt all those 

That went before ; in thes^e I shall enrich 
My text with many things that no one knows, 

And carry precept to the highest pitch : 
I '11 call the work " Longinus o'er a Bottle, 
Or, Every Poet his ow?i Aristotle." 

CCV. 

Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope ; 

Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Coleridge, 
Southey ; 
Because the first is crazed beyond all hope. 

The second drunk, (he third so qunintand mouthy: 
With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope. 

And Campbell's Hippocrene is somewhat drouthy : 
Thou shalt not steal from Samuel Rogers, nor 
Commit — flirtation with the muse of Moore. 



I Lord Byron had himself a seal bearing this motto.— E. 



'TiiiiTii ■"•^■iritarTr •■ ff-T'-*^'^'*"^^- 



^feM 



490 



DON JUAN. 



[Canto I. 



ccvi. 

Thou shalt not covet Mr. Sotheby's Muse, 

His Pegasus, nor any thhig that 's his ; 
Thou shalt not bear false witness like " the Blues" — 

(There 's one,.at least, is very fond of this) ; 
Thou shalt not wrjie, in short, but what I choose; 

This is true criticism, and you may kiss — 
Exactly as you please, or not, — the rod ; 
But if you don't, I '11 lay it on, by G — d ! 

CCVII. 
If any person should presume to assert 

This story is not moral, first, I pray, 
That they will not cry out before they 're hurt, 

Then that they 'II read it o'er again, and say 
(But, doubtless, nobody will be so pert,) 

That this is not a moral tale, though gay; 
Besides, in Canto Twelfth, I mean to show 
The very place where wicked people go. 

CCVIII. 

If, after all, there should be some so blind 
To their own good this warning to despise, 

Led by some tortuosity of mind. 
Not to believe my verse and their own eyes, 

And cry that they " the moral cannot find," 
I tell him, if a clergyman, he lies ; 

Should captains the remark, or critics, make, 

They also lie too — under a mistake. 

CCIX. 

The public approbation I expect, 

And beg they '11 take my word about the moral, 
Which I with their amusement will connect 

(So children cutting teeth receive a coral) ; 
Meantime they 'II doubtless please to recollect 

My epical pretensions to the laurel : 
For fear some prudish readers should grow skittish, 
I 've bribed my grandmother's review — the British. 

ccx. 

I sent it in a letter to the Editor, 
Who thank'd me duly by return of post — 

I'm for a handsome article his creditor ; 
Yet, if my gentle Muse he please to roast, 

And break a promise after having made it her, 
Denying the receipt of what it cost. 

And smear his page with gall instead of honey, 

All 1 can say is — that he had the money. 

CCXI. 

I think that with this holy new alliance 

I may ensure the public, and defy 
All other magazines of art or science, 

Daily, or monthly, or three monthly ; I 
Have not essay'd to multiply their clients, 

Because they tell me 't were in vain to try, 
And that the Edinburgh Review and Quarterly 
Treat a dissenting author very martyrly. 

CCXII. 

" Non ego hnc ftry-cm calida juvcnta 

Consult Planco,^^ Horace said, and so 
Say I ; by which quotation there is meant a 

Hint that some six or seven good years ago 
(Long ere I dreamt of dating from the Brenta) 

I was most ready to return a blow. 
And would not brook at all this sort of thing 
In my hot youth — when George the Third was King. 

CCXIII. 

But now at thirty years my hair is grey — 
(I wonder what it will be like at forty ? 

I thought of a peruke the other day — ) 

My heart is not much greener; and, in short, I 

Have squander'd my whole summer while 't was May, 
And feel no more the spirit to retort ; I 

Have spent my life, both interest and principal. 

And deem not, what I deem'd, my soul invincible. 



CCXIV. 

No more — no more — Oh 1 never more on me 
The freshness of the heirt can fall like dew, 

Which out of all the lovely things we see 
Extracts emotions beautiful and new, 

Hived in our bosoms like the bag o' the bee, 
Think'st thou the honey wi!h those objects grew ? 

Alas ! 't was not in them, but in thy power 

To double even the sweetness of a flower. 

ccxv. 

No more — no more — Oh ! never more, my heart, 
Canst thou be my sole world, my universe ! 

Once all in all, but now a thing apart, 

Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse: 

The illusion 's gone for ever, and thou art 
Insensible, I trust, but none the worse, 

And in thy stead I 've got a deal of judgment, 

Though heaven knows how it ever found a lodgement. 

CCXVI. 

My days of love are over ; me no more 

The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow. 
Can make the fool of which they m^de before, — 

In short, I must not lead the life I did do; 
The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er, 

The copious use of claret is forbid too. 
So for a good old-gentlemanly vice, 
I think I must take up with avarice. 

ccxvn. 

Ambition was my idol, which was broken 
Before the shrines of Sorrow, and of Pleasure; 

And the two last have left me many a token 
O'er which reflection may be made at leisure : 

Now, like Friar Bacon's brazen head, I 've spoken, 
" Time is. Time was, Time 's past : — a thymic 
treasure 

Is glittering youth, which I have spent betimes — 

My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes. 

CCXVIII. 

What is the end of Fame? 't is but to fill 

A certain portion of uncertain paper: 
Some liken it to climbing up a hill, 

Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour ; 
For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill, 

And bards burn what they call their "midnight 
taper," 
To have, when the original is dust, 
A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust. 

CCXIX. 

What are the hopes of man ? Old Egypt's King 

Cheops erected the first pyramid 
And largest, thinking it was just the thing 

To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid : 
But somebody or other rummaging, 

Burglariously broke his coffin's lid : 
Let not a monument give you or me hopes, 
Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops. 

CCXX. 

But I being fond of true philosophy, 

Say very often to myself, " Alas! 
All things' that have been born were born to die. 

And tfesh (which Death mows down to hay) is grass; 
You 've pass'd your youth not so unpleasantly, 

And if you had it o'er again — 't would pass — 
So thank your stars that matters are no worse. 
And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse." 

CCXXL 

But for the present, gentle re.ider 1 and 
Still gentler purchaser ! the bard — that 's I — 

Must, with permission, shake you by the hand, 
And so your humble servant, and good-b'ye! 

We meet "again, if we should understand 
Each other ; and if not, I shall not try 

Your patience further than by Ihis short sample — 

'T were well if others follow'd my example. 



•uaiMi 



sm 



tsm 



Lr 



Canto II.] 



DON JUAN. 



491 



CCXXII. 

" Go, little book, from this my solitude ! 

I cast thee on the waters — go thy ways ! 
And if, as I believe, thy vein be good, 

The world will find thee after many days." 
When Southey 's read, and Wordsworth understood, 

I can't help putting in my claim to praise — 
The four first rhymes are Southey's every line : 
For God's sake, reader ! take them not for mine ! 



CANTO THE SECOND.i 
I. 

Oh ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations, 
Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain, 

I pray ye flog them upon all occasions, 

It mends their morals, never mind the pain : 

The best of mothers and of educations 
In Juan's case were but employ'd in vain ; 

Since, in a way that 's rather of the oddest, he 

Became divested of his native modesty. 

II. 

Had he but been placed at a public school, 
In the third form, or even in the fourth. 

His daily task had kept his fancy cool. 
At least, had he been nurtured in the north ; 

Spain may prove an exception to the rule. 
But then exceptions always prove its worth — 

A lad of sixteen causing a divorce 

Puzzled his tutors very "much, of course. 

III. 
I can't say that it puzzles me at all. 

If all things be consider'd : first, there was 
His lady-mother, mathematical, 

A nevermind ;— his tutor, an old ass; 

A pretty woman — (that 's quite natural, 

Or else the thing had hardly come to pass) 
A husband rather old, not much in unity 
With his young wife — a time, and opportunity. 

IV. 
Well — well ; the world must turn upon its axis, 

And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails. 
And live and die, make love and pay our taxes, 

And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails; 
The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us. 

The priest instructs, and so our life exhales, 
A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame, 
Fighting, devotion, dust,— perhaps a name. 

V. 

I said, that Juan had been sent to Cadiz — 

A pretty town, I recollect it well — 
'T is there the mart of the colonial trade is, 

(Or was, before Peru learn'd to rebel,) 
And such sweet girls — I mean, such graceful ladies, 

Their very walk would make your bosom swell ; 
I can't describe it, though so much it strike, 
Nor liken it — I never saw the like : 

VI. 

An Arab horse, a stately stag, a barb 

New broke, a cameleopar'd, a gazelle. 
No — none of these will do ; — and then their garb ! 

Their veil and petticoat — Alas ! to dwell 
Upon such things would very near absorb 

A canto — then their feet and ankles, — well. 
Thank Heaven I 've got no metaphor quite ready, 
(And so, my sober Muse — come, let 's be steady — 

VII, 
Chaste Muse! — well, if you must, you must) — the 
veil 
Thrown back a moment with the glancing hand, 
While the o'erpowering eye, that turns you pale, 
Flashes into the heart : — All sunny land 



1 Begun at Venice, December 13, 1818,- 
ary 20, 1819.— E. 



flnished Janu- 



Of love ! when I forget you, may I fail 

To say my prayers — but never was there 

plann'd 
A dress through which the eyes give such a volley, 
Excepting the Venetian Fazzioli.a 

VIII. 

But to our tale : the Donna Inez sent 

Her son to Cadiz only to embark ; 
To stay there had not ansvver'd her intent. 

But why ? — we leave the reader in the dark — 
'T was for a voyage that the young man was meant, 

As if a Spanish ship were Noah's ark, 
To wean him from the wickedness of earth, 
And send him like a dove of promise forth. 

IX. 

Don Juan bade his valet pack his things 

According to direction, then received 
A lecture and some money : for four springs 
, He was to travel ; and though Inez grieved 
(As every kind of parting has its stings). 

She hoped he would improve — perhaps believed : 
A letter, too, she gave (he never read it) 
Of good advice — and two or three of credit, 

X. 

In the mean time, to pass her hours away, 
Brave Inez now set up a Sunday school 

For naughty children, who would rather play 
(Like truant rogues) the devil, or the fool ; 

Infants of three years old were taught that day, 
Dunces were whipt, or set upon a stool : 

The great success of Juan's education, 

Spurr'd her to teach another generation. 

XI. 
Juan embark'd- the ship got under way. 

The wind was fair, the water passing rough; 
A devil of a sea rolls in that bay. 

As I, who 've cross'd it oft, know well enough; 
And, standing upon deck, the dashing spray 

Flies in one's face, and makes it weather-tough; 
And there he stood to take, and take again, 
His first — perhaps his last — farewell of Spain. 

XII. 
I can't but say it is an awkward sight 

To see one's native land receding through 
The growing waters ; it unmans one quite, 

Especially when life is rather new : 
I recollect Great Britain's coast looks white, 

But almost every other country 's blue, 
When gazing on them, mystified by distance, 
We enter on our nautical existence. 

XIII. 

So Juan stood, bewilder'd on the deck : 

The wind sung, cordage strain'd, and sailor3<«wore, 
And the ship creak'd, the town became a speck, 

From which away so fair and fast they bore. 
The best of remedies is a beef-steak 

Against sea-sickness: try it, sir, before 
You'sneer, and I assure you this is true. 
For I have found it answer — so may you. 

XIV. 

Don Juan stood, and, gazing from the stern, 

Beheld his native Spain receding far : 
First partings form a lesson hard to learn. 

Even nations feel this when they go to war; 
There is a sort of unexprest concern, 

A kind of shock that sets one's heart ajar: 
At leaving even the most unpleasant people 
And places, one keeps looking at the steeple. 



2 FazzioU — YiteraUy, the little 
veils most availing of St. Mark. 



handkerchiefs — the 



.^•^iriiiMiMMiliMii 



492 



DON JUAN. 



[Canto II. 



XV. 
But Juan had got many things to leave, 

His mother, and a mistress, and no wife, 
So that he had much belter cause to grieve, 

Than many persons more advanced in life; 
And if we now and then a sigh must heave 

At quitting even those we quit in strife. 
No doubt we weep for those the heart endears — 
That is, till deeper griefs congeal our tears. 

XVI. 

So Juan wept, as wept the captive Jews 
By Babel's waters, still remembering Sion : 

I 'd weep,— but mine is not a weeping Muse, 
And such light griefs are not a thing to die on ; 

Young men should travel, if but to amuse 

Themselves ; and the next time their servants tie on 

Behind their carriages their new portmanteau, 

Perhaps it may be lined with this my canto. 

XVII. 

And Juan wept, and much he sigh'd and thought, 
While his salt tears dropp'd into the salt sea, 

'< Sweets to the sweet j " (I like so much to quote j 
You must excuse this extract, — 't is where she, 

The Queen of Denmark, for Ophelia brought 
Flowers to the grave;) and, sobbing often, he 

Reflected on his present situation. 

And seriously resolved on reformation. 

XVIII. 

"Farewell, my Spain ! a long farewell ! " he cried, 

'' Perhaps I may revisit thee no more, 
But die, as many an exiled heart hath died. 

Of its own thirst to see again thy shore : 
Farewell, where Guadalquivir's waters glide ! 

Farewell, my mother ! and, since all Is o'er, 
Farewell, too, dearest Julia ! — (here he drew 
Her letter out again, and read it through.) 

XIX. 

" And oh ! if e'er I should forget, I swear — 
But that 's impossible, and cannot be — 

Sooner shall this blue ocean melt to air, 
Sooner shall earth resolve itself to sea, 

Than I resign thine image, oh, my fair ! 
Or think of any thing, excepting thee; 

A mind diseased no remedy can physic — 

(Here the ship gave a luVch, and be grew sea-sick.) 

XX. 

"Sooner shall heaven kiss earth— (here he fell sicker) 
Oh, Julia ! what is every other woe ? — 

(For God's sake let me have a glass of liquor; 
Pedro, Battista, help me down below.) 

Julia, my love — (you rascal, Pedro, quicker) — 
Oh, Julia ! — (this curst vessel pitches so) — 

Beloved Julia, hear me still beseeching ! " 

(Here he grew inarticulate with retching.) 

XXI. 

He felt that chilling heaviness of heart, 
Or rather stomach, which, alas ! attends, 

Beyond the best apothecary's art. 

The loss of love, the treachery of friends. 

Or death of those we dote on, when a part 
Of us dies with them as each fond hope ends : 

No doubt he would have been much more pathetic, 

But the sea acted as a strong emetic. 

XXII. 

Love 's a capricious power : I 've known it hold 
Out through a fever caused by its own heat, 

But be much puzzled by a cough and cold, 
And find a quinsy very hard to treat ; 

Against all noble maladies he 's bold, 
But vulgar illnesses don't like to meet, 

Nor that a sneeze should interrupt his sigh, 

Nor inflammations redden his blind eye. 



XXIII. 

But worst of all is nausea, or a pain 
About the lower region of the bowels; 

Love, who heroicaily'breathes a vein, 
Shrinks from the application of hot towels, 

And purgatives are dangerous to his reign. 
Sea-sickness death : his love was perfect, how else 

Could Juan's passion, while the billows roar, 

Resist his stomach, ne'er at sea before ? 

XXIV. 

The ship, call'd the most holy " Trinidada," 
Was steering duly for the port Leghorn ; 

For there the Spanish family Mnncada 
Were settled long ere Juan's sire was bom : 

They were relations, aiid f :)r them he had a 
Letter of introduction, which the mora 

Of his departure had been sent him by 

His Spanish friends for those in Italy. 

XXV. 

His suite consisted of three servants and 

A tutor, the licentiate Pedrillo, 
Who several langmges did understand. 

But now lay sick and speechless on his pillow, 
And, rocking in his hammock, long'd for land, 

His headach being increased by every billow ; 
And the waves oozing through the port-hole made 
His berth a little danrp, and him afraid. 

XXVI. 

'T was not without some reason, for the wind 
Increased at night, until it blew a gale; 

And though 't was not much to a naval mind. 
Some landsmen wduld have look'd a little pale. 

For sailors are, in fact, a difl:erent kind : 
At sunset they began to take in sail. 

For the sky show'd it would come on to blew, 

And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so. 

XXVII. 

At one o'clock the wind with sudden shift 
Threw the ship right into the trough of the sea. 

Which struck her aft, and made an awkward rift, 
Started the stern-post, also shatler'd the 

Whole of her stern-frame, and, ere she could lift 
Herself from out her present jeopardy. 

The rudder tore away : 't was time to sound 

The pumps, and there were four feet water found. 

XXVIII. 

One gang of people instantly was put 

Upon the pumps, and the remainder set 
To get up part of the cargo, and what not; 

But they could not come at the leak as yet ; 
At last they did get at it really, but 

Still their salvation was an even bet : 
The water rush'd through in a way quite puzzling. 
While they thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, bales of 
muslin, 

XXIX. 
Into the opening ; but all such ingredients 

Would have been vain, and they must have gone 
down. 
Despite of all their efforts and expedients. 

But for the pumps : I 'm glad to make them known 
To all the brother tars who may have need hence, 

For fifty tons of water were upthrown 
By them per hour, and they had all been undone, 
But for the maker, Mr. Mann, of London. 

XXX, 

As day advanced the weather seem'd to abate, 
And then the leak they reckon'd to reduce, 

And keep the ship afloat, though three feet yet 
Kept two hand and one chain-pump still in use. 

The wind blew fresh again : as it grew late 
A squall came on, and while some guns broke loose, 

A gust — which all descriptive power transcends — 

Laid with one blast the ship on her beam-ends. 



Ifii 



i^ffiififiatt 



iMik 



Canto II.] 



DON JUAN. 



493 



XXXI. 

There she lay, motionless, and seem'd upset ; 

The water left the hold, and vvash'd the decks, 
And mnde a scene men do not soon forget ; 

For they remember battles, fires, and wrecks, 
Or any other thing that brings regret, 

Or breaks their hopes, or hearts, or heads, or necksj 
Thus drownings are much talk'd of by the divers, 
And swimmers, who may chance to be survivors. 

XXXII. 

Immediately the masts were cut away, 
Both main and mizzen ; first the mizzen went, 

The main-mast foUow'd : but the ship still lay 
Like a mere log, and b iffled our intent. 

Foremast and bowsprit uete cut down, and they 
Eased her at last (although we never meant 

To part witii all till every hope was blighted), 

And then with violence the old ship righted. 

XXXIII. 

It may be easily supposed, while this 
Was going on, some people were unquiet, 

That passengers would find it much amiss 
To lose their lives, as well as spoil their diet; 

That even the able seaman, deeming his 
Days nearly o'er, might be disposed to riot, 

As upon such occasions tars will ask 

For grog, and sometimes drink rum from the cask. 

XXXIV. 

There 's nought, no doubt, so much the spirit calms 
As rum and true religion : thus it was, 

Some plunder'd, some drank spirits, some sung psalms, 
The high wind made the treble, and as bass 

The hoarse harsh waves kept timej fright cured the 
qualms 
Of all the luckless landsmen's sea-sick maws : 

Strange sounds of wailing, blasphemy, devotion, 

Clamour'd in chorus to the roaring ocean. 

XXXV. 

Perhaps more mischief had been done, but for 
Our Juan, who, with sense beyond his years. 

Got to the spirit-room, and stood before 
It with a pair of pistols ; and their fears, 

As if Death were more dreadful by his door 
Of fire than water, spite of oath's and tears. 

Kept still aloof the ciew, who, ere they sunk. 

Thought it would be becoming to die drunk. 

XXXVI. 

" Give us more grog," they cried, " for it will be 
All one an hour hence." Juan answer'd, " No I 

'T is true that death awaits both you and me, 
But let us die like men, not sink below 

Like brutes : " — and thus his dangerous post kept he. 
And none liked to anticipate the blow ; 

And even Pedrillo, his most reverend tutor, 

Was for some rum a disappointed suitor. 

XXXVII. 

The good old gentleman was quite aghast, 
And made a loud and pious lamentation j 

Repented all his sins, and made a last 
Irrevocable vow of reformation ; 

Nothing should tempt him more (this peril past) 
To quit his academic occupation, 

In cloisters of the classic Salamanca, 

To follow Juan's wake, like Sancho Panca. 

XXXVIII. 

But now there came a flash of hope once more ; 

Day broke, and the wind luU'd: the masts were 
gone. 
The leak increased ; shoals round her, but no shore. 

The vessel swam, yet still she held her own. 
They tried the pumps again, and though before 

Their desperate etforls seem'd all useless grown, 
A glimpse of sunshine set some hands to bale — 
The stronger pump'd, the weaker Ihrumm'd a sail. 



42 



XXXIX. 

Under the vessel's keel the sail was past. 
And for the moment it had some effect; 

But with a leak, and not a stick of mast. 
Nor rag of canvass, what could they expect? 

But still 't is best to struggle to the last, 
'T is never too late to be wholly wreck'd : 

And though 't is true that man can only die once,. 

'T is not so pleasant in the Gulf of Lyons. 

XL. 

There winds and waves had hurl'd them, and from 
thence. 

Without their will, they carried them away ; 
For they were forced with steering to dispense, 

And never had as yet a quiet day 
On which they might repose, or even comm.ence 

A jurymast or rudder, or could say 
The ship would swim an hour, which, by good luck. 
Still swam — though not exactly like a duck. 

XLL 

The wind, in fact, perhaps, was rather less, 
But the ship labour'd so, they scarce could hope 

To weather out much longer; the distress 
Was also great with which they had to cope 

For want of water, and their solid mess 
Was scant enough : in vain the telescope 

Was used — nor sail nor shore appear'd in sight. 

Nought but the heavy sea, and coming night. 

XLII. 

Again the weather threaten'd, — again blew 

A gale, and in the fore and after hold 
Water appear'd ; yet, though the people knew 

All this, the most were patient, and some bold, 
Until the chains and leathers were worn through 

Of all our pumps : — a wreck complete she roU'd, 
At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are 
Like human beings during civil war. 

XLIII. 
Then came the carpenter, at last, with tears 

In his rough eyes, and told the captain, he 
Could do no more : he was a man in years. 

And long had voyaged through many a stormy sea, 
And if he wept at length, they were not fears 

That made his eyelids as a woman's be, 
But he, poor fellow, had a wife and children, 
Two things for dying people quite bewildermg. 

XLIV. 

The ship was evidently settling now_ 
Fast l)y the head ; and, all distinction gone, 

Some went to prayers again, and made a vow 
Of candles to their saints — but there were none 

To pay Ihem with ; and some look'd o'er the bow ; 
Some hoisted out the boats ; and there was one 

That begg'd Pedrillo for an absolution, 

Who told him to be damn'd — in his confusion. 

XLV. 

Some lash'd them in their hammocks ; some put on 
Their best clothes, as if going to a fair ; 

Some cursed the day on which they saw the sun, 
And gnash'd their teeth, and howling, tore their 
hair ; 

And others went on as they had begun, 
Getting the boats out, being well aware 

That a tight boat will live in a rough sea, 

Unless with breakers close beneath her lee. 

XLVI. 
The worst of all was, that in their condition. 

Having been several days in great distress, 
'T was difficult to get out such provision 

As now might render their long suflering less : 
Men, even when dying, dislike inanition ; 

Their stock was damaged by the weather's stress : 
Two casks of biscuit, and a keg of butter, 
Were all that could be thrown into the cutter. 



AiiUlIki 



lifcim 



494 



DON JUAN 



[CANTd II. 



XLVII. 

But in the long-boat they contrived to stow 
Some pounds of bread, though injured by the wet j 

Water, a twenty-gallon cask or so ; 
Six flasks of wine : and they contrived to get 

A portion of their beef up from below, 
And with a piece of pork, moreover, met. 

But scarce enough to serve them for a luncheon — 

Then there was rum, eight gallons in a puncheon. 

XLVIII. 
The other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had 

Been stove in the beginning of the gale ; 
And the long-boat's couJitionwas but bad. 

As there were but two blankets for a sail, 
And one oar for a mast, which a young lad 

Threw in by good luck over the ship's rail ; 
And two boats could not hol3, far less be stored, 
To save one half the people then on board. 

XLIX. 

'T was twilight, and the sunless day went down 
Over the waste of waters; like a veil, 

"Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown 
Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail. 

Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown, 
And grimly darkled o'er the faces pale. 

And the dim desolate deep : twelve days had Fear 

Been their familiar, and now Death was here. 

L. 

Some trial had been making at a raft, 
With little hope in such a rolling sea, 

A sort of thing at which one would have laugh'd, 
If any laughter at such times could be, 

Unless with people who too much have quaff'd, 
And have a kind of wild and horrid glee. 

Half epileptical, and half hysterical: — 

Their preservation would have been a miracle. 

LI. 

At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hencoops, spars, 
And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose 

That still could keep afloat the struggling tars, 
For yet they strove, although of no great use : 

There was no light in heaven but a few stars. 
The boats put off o'ercrowded with their crews; 

She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port, 

And, going down head foremost — sunk, in short. 

LII. 

Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell — 
Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave,— 

Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell. 
As eager to anticipate their grave ; 

And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell, 
And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave, 

Like one who grapples with his enemy. 

And strives to strangle him before he die. 

Lin. 

And first one universal shriek there rush'd, 
Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash 

Of echoing thunder ; and then all was hush'd, 
Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash 

Of billows ; but at intervals there gush'd, 
Accompanied with a convulsive splash, 

A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry 

Of some strong swimmer in his agony. 

LIV. 

The boats, as stated, had got off before. 
And in them crowded several of the crew ; 

And yet their present hope was hardly more 
Than what it had been, for so strong it blew 

There was slight chance of reaching any shore ; 
And then they were too many, though so few — 

Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat. 

Were counted in them when they got afloat. 



LV. 

All the rest perish'd ; near two hundred souls 
Had left their bodies ; and what 's worse, alas ! 

When over Catholics the ocean rolls, 
They must wait several weeks before a mass 

Takes off one peck of purgatorial coals. 
Because, till people know what 's come to pas, 

They won't lay out their money on the dead — 

It costs three francs for every mass that 's said. 

LVL 

Juan got info the long-boat, and there 
Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place ; 

It seem'd as if they had exchanged their care, 
For Juan wore the magisterial face 

Which courage gives, while poor Pedrillo's pair 
Of eyes were crying for their owner's case: 

Battista, though (a' name caird shortly Tita) 

Was lost by getting at some aqua-vita. 

LVII. 

Pedro, his valet, too, he tried to save, 
But the same cause, conducive to his loss, 

Left him so drunk, he jump'd into the wave 
As o'er the cutter's edge he tried to cross, 

And so he found a wine-and-watery grave ; 
They could not rescue him although so close, 

Because the sea ran higher every minute. 

And for the boat — the crew kept crowding in it. 

LVIII. 

A small old spaniel, — which had been Don Jose's, 
His father's, whom he loved, as ye may think, 

For on such things the memory reposes 

With tenderness — stood howling on the brink, 

Knowing, (doss have such intellectual noses!) 
No doubt, the vessel was about to sink ; 

And Juan caught him up, and ere he stepp'd 

Off, threw hinii in, then after him he leap'd. 

LIX. 

He also stuff'd his money where he could 

About his person, and Pedrillo's too. 
Who let him do, in fact, whate'er he would, 

Not knowing what himself to say, or do, 
As every rising wave his dread renew'd ; 

But Juan, trusting they might still get through, 
And deeming there were remedies for any ill, 
Thus re-embark'd his tutor and his spaniel. 

LX. 

'T was a rough night, and blew so stiffly yet, 
That the sail was becilm'd between the seas, 

Though on the wave's high top too much to set, 
They dared not take it in for all the breeze : 

Each sea curl'd o'er the stern, and kept them wet, 
And bade them bale without a moment's ease, 

So that themselves as well as hopes were damp'd, 

And the poor little cutter quickly swamp'd. 

LXL 

Nine souls more went in her : the long-boat still 
Kept above water, with an oar for mast. 

Two blankets sUlch'd together, answering ill 
Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast : 

Though every wave roll'd menacing to till. 
And present peril all before surpass'd. 

They grieved for those who perish'd with the cutter. 

And also for the biscuit-casks and butter. 

LXII. 
The sun rose red and fiery, a sure sign 

Of the continuance of the gale : to run 
Before the sea until it should grow fine. 

Was all that for the present could be done : 
A few tea-spoonfuls of their rum and wine 

Were served out to the people, who begun 
To faint, and damaged bread wet through the bags, 
And most of them had little clothes but rags. 



Canto II.] 



DON JUAN. 



495 



LXIII. 

They counted thirty, crowded in a space 
Which left scarce room for motion or exertion j 

They did their best to modify their case, 
One half sate up, though numb'd with the immer- 
sion, 

While t' other half were laid down in their place. 
At watch and watch ; thus, shivering like the tertian 

Ague in its cold fit, they fill'd their boat. 

With nothing but the sky for a great coat. 

LXIV. 

'T is very certain the desire of life 
Prolongs it : this is obvious to physicians. 

When patients, neither plagued with friends nor wife, 
Survive through very desperate conditions. 

Because they still can hope, nor shines the knife 
Nor shears of Atropos before their visions: 

Decpair of all recovery spoils longevity. 

And makes men's miseries of alarming brevity. 

LXV. 

'T is said that persons living on annuities 
Are longer lived than others,— God knows why, 

Unless to plague the grantors, — yet so true it is, 
That some, I really think, do never die j 

Of any creditors the svorst a Jew it is, 
And that 's their mode of furnishing supply : 

In my young days they lent me cash that way. 

Which I found very troublesome to pay. 

LXVI. 

'T is thus with people in an open boat, 
They live upon the love of life, and bear 

More than can be believed, or even thought, 
And stand like rocks the tempest's wear and tear; 

And hardship still has been the sailor's lot, 

Since Noah's ark went cruising here and there ; 

She had a curious crew as well as cargo. 

Like the first old Greek privateer, the^Argo. 

LXVII. 

But man is a carnivorous production, 

And must have meals, at least one meal a day ; 

He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction. 
But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey ; 

Although his anatomical construction 
Bears vegetables, in a grumbling way. 

Your labouring people think, beyond all question, 

Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion. 

Lxvnr. 

And thus it was with this our hapless crew ; 

For on the third day there came on a calm, 
And though at first their strength it might renew, 

And lying on their weariness like balm, 
Lull'd them like turtles sleeping on the blue 

Of ocean, when they woke they felt a qualm. 
And fell all ravenously on their provision, 
Instead of hoarding it with due precision. 

LXIX. 

The consequence was easily foreseen — 
They ate up all they had, and drank their wine. 

In spite of all remonstrances, and then 
On what, in fact, next day were they to dine ? 

They hoped the wind would rise, these foolish men! 
And carry them to shore ; these hopes were fine. 

But as they had but one oar, and that brittle, 

It would have been more wise to save their victual. 

LXX. 

The fourth day came, but not a breath of air. 
And Ocean slumber'd like an unwean'd child : 

The fifth day, and their boat lay floating there. 
The sea and sky were blue, and clear, and mild — 

With their one oar (I wish they had had a pair) 
What could they do ? and hunser's rage grew wild : 

So Juan's spaniel, spite of his entreating. 

Was kill'd, and portion'd out for present eating. 



LXXI. 

On the sixth day they fed upon his hide. 
And Juan, who had stillffefused, because 

The creature was his father's dog that died. 
Now feeling all the vulture in his jaws, 

With some remorse received (though first denied) 
As a great favour one of the fore-paws, 

Which he divided with Pedrillo, who 

Devour'd it, longing for the other too. 

LXXII. 

The seventh day, and no wind — the burning sun 
Blister'd and scorch'd, and, stagnant on the sea. 

They lay like carcases ; and hope was none, 
Save in the breeze that came not ; savagely 

They glared upon each oiher — all was done. 
Water, and wine, and food,— and you might see 

The longings of the cannibal arise 

(Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes. 

LXXIII. 

At length one whisper'd his companion, who • 

Whisper'd another, and thus it went round. 

And then into a hoarser murmur grew, 
An ominous, and wild, and desperate sound ; 

And when his comrade's thought each sufferer knew, 
'T was but his own, suppress'd till now, he found : 

And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood. 

And who should die to be his fellow's food. 

LXXIV. 

But ere they came to this, they that day shared 
Some leathern caps, and what remain'd of shoes j 

And then they look'd around them, and despair'd. 
And none to be the sacrifice would choose; 

At length the lots were torn up, and prepared. 
But of materials that must shock the Muse — 

Having no paper, for the want of better. 

They took by force from Juan Julia's letter. 

LXXV. 

The lots were made, and mark'd, and mix'd, am 
handed 

In silent horror, and their distribution 
Lull'd even the savage hunger which demanded, 

Like the Promethean vulture, this pollution ; 
None in particular had sought or plann'd it, 

'T was nature gnaw'd them to this resolution. 
By which none were permitted to be neuter — 
And the lot fell on Juan's luckless tutor. 

LXXVI. 

He but requested to be bled to death : 
The surgeon had his instruments, and bled 

Pedrillo, and so gently ebb'd his breath, 

You hardly could perceive when he was dead. 

He died as born, a Catholic in faith, 
Like most in the belief in which they 're bred, 

And first a little crucifix he kiss'd. 

And then held out his jugular and wrist. 

LXXVII. 

The surgeon, as there was no other fee. 
Had his first choice of morsels for his pains ; 

But being thirstiest at the moment, he 
Preferr'd a draught from the fast-flowing veins: 

Part was divided, part thrown in the sea. 
And such things as the entrails and the brains 

Regaled two sharks, who follow'd o'er the billow — 

The sailors ate the rest of poor Pedrillo. 

LXXVIII. 

The sailors ate him, all save three or four, 
Who were not quite so fond of animal food ; 

To these was added Juan, who, before 
Refusing his own spaniel, hardly could 

Feel now his appetite increased much more; 
'T was not to be expected that he should. 

Even in extremity of their disaster. 

Dine with them on his pastor and his master. 



496 



DOiM JUAJN. 



[Canto II. 



LXXIX. 

'T was better that he did not ; for, in fact, 
The consequence was a^lTul in the extreme ; 

For they, who were most ravenous in the act, 

Went raging mad — Lord ! how they did blaspheme! 

And foam, and roll, with strange convulsions rack'd, 
Drinking ^-alt-water like a mountain-stream ; 

Tearing, and grinning, howling, screeching, swearing, 

And, with hyaena-laughter, died despairing. 

LXXX. 
Their numbers were much thinn'd by this infliction, 

And all the rest were thin enough, Heaven knows: 
And some of them had lost their recollection, 

Happier than they who still perceived their woes; 
But others ponder'd on a new dissection, 

As if not waru'd sufiicieuily by those 
Who h'>d already perish'd, sutfering madly, 
For having used'tiieir appetites so sadly. 

LXXXI. 

And next they thought upon the master's mate, 
As fattest ; but he saved himself, because, 

Besides being much averse from such a fate, 
Tliere were some other reasons : the first was, 

He had been ratlier indisposed of late; 
And that which chiefly proved his saving clause, 

Was a small present made to him at Cadiz, 

By general subscription of the ladies. 

LXXXII. 

Of poor Pedrillo something still remain'd, 
But was used sparingly, — some were afraid, 

And others still their appetites constrain'd, 
Or but at times a little supper made ; 

All except Juan, who throughout abstain'd, 
Chewing a piece of bamboo, and some lead : 

At length they osught two boobies, and a noddy, 

And then they left otf eating the dead body. 

LXXXIII. 

And if Pedrillo's fate should shocking be, 

Remember Ugolino condescends 
To eat the heid of his arch-enemy 

The moment after he politely ends 
His tale : if foes be food in hell, at sea 

'T is surely fur to dine upon our friends. 
When shipwreck's short allowance grows too scanty, 
Without being much more horrible than Danie. 

LXXXIV. 

And the same night there fell a shower of rain, 
For which their mouths gaped, like the cracks of 
earth 

When dried to summer dust; till taught by pain, 
Men really know not what good water 's worth ; 

If you had been in Turkey or in Spain, 
Or with a famish'd boat's-crew had your berth, 

Or in the desert heird the camel's bell, 

You 'd wish yourself « here Truth is — in a well. 

LXXXV. 

It pour'd down torrents, but they were no richer, 
Until they found a ragged piece of sheet, 

Which served them as a sort of spongy pitcher. 
And when they deem'd its moisture'was complete, 

They wrung it out, and though a thirsty ditcher 
Might not hnve thought the scanty draught so sweet 

As a full pot of porter, to their thinking 

They ne'er till now had known the joys of drinking. 

LXXXVI. 

And their baked lips, with many a bloody crack, 
Suck'd in the moisture, which like nectar slream'd ; 

Their throats were ovens, their swolu tongues were 
black 
As the rich man's in hell, who vainly scream'd 

To beg the beggar, who could not rain back 
A drop of dew, when every drop had seem'd 

To taste of heaven — If this be true, indeed. 

Some Christians have a comfortable creed. 



LXXXVII. 

There were two fathers in this ghastly crew, 
And with them their two sons, of whom the one 

Was more robust and hardy to the view. 
But he died early ; and when he was gone. 

His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw 
One glance on him, and said, " Heaven's will be 
done ! 

I can do nothing," and he saw him thrown 

Into the deep without a tear or groan. 

LXXXVIII. 

The other father had a weaklier child, 

Of a soft cheek, and aspect delicate; 
But the boy bore up long, and with a mild 

And patient spirit tield aloof his fate ; 
Little he said, and now and then he smiled, 

As if to win a part from oft the weight 
He saw increasing on his father's heart. 
With the deep deadly thought, that they must part. 

LXXXIX. 

And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised 
His eyes from olF his face, but w iped the foam 

From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed. 
And w hen the wish'd-for shower at length was come. 

And the boy's eyes, which the dull film half glazed, 
Brighten'd, and for a moment seem'd to roa"m, 

He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain 

Into his dying child's mouth — but in vain. 

XC. 
The boy expired — the father held the clay, 

And look'd upon it long, and when at last 
Death left no doubt, and the dead burthen 1 ly 

Slitf on his heart, and pulse and hope were past, 
He watch'd it wistfully, until away 

'T was borne by the rude wave wherein 1 was cast ; 
Then he himself sunk down all dumb and shivering, 
And gave uo sign of life, save his limbs quivering. 

XCL 

Now overhead a rainbow, bursting through 
The scattering clouds, shone, spanning the dark sea. 

Resting its bright base on the quivering blue; 
And all within its arch appear'd to be 

Clearer than that without, and its %vide hue 
Wax'd broad and waving, like a banner free, 

Then changed like to a bow that 's bent, and then 

Forsook the dim eyes of these shipwreck'd men. 

xcn. 

It changed, of course ; a heavenly chameleon. 

The airy child of vapour and the sun, 
Brought forth in purple, cradled in vermilion, 

Baptized in molten gold, and swathed in dun. 
Glittering like crescents o'er a Turk's pavilion, 

And blending every colour into one, 
Just like a black eye in a recent scuffle 
(For sometimes we must box without the muffle). 

XCIII. 

Our shipwreck'd seaman thought it a good omen — 

It is as w^ell to think so, now and then ; 
'T was an old custom of tlie Greek and Roman, 

And may become of great advantage when 
Folks are discournged ; and most surely no men 

Had greater need to nerve themselves again 
Than these, and so this rainbow look'd like hope- 
Quite a celestial kaleidoscope.i 

XCIV. 

About this time a beautiful white bird, 

Web-footed, not unlike a dove in size 
And plumage (probably it might have err'd 

Upon its course), pass'd oft before their eyes, 



1 An instrument, invented by Sir David Brewster, 
which pleases the eye by an ever-varying succession of 
Mpleudld tints and eymmetrical Torras. and has been of 
great service in suggesting patterns to our mauufao 
turers. — E. 



Canto II.] 



DON JUAN. 



497 



And tried to perch, although it saw and heard 
The nieti within the boat, and in this guise 
It came and went, and flutter'd round tliem till 
Night fell : — this seem'd a better omen still. 

XCV. 
But in this case I also must remark, 

'T was well this I)ird of promise did not perch, 
Because the tackle of our shatter'd bark 

Was not so safe for roosting as a church ; 
And had if been the dove from Noah's ark, 

Returning there from her successful search. 
Which in their way that moment chanced to fall, 
They would have eat her, olive-branch and all. 

XCVI. 
With twilight it again came on to blow, 

But not with violence; the stars shone out. 
The boat made way ; yet now they were so low, 

They knew not where nor what they were about ; 
Some fancied they saw land, and some said " No ! " 

The frequent fog-banks gave them cause to doubt — 
Some swore that they heard breakers, others guns, 
And all mistook about the latter once. 

XCVII. 
As morning broke, the light wind died away, 

When he who had the watch sung out and swore. 
If 't was not land that rose with the sun's ray, 

He wish'd that land he never might see more : 
And the rest rubb'd their eyes, and saw a bay, 

Or thought they saw, and shaped their course for 
shore J 
For shore it was, and gradually grew 
Distinct, and high, and palpable to view. 

XCVIII. 
And then of these some part burst into tears, 

And others, looking with a stupid stare, 
Could not yet separate I heir hopes from fears. 

And seem'd as if they had no further care ; 
While a few pray'd — (the first time for some years) — 

And at the bottom of the boat three were 
Asleep : they shook them by the hand and head. 
And tried to awaken them, but found them dead. 

XCIX. 
The day before, fast sleeping on the water, 

They found a turtle of the hawk's-bill kind. 
And by good fortune, gliding softl}^ caught her. 

Which yielded a day's life, and to their mind 
Proved even still a more nutritious matter. 

Because it left encouragement behind : 
They thought that in such perils, more than chance 
Had sent them this for their deliverance. 



The land appeared a high and rocky coast. 
And higher grew the" mountains as they drew, 

Set by a current, toward it : they were lost 
In various conjectures, for none knew 

To what part of the earth they had been tost. 
So changeable had been the winds that blew ; 

Some thought it was Mount iEtna, some the highlands 

Of Candia, Cyprus, Rhodes, or other islands. 

CI. 

Meantime the current, with a rising gale, 
Still set them onwards to the welcome shore, 

Like Charon's bark of spectres, dull and pale : 
Their living freight was now reduced to four. 

And three dead, whom their strength could not avail 
To heave into the deep with those before, 

Though the two sharks still foUow'd them, and dash'd 

The spray into their faces as they splash'd. 

CII. 

Famine, despair, cold, thirst, and heat, had done 
Their work on them by turns, and thinn'd them to 

Such things a mother had not known her son 
Amidst the skeletons of that gaunt crew ; 



By night chill'd, by day scorch 'd, thus one by one 

They perish'd, until wither'd to these few. 
But chiefly by a species of sj^-slaughter. 
In washing down Pedrillo mth salt water. 

cm. 

As they drew nigh the land, which now was seen 

Unequal in its aspect here and there. 
They felt the freshness of its growing green, 

That waved in forest-tops, and smooth'd the air, 
And fell upon their glazed eyes like a screen 

From glistening waves, and skies so hot and bare — 
Lovely seem'd any object that should sweep 
Away the vast, salt, dread, eternal deep. 

CIV. 

The shore look'd wild, without a trace of man, 
And girt by formidable waves ; but they 

Were mad for land, and thus their course they ran, 
Though right ahead the roaring breakers lay : 

A reef between them also now began 

To show its boiling surf and bounding spray. 

But finding no place for their landing better, 

They ran the boat for shore, — and overset her. 

CV. 

But in his native stream, the Guadalquivir, 
Juan to lave his youthful limbs was wont ; 

And having learnt to swim in that sweet river. 
Had often turn'd the art to some account : 

A better swimmer you could scarce see ever. 
He could, perhaps, have pass'd the Hellespont, 

As once (a feat on which ourselves we prided) 

Leander, Mr. Ekenhead, and I did. 

CVI. 

So here, though faint, emaciate, and stark, 
He buoy'd his boyish limbs, and strove to ply 

With the quick wave, and gain, ere it was dark, 
The beach which lay before him, high and dry : 

The greatest danger here was from a shark, 
That carried ott" his neighbour by the thigh ; 

As for the other two, they could not swim. 

So nobody arrived on shore but him. 

CVIL 

Nor yet had he arrived but for the oar. 
Which providentially for him. was wash'd 

Just as his feeble arms could strike no more, 
And the hard wave o'erwhehn'd him as 't was dash'd 

Within his grasp ; he clung to it. and sore 
The waters beat while he thereto was lash'd ; 

At last, with swimming, wading, scrambling, he 

RoU'd on the beach, half senseless, from the sea : 

CVIIL 

There, breathless, with his digging nails he clung, 
Fast to the sand, lest the returnins: wave. 

From whose reluctant roar his life he wrung. 
Should suck him back to her insatiate grave : 

And there he lay, full length, where he was flung, 
Before the entrance of a cl iff- worn cave. 

With just enough of life to feel its pain. 

And deem that it was saved, perhaps, in vain. 

CIX. 

With slow and staggering effort he arose, 

But sunk again upon his bleeding knee 
And quivering hand ; and then he look'd for those 

Who long had been his males upon the sea ; 
But none of them appear'd to share his woes, 

Save one, a corpse, from out the famish'd three, 
Who died Uvo days before, and now had found 
An unknown barren beach for burial ground. 

ex. 

And as he gazed, his dizzy brain spun fast. 
And down he sunk ; and as he sunk, the sand 

Swam round and round, and all his senses pass'd : 
He fell upon his side, and his stretch'd hand 



42* 



32 



i 



498 



DON JUAN 



[Canto II. 



Droop'd dripping on the oar (their jury-mast), 

And, like a wither'd lily, ou the land 
His slender frame and (^lid aspect lay, 
As fair a thing as e'er ms torm'd of clay. 

CXI. 

How Ions; in his damp trance young Juan lay 
He knew not, for the earih was gone for him, 

And Time had notliiiig more of night nor day 
For his congealing blood, and senses dim j 

And how this heavy faiutness pass'd away 

He knew not, till each painful pulse and limb, 

And tingling vein, sieem'd throbbing back to life, 

For Death, though vaaquish'd, still retired with strife. 

CXH. 

His eyes he open'd, shu', again unclosed, 
For all was doubt and dizziness; he thought 

He still was in the boat, and had but dozed, 
And felt again with his despair o'erwrought, 

And wish'd it death in which he had reposed, 
And then once more his feelings back were brought, 

And slowly by his swimming eyes was seen 

A lovely feuiale face of seventeen. 

CXHI. 

T was bending close o'er his, and the small mouth 
Seem'd almost prying into his for breath ; 

And chafing him, the soft warm hand of youth 
Recall'd his answering spirits back from death; 

And, bathing his chill temples, tried to soothe 
Bach pulse to animation, till beneath 

Its gentle touch and trembling care, a sigh 

To these kiud eliorts made a low reply. 

CXIV. 

Then was the cordial pour'd, and mantle flung 
Around his scarce-clad limbs; and the fair arm 

Raised higher the faint head which o'er it hung; 
And her transparent cheek, all pure and warm, 

Pillow'd his death-like forehead ; then she wrung 
His dewy curls, long drench'd by every storm ; 

And watcli'd with eagerness each t'hrob that drew 

A sigh from his heaved bosom — and hers, too. 

cxv. 

And lifting him with care into the cave, , 

The gentle girl, and her attendant,— one 

Young, "yet her elder, and of brow less grave. 
And more robust of figure — then begun 

To kindle tire, and as the new tiames gave 
Light to the rocks that roof'd them, which the sun 

Had never seen, the maid, or whatsoe'er 

She was, appeared distinct, and tall, and fair. 

CXVI. 

Her brow was overhung with coins of gold, 
That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair, 

Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were roU'd 
In braids behind ; and though her stature were 

Even of the highest for a female mould, 
They nearly reach'd her heel ; and in her air 

There was a something which bespoke command, 

As one who was a lady in the laud. 

CXVI I. 
Her hair, I said, was auburn ; but her eyes 

Were black as death, their lashes the same hue, 
Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies 

Deepest attraction ; for when to the view 
Forth from its raven fringe the full glance tlies, 

Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow tlew ; 
'T is as the snake late coil'd, who pours his length, 
And hurls at once his venom and his strength. 

CXVIII. 

Her brow was while and low, her cheek's pure dye 
Like twilight rosy still with the set sun : 

Short upper lip — sWcet lips! that make us sigh 
Ever to have seen such ; for she was one 



Fit for the model of a statuary, 

(A race of mere impostors,'when all's done — 
I 've seen much finer w omen, ripe and real, 
Thau all the nonsense of their stone ideal). 

CXIX. 

I '11 tell you why I say so, for 't is just 
One should not rail without a decent cause : 

There was an Irish lady, to whose bust 
I ne'er saw justice done, and yet she was 

A frequent model ; and if e'er >be must 
Yield to stern Time and Nature's wrinkling laws, 

They will destroy a face which mortal thought 

Ne'er compass'd, nor less mortal chisel wrought. 

CXX. 

And such was she, the lady of the cave : 

Her dress was very ditt'erent from the Spanish, 

Simpler, and yet of colours not so grave ; 
For, as you'kuow, the Spanish women banish 

Bright hues when out of doors, and yet, while wave 
Around them (what I hope will never vanish) 

The basquina and the mantilla, thev 

Seem at the same time mystical and gay. 

CXXL 

But with our damsel this was not the case : 
Her dress was many-colour'd, tiuely spun ; 

Her locks curPd negligently round her face. 
But through them gold and gems profusely shone : 

Her girdle sparkled, and the richest lace 
Flow'd in her veil, and many a precious stone 

Flash'd on her little hand ; but, what was shocking, 

Her small snow feet had slippers, but no stocking. 

cxxn. 

The other female's dress was not unlike, 

Rut of inferior materials : she 
Had not so many ornaments to strike, 

Her hair had silver only, bound to be 
Her dowry ; and her veil, in form alike, 

Was coarser ; and her air, though tirn\, less free ; 
Her hair was thicker, but less long ; her eyes 
As black, but quicker, and of smaller size. 

CXXIII. 

And these two tended him, and cheer'd him both 
With food and raiment, and those soft attentions, 

Which are — (as I must own) — of female growth, 
And have ten thousand delicate inventions: 

They made a most superior mess of broth, 
A thing which poesy but seldom mentions. 

But the best dish that e'er was cook'd since Homer's 

Achilles order'd dinner for new comers. 

CXXIV. 

I '11 tell you who they were, this female pair, 
Lest tiiey should seem princesses in disguise; 

Besides, I hate all mystery, and that air 

t)f clap-trap, which your recent poets prize; 

And so, in short, the girls they really were 
They shall appear before your curious eyes. 

Mistress and maid ; the first was only daughter 

Of an old man, who lived upon the water. 

CXXV. 

A fisherman he had been in his youth. 

And still a sort of fisherman was he ; 
But other speculations were, in sooth, 

Added to his connection with the sea, 
Perhaps not so respectable, in truth : 

A little smuesling, and some piracy, 
Left him, at last, the sole of many masters 
Of an ill-gotten million of piastres. 

CXXVL 

A fisher, therefore, was he,— though of men, 
Like Teler the Apostle, — and he fish'd 

For wandering merchant-vessels, now and then, 
And sometimes caught as many as he wish'd ; 



Canto II.] 



DON JUAN. 



499 



The cargoes be confiscated, and gain 

He sought in the slave-market too, and dish'd 
Full many a morbel for that Turkish trade, 
By which, no doubt, a good deal may be made. 

CXXVII. 
He was a Greek, and on his isle had built 

(One of the wild and smaller Cyclades) 
A very handsome house from out his guilt, 

And there he lived exceedingly at ease ; 
Heaven knows what cash he got or blood he spilt, 

A sad old fellow was he, if you please; 
But this I know, it was a spacious building, 
Full of barbaric carving, paint, and gilding. 

cxxvni. 

He had an only daughter, call'd Ilaidee, 
The greatest heiress of the Eastern Isles ; 

Besides, so very beautiful was she. 

Her dowry was as nothing lo her smiles : 

Still in her teens, and like a lovely tree 
She grew to womanhood, and between whiles 

Rejected several suitors, just to learn 

How to accept a better in his turn. 

CXXIX. 

And walking out upon the beach, below 

The cliti', lowards sunset, on that day she found, 

Insensible,— not dead, but nearly so. — 
Don Juan, almost famish'd, and half drown'd ; 

But being naked, she was shock'd, you know, 
Yet deem'd herself in common pity bound, 

As far as in her lay, " to take him in, 

A stranger " dying, with so while a skin. 

CXXX. 

But taking him into her father's house 
Was not exactly the best way to save. 

But like conveying to the cat the mouse, 
Or people in a trance into their grave ; 

Because the good old man liad so nmch " vovj," 
Unlike the honest Arab thieves so brave. 

He would have hospitablv cured the stranger, 

And sold him instantly when out of danger. 

CXXXI. 

And therefore, with her maid, she thought it best 

(A virgin always on her maid relies) 
To place him in the cave for present rest : 

And when, at last, he open'd his black eyes, 
Their charity increased about their guest; 

And their compassion grew to such a size, 
It ofien'd half the turnpike gates to heaven — 
(St. Paul says, t is the toll which must be given.) 

CXXXII. 

They made a fire,— but such a fire as they 
Uj)on the moment could contrive with such 

Materials as were cast up round the bay, — 

Some broken planks, and oars, that to the touch 

Were nearly tinder, since so long they lay 
A mast was almost crumbled to a crutch ; 

But, by God's grace, here wrecks were in such plenty, 

That there was fuel to have furnish'd twenty. 

CXXXIII. 

He had a bed of furs, and a pelisse. 
For Haidee stripp'd her sables otf to make 

His couch ; and, that he might be more at ease, 
And warm, in case by chance he should awake, 

They also gave a petticoat apiece. 
She and her maid,— and promised by daybreak 

To pay him a fresh visit, with a dish 

For breakfast, of eggs, coflee, bread, and fish. 

CXXX IV. 

And thus they left him to his lone repose : 
Juan slept like a top, or like the dead, 

Who sleep at last, perhaps (God oniv knows), 
Just for the present; and in his lull'd head 



Not even a vision of his former woes 
Throbb'd in accursed dreams, which sometimes 
spread 
Unwelcome visions of our former years, 
Till the eye, cheated, opens thick with tears. 

CXXXV. 

Young Juan slept all dreamless : — but the maid, 
Who smooth d his pillow, as she left the den 

Look'd back unon him, and a moment stay'd, 
And tuni'd, believing that he call'd again. 

He slumber'd; yet she thought, at least she said 
(The heart will slip, even as the tongue and pen), 

He had pronounced her name — but she forgot 

That at this moment Juan knew it not. 

CXXXVI. 

And pensive to her father's house she went. 

Enjoining silence strict to Zoe, who 
Belter than her knew what, in fact, she meant. 

She being wiser by a year or two : 
A year or two 's an age when rightly spent. 

And Zoe spent hers, as most women do. 
In gaining all that useful sort of knowledge 
Which is acquired in Nature's good old college. 

CXXXVII. 

The morn broke, and found Juan slumbering still 
Fast in his cave, and nothing clash'd upon 

His rest : the rushing of the neighbouring rill, 
And the young beams of the excluded sun, 

Troul)led him not, and he might sleep his fill; 
And need he had of slumber yet, for none 

Had surter'd more — his hardships were comparative 

To those related in my grand-dad's " NaiTative." i 

CXXXVIII. 

Not so Haidee : she sadly toss'd and tumbled. 

And started from her sleep, and, turning o'er, 
Dream'd of a thousand wrecks, o'er which she stum- 
bled. 

And handsome corpses strew'd upon the shore ; 
And woke her maid so early that she grumbled. 

And call'd her father's old slaves up, who swore 
In several oaths — Armenian, Turk, and Greek — 
They knew not what to think of such a freak. 

CXXXIX. 
But up she got, and up she made them get, 

With some pretence about the sun, that makes 
Sweet skies just when he rises, or is set ; 

And 't is, no doubt, a sight to see when breaks 
Bright FhCKbus, while the mountains still are wet 

With mist, and every bird with him awakes, 
And night is flung otf like a mourning suit 
Worn for a husband, — or some other brute. 

CXL. 
I say, the sun is a most glorious sight : 

I 've seen him rise full oft, indeed of late 
I have sat up on purpose all the night, 

Which hastens, as jihysicians say, one's fate ; 
And so all ye, who would be in the right 

In health and purse, begin your day" to date 
From daybreak, and when coffin'd at fourscore, 
Engrave'upou the plate, you rose at four. 

CXLI. 

And Haidee met the morning face to fare ; 

Her own was freshest, though a feverish flush 
Had dyed it with the headlong blood, whose race 

From heart to cheek is curb'd into a blush, 
Like to a torrent which a mountain's base. 

That overpowers some Alpine river's rush. 
Checks to a lake, whose waves in circles spread; 
Or the Red Sea — but the sea is not red. 



1 Entitled "A Narrative of tlie Honourable John By- 
ron, (Commodore in a late expedition round the world), 
containing an account of the great distresses sntl'ered by 
hiitself and his companions, on the const of I'atngonia, 
from the year 1740. till their arrival in Knplnnd, IV-Iti: 
written by Himself." This mtrralive. one of the most 
interesting that ever npreaied, was published iu 17C6.— E. 



500 



DON JUAN 



[Canto II. 



CXLII, 
And down the cliff the island virgin came, 

And near the cave her quick light footsteps drew, 
While the sun smiled on her with his first flame, 

And young Aurora kiss'd her lips with dew, 
Taking her for a sister ; just the same 

Mistake you would have made on seeing the two, 
Although the mortal, quite as fresh and fair, 
Had all the advantage, too, of not being air. 

CXLIII. 

And when into the cavern Haidee stepp'd 

All timidly, yet rapidly, she saw 
That like an infant Juan sweetly slept ; 

And then she sfopp'd, and stood as if in awe 
(For sleep is awful), and on tiptoe crept 

And wrapt him closer, lest the air, too raw, 
Should reach his blood, then o'er him still as death 
Bent, with hush'd lips, that drank his scarce-drawn 
breath. 

CXLIV. 

And thus like to an angel o'er the dying 
Who die in righteousness, she lean'd ; and there 

All tranquilly the shipwreck'd boywas lying. 
As o'er him lay the calm and stirless air: 

But Zoe the meantime some eggs was frying, 
Since, after all, no doubt the youthful pair 

Must breakfast, and betimes — lest they should ask it, 

She drew out her provision from the basket. 

CXLV. 
She knew that the best feelings must have victual, 

And that a shipwreck'd youth would hungry be j 
Besides, being less in love, she yawn'd a little. 

And felt her veins chill'd by the neighbouring sea; 
And so, she cook'd their breakfast to a tittle ; 

I can't say that she gave them any tea, 
But there were eggs, fruit, coffee, bread, fish, honey, 
With Scio wine,— and all for love, not money. 

CXLVI. 

And Zoe, when the eggs were ready, and 

The coffee made, would fain have waken'd Juan ; 

But Haidee stopp'd her with her quick small hand. 
And without word, a sign her finger drew on 

Her lip, which Zoe needs must understand ; 
And, the first breakfast spoilt, prepared a new one. 

Because her mistress would not let her break 

That sleep which seem'd as it would ne'er awake. 

cxLvn. 

For still he lay, and on his thin worn cheek 

A purple hectic play'd like dying day 
On the snow-tops of distant hills ; the streak 

Of sufferance yet upon his forehead lay. 
Where the blue veins look'd shadowy, shrunk, and 
weak; 

And his black curls were dewy with the spray. 
Which weigh'd upon them yet, all damp and salt, 
Mix'd with the stony vapours of the vault. 

cxLviir. 

And she bent o'er him, and he lay beneath, 
Hush'd as the babe upon its mother's breast, 

Droop'd as the willow when no winds can breathe, 
Lull'd like the depth of ocean when at rest. 

Fair as the crowning rose of the whole wreath. 
Soft as the callow cygnet in its nest j 

In short, he was a very pretty fellow, 

Although his woes had turn'd him rather yellow, 

CXLIX. 

He woke and gazed, and would have slept again. 
But the fair face which met his eyes forbade 

Those eyes to close, though weariness and pain 
Had further sleep a further pleasure made ; 

For woman's face was never form'd in vain 
For Juan, so that even when he pray'd 

He turn'd from grisly saints, and martyrs hairy. 

To the sweet portraits of the Virgin Mary. 



CL. 

And thus upon his elbow he arose, 
And look'd upon the lady, in whose cheek 

The pale contended with the purple rose, 
As with an effort she began to speak ; 

Her eyes were eloquent, her words would pose. 
Although she told him, in good modern Greek, 

With an Ionian accent, low and sweet. 

That he was faint, and must not talk, but eat. 

CLI. 

Now Juan could not understand a word, 

Being no Grecian ; but he had an ear, 
And her voice was the warble of a bird, 

So soft, so sweet, so delicately clear. 
That finer, simpler music ne'er was heard; 

The sort of sound we echo with a tear. 
Without knowing why — an overpowering tone. 
Whence Melody desce'nds as from a throne. 

CLH. 

And Juan gazed as one who is awoke 

By a distant organ, doubting if he be 
Not yet a dreamer, till the spell is broke 

By the watchman, or some such reality, 
Or by one's early valet's cursed knock ; 

At least it is a heavy sound to me, 
Who like a morning slumber — for the night 
Shows stars and women in a better light. 

CLHI. 

And Juan, too, was help'd out from his dream, 
Or sleep, or whatsoe'er it was, by feeling 

A most prodigious appetite ; the steam 
Of Zoe's co'okery no doubt was stealing 

Upon his senses, and the kindling beam 
Of the new fire, which Zoe kept up, kneeling, 

To stir her viands, made him quite awake 

And long for food, but chiefly a beef-sleak. 

CLIV. 
But beef is rare within these oxless isles ; 

Goat's flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton ; 
And, when a holiday upon them smiles, 

A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on : 
But this occurs but seldom, between whiles. 

For some of these are rocks with scarce a hut on ; 
Others are fair and fertile, among which 
This, though not large, was one of the most rich. 

CLV. 

I say that beef is rare, and can't help thinking 

That the old fable of the Minotaur — 
From which our modern morals, rightly shrinking. 

Condemn the royal lady's taste who wore 
A cow's shape for a mask — was only (sinking 

The allegory) a mere type, no more, 
That Pasiphae promoted breeding cattle, 
To make the Cretans bloodier in battle. 



CLVI. 

For we all know that English people are 
Fed upon beef — I won't say much of beer, 

Because 't is liquor only, and being far 
From this my subject, has no business here ; 

We know, too, they are very fond of war, 
A pleas\;re — like all pleasures — rather dear; 

So were the Cretans — from which I infer 

That beef and battles both were owing to her. 

CLvn. 

But to resume. The languid Juan raised 
His head upon his elbow, and he saw 

A sight on which he had not lately gazed. 
As all his latter me »ls had been quite raw, 

Three or four things, for which the Lord he praised, 
And, feeling still the famish'd vulture gnaw, 

He fell upon whate'er was offer'd, like 

A priest, a shark, an alderman, or pike. 



Canto II.] 



DON JUAN. 



501 



CLVIII. 

He ate, and he was well supplied ; and she, 
Who watch'd him like a mother, would have fed 

Him past all bounds, because she smiled to see 
Such appetite in one she had deem'd dead : 

But Zee, being older than Haidee, 
Knew (by tradition, for she ne'er had read) 

That famish'd people must be slowly nurst, 

And fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst. 

CLIX. 

And so she took the liberty to state, 
Rather by deeds than words, because the case 

Was urgent, that the gentleman, whose fate 
Had made her mistress quit her bed to trace 

The sea-shore at this hour, must leave his plate, 
Unless he wish'd to die upon the place — 

She snalch'd it, and refused another morsel, 

Saying he had gorged enough to make a horse ill. 

CLX. 
Next they — he being naked, save a tatter'd 

Pair of scarce decent trowsers — went to work, 
And in the fire his recent rags they scatter'd, 

And dress'd him, for the present, like a Turk, 
Or Greek — that is, although it not much matter'd, 

Omitting turban, slippers, pistols, dirk, — 
They furnish'd him, entire, except some stitches, 
With a clean shirt, and very spacious breeches. 

CLXI. 

And then fair Haidee tried her tongue at speaking, 
But not a word could Juan comprehend. 

Although he listen'd so that the young Greek in 
Her earnestness would ne'er have made an end ; 

And, as he interrupted not, went eking 
Her speech out to her protege and friend, 

Till pausing at the last her breath to take, 

She saw he did not understand Romaic. 

CLXH. 
And then she had recourse to nods, and signs. 

And smiles, and sparkles of the speaking eye, 
And read (the only book she could) the lines 

Of his fair face, and found, by sympathy, 
The answer eloquent, where (he soul shines 

And darts in one quick glance a long reply ; 
And thus in every look she saw exprest 
A world of words, and things at which she guess'd. 

CLXUI. 

And now, by dint of fingers and of eyes. 

And words repeated after her, he took 
A lesson in her tongue ; but by surmise. 

No doubt, less of her language than her look : 
As he who studies fervently the skies 

Turns oftener to the stars than to his book, 
Thus Juan learn'd his alpha beta better 
From Haidee's glance than any graven letter, 

CLXIV. 
'Tis pleasing to be school'd in a strange tongue 

By female lips and eyes — that is, I mean. 
When both the teacher and the taught are young. 

As was the case, at least, where I have been ; 
They smile so when one 's right, and when one 's 
wrong 

They smile still more, and then there intervene 
Pressure of hands, perhaps even a chaste kiss ; — 
I learn'd the little that I know by this: 

CLXV. , 

That is, some words of Spanish, Turk, and Greek, 

Italian not at all, having no teachers ; 
Much English I cmnot pretend to speak. 

Learning that language chiefly from its preachers, 
Barrow, South, Tillotson, whom every week 

I study, also Blair, the highest reachers 
Of eloquence in piety and prose — 
I hate your poets, so read none of those. 



CLXVI. 

As for the ladies, I have nought to say, 
A wanderer from the British world of fashion, 

Where I, like other " dogs, have had my day," 
Like other men, too, may have had my passion — 

But that, like other things, has pass'd away, 
And all her fools whom I could lay the lash on : 

Foes, friends, men, women, now are nought to me 

But dreams of what has been, no more to be. 

CLXvn. 

Return we to Don Juan. He begun 
To hear new words, and to repeat them; but 

Some feelings, universal as the sun. 

Were such as could not in his breast be shut 

More than within the bosom of a nun : 
He was in love, — as you would be, no doubt, 

With a young benefactress, — so was she. 

Just in the way we very often see. 

CLXVHL 
And every day by daybreak — rather early 

For Juan, who was somewhat fond of rest — 
She came into the cave, but it was merely 

To see her bird reposing in his nest ; 
And she would softly stir his locks so curly, 

Without disturbing her yet slumbering guest, 
Breathing all gently o'er his cheek and mouth, 
As o'er a bed of roses the sweet south. 

CLXIX. 

And every morn his colour freshlier came, 
And every day help'don his convalescence; 

'T was well, because health in the human frame 
Is pleasant, besides being true love's essence. 

For heilih and idleness to passion's flame 
Are oil and gunpowder ; and some good lessons 

Are also learnt from Ceres and from Bacchus, 

Without whom Venus will not long attack us. , 

CLXX. 

While Venus fills the heart (without heart really 
Love, though good always, is not quite so good), 

Ceres presents a plate of vermicelli, — 
For love must be sustain'd like flesh and blood, — 

While Bacchus pours out wine, or hands a jelly : 
Eggs, oysters, too, are amatory food ; 

But who is their purveyor from above 

Heaven knows, — it may be Neptune, Pan, or Jove. 

CLXXL 

When Juan woke he found some good things ready, 
A bath, a breakfast, and the finest eyes 

That ever made a youthful heart less steady. 
Besides her maid's, as pretty for their size; 

But I have spoken of all this already — 
And repetition 's tiresome and unwise, — 

Well — Juan, after bathing in the sea, 

Came always back to coffee and Haidee. 

CLXXII. 

Both were so young, and one so innocent, 
That bathing pass'd for nothing; Juan seem'd 

To her, as 't were, the kind of being sent. 
Of whom these two years she had nightly dream'd, 

A something to be loved, a creature meant 
To be her happiness, and whom she deem'd 

To render happy ; all who joy would win 

Must share'it, — Happiness was born a twin. 

CLXXIII. 

It was such pleasure to behold him, such 

Enlargement of existence to partake 
Nature with him, to thrill beneath his touch, 

To watch him slumbering, and to see him wake; 
To live w ith him for ever were too much ; 

But then the thought of parting made her quake: 
He was her own, her ocean-treasure, cast 
Like a rich wreck — her first love, and her last. 



502 



DON JUAN. 



[Canto II. 



CLXXIV. 

And thus a moon roll'd on, and fair Haidee 

Paid daily visits to her boy, and tooii 
Such plentiful precautions, that still he 

Reniain'd unknown within his craggy nook; 
At last her father's prows put out to sea. 

For certain merchantmen upon the look, 
Not as of yore to carry off an lo. 
But three Ragusan vessels, bound for Scio. 

CLXXV. 

Then came her freedom, for she had no mother, 
So that, her father being at sea, she was 

Free as a married woman, or such other 
Female, as where she likes may freely pass, 

Wiihout even the encumbrance of a brother, 
The freest she that ever gazed on glass : 

I speak of Christian lands in this cornparison, 

Where wives, at least, are seldom kept in garrison. 

CLXXVI. 

Now she prolong'd her visits and her talk 
(For they must talk), and he had learnt to say 

So much as to propose to take a walk, — 
For little had he wander'd since the day 

On which, like a young flower snapp'd from the stalk, 
Drooping and dewy on the beach he lay, — 

And thus they walk'd out in the afternoon, 

And saw the sun set opposite the moon. 

CLXXVII. 

It was a wild and breaker-beaten coast, 
With cliffs above, and a broad sandy shore. 

Guarded by shoals and rocks as by an host, 
With here and there a creek, whose aspect wore 

A better welcome to the tempest-tost; 

And rarely ceased the haughty billows' roar, 

Save on the dead long summer days, which make 

The outstretch'd ocean glitter like a lake. 

CLXXVIII. 

And the small ripple split upon the beach 
Scarcely o'erpass'd the cream of your champagne, 

When o'er the brim the sparkling bumpers reach, 
That spring-dew of the spirit ! the heart's rain I 

Few things surpass old wine ; and Ihey may preach 
Who please, — the more because they preach in 
vain, — 

Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, 

Sermons and soda-water the day after. 

CLXXIX. 

Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; 

The best of life is but intoxication : 
Glory, the grape, love, gold, in these are sunk 

The hopes of all nien, and of every nation ; 
Without their sap, how branchless were the trunk 

Of life's strange tree, so fruitful on occasion : 
But to return, — Get very drunk ; and when 
You wake with headach, you shall see what then. 

CLXXX. 

Ring for your valet — bid him quickly bring 
Some hock and soda-water, then you '11 know 

A pleasure worthy Xerxes the great king; 
For not the blest sherbet, sublimed with snow, 

Nor the first sparkle of the desert spring, 
Nor Burgundy in all its sunset glow. 

After long travel, ennui, love, or slaughter, 

Vie with that draught of hock and soda-water. 

CLXXxr. 

The coast — I think it was the coast that I 
Was just describing — Yes, it was the coast — 

Lay at this period quiet as the sky, 

The sands untumbled, the blue waves untost, 

And all was stillness, save the sea-bird's cry, 
And dolphin's leap, and little billow crost 

By some low rock or shelve, that made it fret 

Against the boundary it scarcely wet. 



CLXXXIL 

And forth they wander'd, her sire being gone, 

As I have s;iid, upon an expedition ; 
And mother, brother, guardian, she had none, 

Save Zoe, who, although with due precision 
She waited on her lady with the sun, 

Thought daily service was her only mission, 
Bringing warm water, wreathing her long tresses, 
And asking now and then for cast-off dresses. 

CLXXXIIL 

It was the cooling hour, just when the rounded 
Red sun sinks down behind the azure hill, 

Which then seems as if the whole earth it bounded, 
Circling all nature, hush'd, and dim, and still, 

With the far mountain-crescent half surrounded 
On one side, and the deep sea calm and chill 

Upon the other, and the rosy sky, 

With one star sparkling through it like an eye. 

CLXXXIV. 

And thus they wander'd forth, and hand in hand, 
Over the shining pebbles and the shells. 

Glided along the smooth and harden'd sand. 
And in the worn and wild receptacles 

Work'd by the storms, yet work'd as it were plann'd, 
In hollow halls, with sparry roofs and cells, 

They turn'd to rest ; and, each clasp'd by an arm, 

Yielded to the deep twilight's purple charm. 

CLXXXV. 

They look'd up to the sky, whose floating glow 
Spread like a rosy ocean, vast and bright ; 

They gazed upon the glittering sea below, 
Whence the broad moon rose circling into sight ; 

They heard the wave's splash, and the wind so low, 
And saw each other's dark eyes darting light 

Into each other — and, beholding this, 

Their lips drew near, and clung into a kiss ; 

CLXXXVI. 

A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth, and love, 
And beauty, all coiicentrafing like rays 

Into one focus, kindled from above ; 
Such kisses as belong to early days, 

Where heart, and soul, and sense, in concert move, 
And the blood 's lava, and the pulse a blaze, 

Each kiss a heart-quake, — for a kiss's strength, 

I think it must be reckon'd by its length. 

CLXXXVII. 

By length I mean duration ; theirs endured 

Heaven knows how long — no doubt they never 
reckon'd ; 
And if they had, they could not have secured 

The sum of their sensations to a second : 
They had not spoken ; but they felt allured. 

As if their souls and lips each other beckon'd, 
Which, being join'd, like swarming bees they clung— 
Their hearts the flowers from whence the honey 
sprung. 

CLXXXVIIL 
They were alone, but not alone as they 

Who shut in chambers think it loneliness; j 
The silent ocean, and the starlight bay, ' 

The twilight glow, which momently grew less. 
The voiceless sands, and dropping caves, that lay 

Around them, made them to each other press. 
As if there were no life beneath the sky 
Save theirs, and that their life could never die. 

CLXXXIX. 

They fear'd no eyes nor ears on that lone beach, 
They felt no terrors from the night, they were 

All in all to each other; though their sjieech 
Was brciken words, they thought a language there,— 

And all the burning tongues the passions teach 
Found in one sigh the best interpreter 

Of nature's oracle — first love, — that all 

Which Eve has left her daughters since her fall. 



Canto II.] 



DON JUAN. 



503 



cxc. 

Haidee spoke not of scruples, ask'd no vows, 

Nor offer'd any ; she had never heard 
Of plight and promises to be a spouse, 

Or perils by a loving maid incurr'd ; 
She was all which pure ignorance allows, 

And flew to her young mate like a young bird; 
And never havin? dreamt of falsehood, she' 
Had not one word to say of constancy. 

CXCI. 

She loved, and was beloved — she adored, 
And she was worshipp'd ; after nature's fashion, 

Their intense souls, into each other pour'd. 
If souls could die, had perish'd in ihat passion, — 

But by degrees Iheir senses were restored, 
Again to be o'erconie, again to dash on ; 

And^ beating 'gainst his bosom, Haidee's heart 

Felt as if never more to beat apart. 

CXCII. 

Alas ! they were so young, so beautiful, 
So lonely, loving, helpless, and the hour 

Was that in which the heart is always full ; 
And, having o'er itself no further power, 

Prompts deeds eternity can not annul, 
But pays off moments in an endless shower 

Of hell-tire — all prepared for people giving 

Pleasure or pain to one another living. 

CXC III. 

Alas ! for Juan and Haidee ! they were 
So loving and so lovely — till then never. 

Excepting our first parents, such a pair 
Had run the risk of being damn'd for ever : 

And Haidee, being devout as well as fair, 
Had, doubtless, heard about the Stygian river, 

And hell and i)urgatory — but forgot 

Just in the very crisis she should not. 

CXCIV. 

They look upon each other, and their eyes 

Gleam in the moonlight ; and her white arm clasps 

Round Juan's head, and his around her lies 
Half buried in the tresses which it grasps; 

She sits upon his knee, and drinks his sighs, 
He hers, until they end in broken gasps; 

And thus they form a group that 's quite antique. 

Half naked, loving, natural, and Greek. 

cxcv. 

And when those deep and burning moments pass'd, 
And Juan sunk to sleep withinher arms. 

She slept not, but all tenderly, though fast, 
Sustain'd his head upon her bosom's charms ; 

And now and then her eye to heaven is cast, 

And then on the pale cheek her breast now warms, 

Pillow'd on her o'erflowing heart, which pants 

With all it granted, and with all it grants. 

CXCVI. 
An infant when it gazes on a light, 

A child the moment when it drains the breast, 
A devotee when soars the Host in sight, 

An Arab with a stranger for a guest, 
A sailor when the prize has struck in fight, 

A miser filling his most hoarded chest. 
Feel rapture ; but not such true joy are reaping 
As they who watch o'er what they love while sleeping. 

CXCVII. 

For there it lies so tranquil, so beloved. 
All that it hath of life with us is living; 

So gentle, stirless, helpless, and unmoved. 
And all unconscious of the joy 't is giving ; 

All it hath felt, inflicted, pass'd, and p>oved, 
Hush'd into depths beyond the watcher's diving; 

There lies the thing we love wiih all its errors 

And all its charms, like death without its terrors. 



CXCVIII. 

The lady watch'd her lover — and that hour 
Of Love's, and Nighi's, and Ocean's solitude, 

O'erflow'd her soul with their united power; 
Amidst the barren sand and rocks so rude 

She and her wave-worn love had made their bower. 
Where nought upon their passion could intrude, 

And all the stars that crowded the blue space 

Saw nothing happier than her glowing face. 

CXCIX. 

Alas ! the love of women ! it is known 

To be a lovely and a fearful thing; 
For all of theirs upon Ihit die is thrown. 

And if 't is lost, lite hath no more to bring 
To them but mockeries of the past alone, 

And their revenge is as the tiger's spring, 
Deadly, and quick, and crushing; yet, as real 
Torture is theirs, what they inflict they feel. 

CC. 

They are right ; for man, to man so oft unjust, 
Is always so to women ; one sole bond 

Awaits them, treachery is all their trust; 

Taught to cf)nceal, their bursting hearts despond 

Over their idol, till some wealthier lust 
Buys them in marriige — and what rests beyond? 

A thankless husband, next a faithless lover, 

Then dressing, nursing, praying, and all 's over. 

CCI. 

Some take a lover, some take drams or prayers, 
Some mind their household, others dissipation. 

Some run away, and but exchange their cares. 
Losing the advantage of a virtuous station ; 

Few changes e'er can better their atfairs, 
Theirs being an unnatural situation. 

From the dull palace to the dirty hovel : 

Some play the devil, and then write a novel. 

CCIL 

Haidee was Nature's bride, and knew not this : 
Haidee was Passion's child, born where the sun 

Showers triple light, and scorches even the kiss 
Of his gazelle-eyed daughters ; she was one 

Made but to love, to feel that she was his 

Who was her chosen : what was said or done 

Elsewhere was nothing. — She had nought to fear, 

Hope, care, nor love, beyond, her heart beat here. 

CCIII. 

And oh ! that quickening of the heart, that beat ! 

How mufh it cosis us ! yet each rising throb 
Is in its cause as its effect so sweet, 

That Wisdom, ever on the watch to rob 
Joy of its alchymy, and to repeat 

Fine truths ; even Conscience, too, has a tough job 
To make us understand each good old maxim, 
So good — I wonder Castlereagh don't tax 'em. 

CCIV. 

And now 't was done— on the lone shore were plighted 
Their hearts ; the stars, their nuptial torches, shed 

Beauty upon the beautiful they lighted: 
Ocean their witness, and the cave their bed. 

By their own feelings hallow'd and united. 

Their priest was Solitude, and they were wed : 

And they were happy, for to their young eyes 

Each was an angel, and earth paradise. 

CCV. 
Oh, Love ! of whom great Caesar was the suitor, 

Titus the master, Antony the slave, 
Horace, Catullus, scholars, Ovid tutor, 

Sappho the sage blue-stocking, in whose grave 
All those may leap who rather would be neuter — 

(Leucadia's rock still overlooks the wave) — 
Oh, Love! thou art the very god of evil. 
For, after all, we cannot call thee devil. 



^ 



504 



DON JUAN 



[Canto III. 



CCVI. 
Thou mak'st the chaste connubial state precarious,- 

And jestest with the brows of mightiest men j 
Cassar and Pompey, Mahomet, Belisariusr 

Have much employ "d the muse of history's pen : 
Their lives and fortunes were extremely various, 

Such worthies Time will never see a'^ain ; 
Yet to these four in three things the same luck holds, 
They all were heroes, conquerors, and cuckolds. 

CCVII. 
Thou mak'st philosophers ; there 's Epicurus 

And Aristippus, a material crev/ ! 
Who to immoral courses viould allure us 

By theories quiie practicable too ; 
If only from the devil they would insure us, 

How pleasant were the maxim (not quite new), 
"Eat, drink, and love, what can the rest avail us?" 
So said the royal sage Sardanapalus. 

CCVIII. 
But Juan ! had he quite forgotten Julia ? 

And should he have forgotten her so soon ? 
I can't but say it seems to me most truly a 

Perplexing question ; but, no doubt, the moon 
Does these things for us, and whenever newly a 

Palpitation rises, 't is her boon, 
Else how the devil is it that fresh features 
Have such a charm for us poor human creatures ? 

CCIX. 
I hate inconstancy — I loathe, detest, 

Abhor, condemn, abjure the mortal made 
Of such quicksilver clay that in his breast 

No permanent foundation can be laid ; 
Love, constant love, has been my constant guest, 

And yet last night, being at a masquerade, 
I saw the prettiest creature, fresh from Milan, 
Which gave me some sensations like a villain. 

ccx. 

But soon Philosophy came to my aid. 
And whisper'd, " Think of every sacred tie ! " 

" I will, my dear Philosophy ! " I said, 
" But then her teeth, and then, oh. Heaven ! her eye I 

I '11 just enquire if she be wife or maid, 
Or neither — out of curiosity." 

*' Stop ! " cried Philosophy, with air so Grecian, 

(Though she was masqued then as a fair Venetian ;) 

CCXI. 

" stop ! " so I stopp'd.— But to return : that which 

Men call inconstancy is nothing more 
Than admiration due where nature's rich 

Profusion with young beauty covers o'er 
Some favour'd object ; and as in the niche 

A lovely statue we almost adore. 
This sort of adoration of the real 
Is but a heightening of the " beau ideal." 

CCXII. 

'T is the perception of the beautiful, 

A fine extension of the faculties, 
Platonic, universal, wonderful, 

Drawn from the stars, and filter'd through the skies, 
Without which life would be extremely dull ; 

In short, it is the use of our own eyes. 
With one or two small senses added, just 
To hint that flesh is form'd of fiery dust. 

CCXIII. 

Yet 't is a painful feeling, and unwilling, 
For surely if we always could perceive 

In the s:ime object graces quite as killing 
As when she rose upon us like an Eve, 

'T would save us many a heart-ach, many a shilling, 
(For we must get them any how, or grieve,) 

Whereas if one sole lady pleased for ever, 

How pleasant for tUfe heart, as well as liver ! 



CCXIV. 

The heart is like the sky, a part of heaven, 
But changes night and day, too, like the sky ; 

Now o'er it clouds and thunder must be driven, 
And darkness and destruction as on high : 

But when it hath been scorch'd, and pierced, and riven, 
Its storms expire in water-drops ; the eye 

Pours forth at last the heart's blood turn'd' to tears, 

Which make the English climate of our years. 

CCXV. 
The liver is the lazaret of bile, 

But very rarely executes its function. 
For the first passion stays there such a while. 

That all the rest creep in and form a junction. 
Like knots of vipers on a dunghill's soil, 

Rage, fear, hate, jealousy, revenge, compunction, 
So that all mischiefs spring up from this entrail, 
Like earthquakes from the hidden fire call'd " cen- 
tral." 

CCXVL 

In the mean time, without proceeding more 

In this anatomy, I 've finish'd now 
Two hundred and. odd stanzas as before. 

That being about the number I '11 allow 
Each canto of the twelve, or twenty-four ; 

And, laying down my pen, I make my bow, 
Leaving Don Juan and Haidee to plead 
For them and theirs with all who deign to read. 



CANTO THE THIRD.i 
I. 

Hail, Muse I et cetera.— We left Juan sleeping, 
Pillow'd upon a fair and happy breast, 

And watch'd by eyes that never yet knew weeping, 
And loved by a'young heart, too deeply blest 

To feel the poison through her spirit creeping, 
Or know who rested there, a foe to rest, 

Had soil'd the current of her sinless years. 

And turn'd her pure heart's purest blood to tears ! 

IL 

Oh, Love ! what is it in this world of ours 

Which makes it fatal to be loved ? Ah why 
With cypress branches hast thou wreathed thy bowers. 

And made thy best interpreter a sigh ? 
As those who dote on odours pluck the flowers. 

And place them on iheir breast — but place to die- 
Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish 
Are laid within our bosoms but to perish. 

IIL 

In her first passion woman loves her lover, 

In all the others all she loves is love. 
Which grows a habit she can ne'er get over, 

And fits her loosely — like an easy glove. 
As you may find, whene'er you like to prove her: 

One man alone at first her heart can move; 
She then prefers him in the plural number, 
Not finding that the additions much encumber. 

' IV. 

I know not if the fault be men's or theirs ; 

But one thing 's pretty sure ; a woman planted 
(Unless at once she plunge for life in prayers) — 

After a decent time must be gallanted ; 
Although, no doubt, her first of love aflairs 

Is that to which her heart is wholly granted ; 
Yet there are some, they say, who have had none. 
But those who have ne'er end with only 07je. 



1 Lord Byron began to compose Canto III. in Octol)er, 
1819 : but he for a time laid the work aside, and after- 
wards proceeded in it only by fits and starts. Cantos III. 
IV. and V. were published together in August, Itfil, — 
still without the name either of author or bookseller.— E. 



Canto III.] 



DON JUAN. 



505 



V. 
'T is melancholy, and a fearful sign 

Of human frailty, folly, also crime, 
That love and marriage rarely can combine, 

Although they both are born in the same clime; 
Marriage from love, like vinegar from wine — 

A sad, sour, sober beverage — by time 
Is sharpen'd from its high celestial flavour, 
Down to a very homely household savour. 

VI. 

There 's something of antipathy, as 't were, 
Between their present and their future state; 

A kind of flattery that 's hardly fair 
Is used until the truth arrives too late — 

Yet what can people do, except despair? 

The same things change their names at such a rate: 

For instance — passion in a lover 's glorious, 

But in a husband is pronounced uxorious. 

VII. 

Men grow ashamed of being so very fond; 

They sometimes also get a little tired 
(But (hat, of course, is rare), and then despond : 

The same things cannot always be admired, 
Yet 't is " so nominated in the bond," 

That both are tied till one shall have expired. 
Sad thought ! to lose the spouse that was adorning 
Our days, and put one's servants into mourning. 

VIII. 
There '3 doubtless something in domestic doings 

Which forms, in fact, true love's antithesis ; 
Romances paint at full-length people's wooings, 

But only give a bust of marriages ; 
For no one cares for matrimonial cooings, 

There 's nothing wrong in a connubial kiss : 
Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, 
He would have written sonnets all his life ? 

IX. 

All tragedies are finish'd by a death, 
All comedies are ended by a marriage; 

The future states of both are left to faith. 
For authors fear description might disparage 

The worlds to come of both, or fall beneath. 
And then both worlds would punish their miscar- 
riage ; 

So leaving each their priest and prayer-book ready, 

They say no more of Death or of the Lady.i 

X. 

The only two that in my recollection 
Have sung of heaven and hell, or marriage, are 

Dante 2 and Milton, 3 and of both the affection 
Was hapless in their nuptials, for some bar 

Of fault or temper ruiri'd the connection 
(Such things, in fact, it don't ask much to mar); 

But Dante's Beatrice and Milton's Eve 

Were not drawn from their spouses, you conceive. 

XI. 

Some persons say that Dante meant theology 

By Beatrice, and not a mistress — I, 
Although my opinion may require apology, 

Deem this a commentator's phantasy, 
Unless indeed it was from his own knowledge he 

Decided thus, nnd show'd good reason why; 
I think that Dante's more abstruse ecstatics 
Meant to personify the mathematics. 

XII. 

Haidee and Juan were not married, but 

The fault was theirs, not mine : it is not fair, 

Chaste reader, then, in any way to put 
The blame on me, unless you wish they were ; 



1 The old ballad of " Death and the Lady " is alluded to 
in Sliakspeare.— E. 

2 Dante calls his wife, in the Inferno, "la fiera moglie." 

3 Milton's first wife ran oway from him within the first 
month. If she had not, what would John Milton have 
done 7 



Then if you'd have them wedded, please to shut 

The book which treats of this erroneous pair, 
Before the consequences grow too awful ; 
'T is dangerous to read of loves unlawful. 

XIII. 

Yet they were happy,— happy in the illicit 

Indulgence of their innocent desires ; 
But more imprudent grown with every visit, 

Haidee forgot the island was her sire's : 
When we have what we like, 't is hard to miss it, 

At least in the beginning, ere one tires ; 
Thus she came often, not a moment losing. 
Whilst her piratical papa was cruising. 

XIV. 
Let not his mode of raising cash seem strange, 

Although he fleeced the nags of every nation. 
For into a prime minister but change 

His title, and 't is nothing but taxation ; 
But he, more modest, took an humbler range 

Of life, and in an honester vocation 
Pursued o'er the high seas his watery journey, 
And merely practised as a sea-attorney. 

XV. 

The good old gentleman had been detain'd 
By winds and waves, and some important captures ; 

And", in the hope of more, at sea remain'd, 
Although a squall or two had damp'd his raptures. 

By swamping one of the prizes ; he had chain'd 
His prisoners, dividing them like chapters 

In number'd lots ; they all had cuffs and collars. 

And averaged each from ten to a hundred dollars. 

XVI. 

Some he disposed of off Cape Matapan, 
Among his friends, the Mainots ; some he sold 

To his Tunis correspondents, save one man 
Toss'd overboard unsaleable (being old) ; 

The rest — save here and there some riclier one, 
Reserved for future ransom in the hold. 

Were link'd alike, as for the common people he 

Had a large orden^rom the Dey of Tripoli. 

XVII. 

The merchandise was served in the same way, 
Pieced out for different marts in the Levant, 

Except some certain portions of the prey, 
Light classic articles of female want, 

French stuffs, lace, tweezers, tonthpicks, teapot, tray. 
Guitars and castanets from Alicant, 

All which selected from the spoil he gathers, 

Robb'd for his daughter by the best of fathers. 

XVIII. 
A monkey, a Dutch mastiff, a mackaw. 

Two parrots, with a Persian cat and kittens, 
He chose from several animals he saw — 

A terrier, too, which once had been a Briton's, 
Who dying on the coast of Ithaca, 

The peasants gave the poor dumb thing a pittance. 
These to secure in this strong blowing weather. 
He caged in one huge hamper altogether. 

XIX. 

Then having settled his marine affairs. 
Despatching single cruisers here and there. 

His vessel having need of some repairs, 
He shaped his course to where his daughter fair 

Continued still her hospitable cares; 
But that part of the coast being shoal and bare, 

And rough With reefs which ran out many a mile, 

His port lay on the other side o' the isle. 

XX. 

And there he went ashore without delay, 
Having no custom-house nor quarantine 

To ask him awkward questions on the way, 
About the time and place where he had been: 



43 



506 



DON JUAN, 



[Canto III. 



He left his ship to be hove down next day, 

With orders to the people to careen ; 
So that all hands were busy beyond measure, 
In getting out goods, ballast, guns, and treasure. 

XXI. 

Arriving at the summit of a bill 

Which overlook'd the white walls of his home, 
He stopp'd. — What singular emotions fill 

Their bosoms who have been induced to roam ! 
With fluttering doubts if all be well or ill — 

With love for many, and with fears for some ; 
All feelings which o'erleap the years long lost, 
And bring our hearts back to their starting-post. 

XXII. 

The approach of home to husbands and to sires, 
After long travelling by land or water, 

Most naturally some small doubt inspires — 
A female family's a serious matter ; 

(None trusts the sex more, or so much admires — 
But they hate flattery, so I never flatter ;) 

Wives in their husbands' absences grow subtler, 

And daughters sometimes run oli' with the butler. 

XXIII. 

An honest gentleman at his return 
May not h^ve the good fortune of Ulysses; 

Not all lone matrons for their husbands mourn, 
Or show the same dislike to suitors' kisses; 

The odds are that he finds a handsome urn 
To his memory — and two or three young misses 

Born to some friend, who holds his wife and riches; — 

And that his Argus bites him by — the breeches. 

XXIV. 
If single, probably his plighted fair 

Has in his absence wedded some rich miser; 
But all the better, for the happy pair 

May quarrel, and the lady growing wiser, 
He may resume his amatory care 

As cavalier servente, or despise her ; 
And that his sorrow may not be a dumb one, 
Write odes on the Inconstancy of Woman. 

XXV. 
And oh ! ye gentlemen who have already 

Some chaste liaison of the kind — I mean 
An honest friendship with a married lady — 

The only thing of this sort ever seen 
To last — of all connections the most steady, 

And the true Hymen, (the first 's but a screen) — 
Yet for all that keep not too long away ; 
I 've known the absent wrong'd four times a day. 

XXVI. 

Lambro, our sea-solicitor, who had 
Much less experience of dry land than ocean, 

On seeing his own chimney-smoke, felt glad; 
But not knowing meiajjhysics, had no notion 

Of the true reason of his not being sad, 
Or that of any other strong emotion; 

He loved his child, and would have wept the loss of 
her. 

But knew the cause no more than a philosopher. 

XXVII. 
He saw his white walls shining in the sun, 

His garden trees all shadowy and green; 
He heard his rivulet's light bubbling run. 

The distant dog-bark ; and perceived between 
The umbrage of the wood so cool and dun. 

The moving figures, and the sparkling sheen 
Of arms (in the East ail arm) — and various dyes 
Of colour'd garbs, as bright as butterflies. 

XXVIII. 

And as the spot where they appear he nears, 
Surprised at these unwonted signs of idling. 

He hears — alas ! no music of the spheres, 
But an unhallow'd, earthly sound of fiddling ! 



A melody which made him doubt his ears. 

The cau5e being past his guessing or unriddling ; 
A pipe, too, and a drum, and shortly after, 
A most unoriental roar of laughter. 

XXIX. 

And still more nearly to the place advancing, 
Descending rather quickly the declivity, 

Through the waved branches, o'er the greensward 
glancing, 
'Midst other indications of festivity, 

Seeing a troop of his domestics dancing 
Like dervises, who turn as on a pivot, he 

Perceived it was the Pyrrhic dance so martial, 

To which the Levantines are very partial. 

XXX. 

And further on a group of Grecian girls, 

The first and tallest her white kerchief waving. 

Were strung together like a row of pearls, 

Link'd hand in hand, and dancing ; each too having 

Down her white neck long floating auburn curls — 
(The least of which would set ten poets raving); 

Their leader sang — and bounded to her song, 

With choral step and voice, the virgin throng. 

XXXI. 

And here, assembled cross-legg'd round their trays, 

Small social parties just begun to dine; 
Pilaus and meats of all sorts met the gaze, 

And flasks of Samian and of Chian wine, 
And sherbet cooling in the porous vase ; 

Above them their dessert grew on its vine. 
The orange and pomegranate nodding o'er 
Dropp'd in their laps, scarce pluck'd, their mellow 
store. 

XXXII. 
A band of children, round a snow-white ram, 

There wreathe his venerable horns with flowers; 
While peaceful as if still an unwean'd lamb, 

The patriarch of the flock all gently cowers 
His sober head, majestically fame, 

Or eats from out the palm, or playful lowers 
His brow, as if in act to butt, and then 
Yielding to their small hands, draws back again. 

XXXIIL 

Their classical profiles, and glittering dresses, 

Their large black eyes, and soft seraphic cheeks, 
Crimson as cleft pomegranates, their long tresses, 

The gesture which enchants, the eye that speaks, * 
The innocence which happy childhood blesses. 

Made quite a picture of these little Greeks ; 
So that the philosophical beholder 
Sigh'd, for their sakes — that they should e'er grow 
older. 

XXXIV. 
Afar, a dwarf buffoon stood telling tales 

To a sedate grey circle of old smokers, 
Of secret treasures found in hidden vales. 

Of wonderful replies from Arab jokers, 
Of charms to make good gold and cure tax! ails. 

Of rocks bewitch'd that' open to the knockers. 
Of magic ladies who, by one sole act, 
Transform'd their lords to beasts (but that 's a fact). 

XXXV. 

Here was no lack of innocent diversion 

For the imagination or the senses. 
Song, dance, wine, music, stories from the Persian, 

All pretty pastimes in which no offence is; 
But Lambro saw all these things with aversion, 

Perceiving in his absence such expenses, 
Dreading that climax of all human ills, 
The inflammation of his weekly bills. 

XXXVI. 

Ah ! what is man ? what perils still environ 
The happiest mortals even after dinner — 

A day of gold from out an aee of iron 
Is all that life allows the luckiest sinner ; 



Jtsl 



Canto III.] 



DON JUAN. 



507 



Pleasure (whene'er she sings, at least) 's a siren, 
Tliat lures, to fiay ulive, the youn§ beginner j 
Lambro's reception at his people's bmquet 
Was such as ftre accords to a wet blanket. 

XXXVII. 

He — being a man who seldom used a word 
Too much, and wishing gladly to surprise 

(In general he surprised men with the sword) 
His daughter — had not sent before to advise 

Of his arrival, so that no one stirr'd ; 
And long he paused to re-assure his eyes. 

In fact much more astonish'd than delighted, 

To find so much good company invited. 

XXXVIII. 

He did not know (alas ! how men will lie) 

That a report (especially the Greeks) 
Avouch'd his death (such people never die). 

And put his house in mourning several weeks, — 
But now their eyes and also lips were dry ; 

The bloom, too, had returned to Haidev'ts cheeks. 
Her tears, too, being return'd into their fount, 
She now kept house upon her own account. 

XXXIX. 

Hence all this rice, meat, dancing, wine, and fiddling, 
Which tarn'd the isle into a place of pleasure j 

The servants all were getting drunk or idling, 
A life which made them happy be} ond measure. 

Her father's hospitality seem'd niiddlinsc. 

Compared wi h what Haidee did Vr-ith his treasure) 

'T was wonderful how things went on improving. 

While she had not one hour to spare from loving. 

XL. 

Perhaps you think, in stumbling on this feast, 

He flew into a passion, and in fact 
There was no mighty reason to be pleased ; 

Perhaps you prophesy some sudden act, 
The whip, the racli, or dungeon at the least, 

To teach his people to bemore exact. 
And that, proceeding at a very high rate, 
He show'd the toy a.1 penchants of a pirate. 

XLI. 

You 're wrong. — He was the mildest manner'd man 
That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat; 

With such true breeding of a gentleman. 
You never could divine his real thought ; 

No courtier could, and scarcely woman can 
Gird more deceit within a petticoat; 

Pity he loved adventurous life's variety, 

He was so great a loss to good society. 

XLII. 
Advancing to the nearest dinner tray, 

Tapping the shoulder of the nighest guest, 
With a peculiar smile, which, by the way, 

Boded no good, whatever it express'd, 
He asked the meaning of this holiday ; 

The vinous Greek to whom he had address'd 
His question, much too merry to divine 
The questioner, fiU'd up a glass of wine, 

XLIII. 
And without turning his facetious head, 

Over his shoulder, with a Bacchant air. 
Presented the o'erflowing cup, and said, 

" Talking 's dry work, I have no lime to spare." 
A second hiccup'd, " Our old master 's dead, 

You 'd better ask our mistress, who 's his heir." 
"Our mistress!" quoth a third: "Our mistress! — 

pooh — 
You mean our master — not the old, but new." 

XLIV. 
These rascals, being new comers, knew not whom 

They thus address'd — and Lambro's visage fell — 
And o'er his eye a momentary gloom 

Pass'd, but he strove quite courteously to quell 



The expression, and endeavouring to resume 

His smile, requested one of them to tell 
The name and quality of his new patron. 
Who seem'd to have turn'd Haidee into a matron. 

XLV. 
" I know not," quoth the fellow, " who or what 

He is, nor whence he came — and little care; 
But this I know, that this roast capon 's fat. 

And that good v/ine ne'er wash'd down better farej 
And if you are not satisfied with that. 

Direct your questions to my neighbour there; 
He '11 answer all for better or for worse. 
For none likes more to hear himself converse." 

XLVI, 
I said that Lambro was a man of patience. 

And certainly he show'd the best of breeding. 
Which scarce even France, the paragon of nations. 

E'er saw her most polite of sons exceeding; 
He bore these sneers against his near relations, 

His own anxiety, his heart, too, bleeding, 
The insults, too, of every servile glutton. 
Who all the time was eating up his mutton. 

XLVII. 

Now in a person used to much command — 
To bid men come, and go, and come again — 

To see his orders done too, out of hand — 

Whether the word was death, or but the chain — 

It may seem strange to find his manners bland; 
Yet such things are, which I can not explain, 

Though doubtless he who can command himself 

Is good to govern — almost as a Guelf. 

XLVIH. 

Not that he was not sometimes rash or so, 
But never in his real and serious mood ; 

Then calm, concentrated, and still, and slow, 
He lay coil'd like the boa in the wood; 

With him it never was a word and blow, 
His angry word once o'er, he shed no blood. 

But ill his silence there was much to rue. 

And his one blow left little work for two. 

XLIX. 

He ask'd no further questions, and proceeded 
On to the house, but by a private way, * 

So that the few who met him hardly heeded, 
So little they expected him that day ; 

If love paternal in his bosom pleaded 
For Haidee's sake, is more than I can say, 

But certainly to one deem'd dead returning, 

This revel seem'd a curious mode of mourning. 



If all the dead could now return to life, 
(Which God forbid !) or some, or a great many. 

For instance, if a husband or his wife 
(Nuptial examples are as good as any), 

No doubt whate'er might be their former strife, 
The present weather would be much more rainy- 

Tears shed into the grave of the connection 

Would share most probably its resurrection. 

LL 

He enter'd in the house no more his home, 
A thing to human feelings the most trying. 

And harder for the heart to overcome, 
Perhaps, than even the mental pangs of dying; 

To find cur hearthstone turn'd into a tomb, 
And round its once warm precincts palely lying 

The ashes of our hopes, is a deep grief, 

Beyond a single gentleman's belief. 

LII. 

He enter'd in the house — his home no more, 
For without hearts there is no home ; — and felt 

The solitude of passing his own door 
Without a welcome : there he long had dwelt, 



508 



DON JUAN. 



[Canto III. 



There his few peaceful days Time had swept o'er, 

There his warm bosom and keen eye would melt 
Over the innocence of that sweet child, 
His only shrine of feelings undefiled. 

LIII. 

He was a man of a strange temperament, 
Of mild demeanour though of savage mood. 

Moderate in all his habits, and content 
With temperance in pleasure, as in food, 

Quick to perceive, and strong to bear, and meant 
For something better, if not wholly good ; 

His country's wrongs and his despair to save her 

Had stung him from a slave to an enslaver. 

LIV. 

The love of power, and rapid gain of gold. 
The hardness by long habitude produced. 

The dangerous life in which he had grown old, 
The mercy he had granted oft abused, 

The sights he was accustomed to behold. 

The wild seas, and wild men with whom he cruised, 

Had cost his enemies a long repentance. 

And made him a good friend, but bad acquaintance. 

LV. 

But something of the spirit of old Greece 
Flash'd o'er his soul a few heroic rays, 

Such as lit onward to the Golden Fleece 
His predecessors in the Colchian days; 

'Tis true he had no ardent love for peace — 
Alas ! his country show'd no path to praise : 

Hate to the world and war with every nation 

He waged, in vengeance of her degradation. 

LVI. 

Still o'er his mind the influence of the clime 
Shed its Ionian elegance, which show'd 

Its power unconsciously full many a time, — 
A taste seen in the choice of his abode, 

A love of music and of scenes sublime, 
A pleasure in the gentle stream that flow'd 

Past him in crystal, and a joy in flowers, 

Bedew'd his spirit in his calmer hours. 

LVII. 

But whatsoe'er he had of love reposed 
On that beloved daughter ; she had been 

The only thing which kept his heart unclosed 
Amidst the savage deeds he had done and seen, 

A lonely pure affection unopposed : 

There wanted but (he loss of this to wean 

His feelings from all milk of human kindness. 

And turn him like the Cyclops mad with blindness. 

LVIII. 

The cubless tigress in her jungle raging 
Is dreadful to the shepherd and the flock ; 

The ocean when its yesty war is waging 
Is awful to the vessel near the rock ; 

But violent things will sooner bear assuaging, 
Their fury being spent by its own shock, 

Than the stern, single, deep, and wordless ire 

Of a strong human heart, and in a sire. 

LIX. 
It is a hard although a common case 

To find our children running restive — they 
In whom our brightest days we would retrace, 

Our little selves re-formed in finer clay. 
Just as old age is creeping on apace, 

And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day, 
They kindly leave us, though not quite alone, 
But in good company — the gout or stone. 

LX. 

Yet a fine family is a fine thing 

(Provided they don't come in after dinner) ; 
'T is beautiful to see a matron bring 

Her children up (if nursing them don't thin her) ; 



Like cherubs round an altar-piece they cling 
To the fire-side (i sight to much a sinner). 
A lady with her daughters 'or her nieces 
Shine like a guinea and seven-shilling pieces. 

LXI. 

Old Lambro pass'd unseen a private gate. 

And stood within his hall at eventide j 
Meantime the lady and her lover sate 

At wassail in their beauty and their pride: 
An ivory inlaid table spread with state 

Before them, and fair slaves on every side ; l 
Gems, gold, and silver, form'd the service mostly, 
Mother of pearl and coral the less cbstly. 

LXII. 

The dinner made about a hundred dishes ; 

Lamb and pistachio nuts — in short, all meats, 
And saffron soups, and sweetbreads ; and the fishes 

Were of the finest that e'er flounced in nets, 
Drest to a Sybarite's most pampered wishes ; 

The beverage was various sherbets 
Of raisin, orange, and pomegranate juice. 
Squeezed through the rind, which makes it best for 
use. 

LXIIL 
These were ranged round, each in its crysta ewer, 

And fruits, and date-bread loaves closed the repast. 
And Mocha's berry, from Arabia pure. 

In small fine China cups, came in at last : 
Gold cups of filigree made to secure 

The hand from burning underneath them placed, 
Cloves, cinnamon, and saffron too were boil'd 
Up with the coffee, which (I think) they spoil'd. 

LXIV. 

The hangings of the room were tapestry, made 
Of velvet panels, each of different hue, 

And thick with damask flowers of silk inlaid ; 
And round them ran a yellow border too ; 

The upper border, richly wrought, display'd, 
Embroider'd delicately o'er with blue. 

Soft Persian sentences, in lilac letters. 

From poets, or the moralists their betters. 

LXV. 

These Oriental writings on-the wall, 
Quite common in those countries, are a kind 

Of monitors adapted to recall. 
Like skulls at Memphian banquets, to the mind 

The words which shook Belshazzar in his hall, 
And took his kingdom from him ; You will find, 

Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treasure, 

There is no sterner moralist than Pleasure. 

LXVI. 

A beauty at the season's close grown hectic, 
A genius who has drunk himself to death, 

A rake turn'd melhodistic, or Eclectic — 
(For that's the name they like to pray beneath) — 

But most, an alderman struck apoplectic, 

Are things that re illy take away the breath,— 

And show that late hours, wine, and love are able 

To do not much less damage than the table. 

LXVH. 

Haidee and Juan carpeted their feet 

On crimson satin, bordered with pale bluej 

Their sofa occupied three parts complete 
Of the apartment — and nppear'd quite new ; 

The velvet cushions (for a throne more meet) — 
Were scarlet, from whose glowing centre grew 

A sun emboss'd in gold, whose rays of tissue. 

Meridian-like, were seen all light to issue. 

1 "Almost all Don Juan is real life, either my own, or 
from people I knew. By the way, much of the deserip- _ 
tion of the furniture iu canto third, is taken from Tul- 
ly's Tripoli (pray note this), and the re«t from my own 
observation. — Lord Byron to Mr. Murtay,' Avl^. 23, 
1621.— E. 



Canto III.] 



DON JUAN. 



509 



LXVIII. 

Crystal and marble, plate and porcelain, 
Had done their worii of splendour ; Indian mats 

And Persian carpets, whicii the heart bled to stain, 
Over the floors were spread ; gazelles and cats, 

And dwarfs and blacks, and sucti like things, that gain 
Their bread as ministers and favourites — (that's 

To say, by degradation) — mingled there 

As plentiful as in a court, or fair. 

LXIX. 

There veas no want of lofty mirrors, and 

The tables, most of ebony inlaid 
With molher-of-pearl or ivory, stood at hand, 

Or were of tortoise-shell or rare woods made, 
Fretted with gold or silver : — by command, 

The greater part of these were ready spread 
With viands and sherbets in ice — and wine — 
Kept for all comers, at all hours to dine. 

LXX. 

Of all the dresses I select Haidee's : 

She wore two jelicks — one was of pale yellow ; 
Of azure, pink, and white was her chemise — 

'Neath whicli her breast heaved like a little billow; 
With buttons form'd of pearls as large as peas. 

All gold and crimson shone her jelick's fellow. 
And the striped white gauze barac^m that bound her, 
Like fleecy clouds about the moon, flow'd round her. 

LXXI. 

One large gold bracelet clasp'd each lovely arm, 
Lockless — so pliable from the pure gold 

That the hand stretch'd and shut it without harm, 
The limb which it adorn'd its only mould ; 

So beautiful — its very shape would charm. 
And clinging as if loath to lose its hold, 

The purest ore enclosed the whitest skin 

That'e'er by precious metal was held in. i 

LXXII. 

Around, as princess of her father's land, 
A like gold bar above her instep roll'd 2 

Announced her rank ; twelve rings were on her hand ; 
Her hair was starr'd with gems ; her veil's fine fold 

Below her breast was fasten'd with a band 
Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce be told ; 

Her orange silk full Tuikish trousers furl'd 

About the prettiest ankle in the world. 

Lxxni. 

Her hair's long auburn waves down to her heel 
Flow'd like an Alpine torrent which the sun 

Dyes with his morning light,— and would conceal 
Her persona if allow'd at large to run. 

And still they seem resentfully to feel 

The silken fillet's curb, and sought to shun 

Their bonds whene'er some Zephyr caught began 

To offer his young pinion as her fan. 

LXXIV. 

Round her she made an atmosphere of life. 
The very air seem'd lighter from her eyes. 

They were so soft and beautiful, and rife 
With all we can imagine of the skies. 



1 This dress is Moorish, and the bracelets and bar are 
worn in the manner described. The reader will perceive 
hereafter, that as the mother of Haidee was of Fez, her 
daughter wore the garb of tlie country. 

2 The bar of gold above the instep is a mark of sove- 
reign rank in the women of the families of the deys, and 
is worn as such by their female relatives. 

3 This is no exaggeration: there were four women 
whom I remember to have seen, who possessed their hair 
in this profusion; of these, three were English, the other 
waa a Levantine. Their hair was of that length nnd 
quantity, that, when let down, it almost entirely shaded 
the person, so as nearly to render dress a siiperrtuity. 
Of these, only one had dark hair; the Oriental's had, 
perhaps, the lightest colour of the four. 



43* 



And pure as Psyche ere she grew a wife — 
Too pure even for the purest human ties; 
Her overpowering presence made you feel 
It would not be idolatry to kneel. 

LXXV. 

Her eyelashes, though dark as night, were tinged 
(It is the country's custom -J), but in vain; 

For those large black eyes were so blackly fringed, 
The glossy rebels mock'd the jetty stain. 

And in their native beauty stood avenged : 

Her nails were touch'd with henna ; but again 

The power of art was turn'd to nothing, for 

They could not look more rosy than before. 

LXXVI. 

The henna should be deeply dyed to make 
The skin relieved appear more fairly fair jf 

She had no need of this, day ne'er will break 
On mountain fops more heavenly white than her: 

The eye might doubt if it were well awake. 
She was so like a vision ; I might err. 

But Shakspeare also says, 't is very silly 

" To gild refined gold, or paint the lily." 

LXXVII. 

Juan had on a shawl of black and gold. 
But a white baracan, and so transparent 

The sparkling gems beneath you might behold, 
Like small stars through the milky way apparent ; 

His turban, furl'd in many a graceful fold. 
An emerald aigrette wi'th Haidee's hair in 't 

Surmounted, as its clasp, a growing crescent. 

Whose rays shone ever trembling, but incessant. 

LXXVI n. 

And now they were diverted by their suite, 

Dwarfs, dancing girls, black eunuchs, and a poet. 

Which made their new establishment complete ; 
The last was of great fame, and liked to show it; 

His verses rarely wanted their due feet — 
And for his theme — he seldom sung below it, 

He being paid to satirise or flatter, 

As the psalm says, " inditing a good matter." 

LXXIX. 

He praised the present, and abused the past. 
Reversing the good custom of old days, 

An Eastern anti-jacobin at last 

He turn'd, preferring pudding to no praise — 

For some few years his lot had been o'ercast 
By his seeming independent in his lays, 

But now he sung the Sultan and the Pacha 

With truth like Southey, and with verse like Cra- 
shavv. 

LXXX. 

He was a man who had seen many changes, 
And always changed as true as any needle ; 

His polar star being one which rather ranges, 
And not the fix'd — he knew the way to wheedle : 

So vile he 'scaped the doom which oft avenges ; 
And being fluent (save indeed when fee'd ill), 

He lied^with such a fervour of intention — 

There was no doubt he earn'd his laureate pension. 

LXXXI. 

But he had genius, — when a turncoat has it, 

The '' Vates irrifabilis " lakes care 
That without notice few full moons shall pass it ; 

Even good men like to make the public stare : — 
But to my subject — let me see — what was it ? — 

Oh ! — the third canto — and the pretty pair — 
Their loves, and feasts, and house, and dress, and mode 
Of living in their insular abode. 



4 " It was, and still is, the custom to tinge the eyes of 
the women with an impalpable powder, prepared chiefly 
from crude antimony. This pigment, when applied to 
the inner surface of the lids, communicates to the eye a 
tender and fascinating languor." — HABESCI. — E. 



510 



DON JUAN. 



[Canto III. 



LXXXII. 

Their poet, a sad trimmer, but no less 

In company a very pleasant fellow, 
Had been the favourite of full many a mess 

Of men, and made them speeches when half mel- 
low ; 
And though his meanin? they could rarely guess, 

Yet still' they deign'd to hiccup or to bellow 
The glorious meed of popular applause. 
Of which the first ne'er knows the second cause. 

LXXXIII. 

But now being lifted into high society, 
And having pick'd up several odds and ends 

Of free thoughts in his travels for variety. 
He deem'd, being in a lone isle, among friends, 

That without any danger of a riot, he 
Might for long lying make himself amends; 

And singing as he sung in his warm youth. 

Agree to a short armistice with truth. 

LXXXIV. 

He had travell'd 'mongst the Arabs, Turks, and Franks, 
And knew the self-loves of the different nations j 

And having lived with people of all ranks. 
Had something ready upon most occasions — 

Which got him a few presents and some thanks. 
He varied with some skill his adulations j 

To " do at Rome as Romans do," a piece 

Of conduct was which he observed in Greece. 

LXXXV. 

Thus, usually, when he was ask'd to sing. 
He gave the ditFerent nations something national ; 

'T was all the same to him — " God save the king," 
Or " Ca ira,^^ according to the fa^hion all : 

His muse made increment of any thing. 
From the high lyric down to the low rational : 

If Pindar sang horse-races, what should hinder 

Himself from being as pliable as Pindar ? 

LXXXVI. 

In France, for instance, he would write a chanson ; 

In England a six canto quarto tale ; 
In Spain he 'd make a billad or romance on 

The last war — much the same in Portugal; 
In Germany, the Pegasus he 'd prance on 

Would be old Goethe's — (see what says De Stael) ; 
In Italy he 'd ape the " Trecentisti ; " i 
In Greece, he 'd sing some sort of hymn like this t' ye ; 

1. 

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! 

Where burning Sappho loved and sung, 
Where grew the arts of war and peace, — 

Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung ! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet, 
But all, except their sun, is set. 

2. 
The Scian^ and the Teian muse,3 

The hero's harp, the lover's lute, 
Have found the fame your shores refuse ; 

Their place of birth alone is mute 
To sounds which echo further west 
Than your sires' " Islands of the Blest." 4 

3. 

The mountains look on Marathon — 

And Marathon looks on the sea; 
And musing there an hour alone, 

I dreani'd that Greece might still be free ; 
For standing on the Persians' grave, 
I could not deem myself a slave. 



1 The poets nf the fourteenth century — Dante, &c.— E. 

2 Homer. — E. 3 Anacreon. — E. 

4 The vrjaOL /na/capwv of the Greek poets were sup- 
posed to have been the Cape de Verd islands or the Cana- 
ries. 



4. 
A king sate on the rocky brow 

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; 
And ships, by thousands, lay below, 

And men in nations ; — all were his ! 
He counted them at break of day — 
And when the sun set where were they ? 5 



And where are they ? and where art thou, 
My country ? On thy voiceless shore 

The'heroic lay is tunele<;s now — 
The heroic bosom beats no more ! 

And must thy lyre, so long divine. 

Degenerate, into hands like mine? 



'T is something, in the dearth of fame, 
Though link'd among a fetter'd race, 

To feel at least a patriot's shame, 
Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; 

For what is left the poet here? 

For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 

7. 
Must we but weep o'er days more blest ? 

Must we but blush ? — Our fathers bled. 
Earth ! render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 
Of the three hundred grant but three. 
To make a new Thermopylae ! 

8. 
What, silent still ? and silent all ? 

Ah ! no ; — the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 

And answer, " Let one living head, 
But one arise, — we come, we come !" 
'T is but the living who are dumb. 

9. 

In vain — in vain : strike other chords ; 
Fill high the cup with Samian wine I 
^Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 
And shed the blood of Scio's vine! 
Hark ! rising to the ignoble call — 
How answers each bold Bacchanal ! 

10. 
You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet ; 

Where is 'he Pyrrhic phalanx gone? 
Of two such lessons, why forget 

The nobler and the manlier one ? 
You have the letters Cadmus gave — 
Think ye he meant them for a slave ? 

11. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

We will not think of themes like these ! 
It made Anacreon's song divine : 

He served — but served Polycrates — 
A tyrant ; but our masters then 
Were still, at least, our countrymen. 

12. 

The tyrant of the Chersonese 

Was freedom's best and bravest friend ; 
That tyrant was Miltiades ! 

Oh ! that the present hour would lend 
Another despot of the kind ! 
Such chains as his were sure to bind. 



Deep were the groans of Xerxes, when he saw 
This havoc; for his seat, a lofty mouud 
Commanding the wide sea, o'erlook'd the hosts. 
With rueful cries he rent his royal robes, 
And through his troops embattled on the shore 
Gave signal of retreat; then stnrted wild 
And fled disorder'd." — AESCHYLUS. 



Canto III.] 



DON JUAN. 



511 



13. 
Pill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, 
Exists the rennnant of .1 line 

Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, 
The Heracleidan blood might own. 



14. 
Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 

They have a king who buys and sells: 
In native swords, and native ranks. 

The only hope of courage dwells: 
But Turkish force, and Lalin fraud, 
Would break your shield, however broad, 

15. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

Our virgins dance beneath the shade — 
I see their glorious black eyes shine ; 

But gazing on each glovvjng maid, 
My own the burning tear-drop laves, 
To think such breasts must suckle slaves, 

16. 
Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, 

Where nothing, save the waves and I, 
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 

There, swan-like, let me sing and die : 1 
A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine I 

LXXXVII. 

Thus sung, or would, or could, or should have sung, 
The modern Greek, in toleiable verse: 

If not like Orpheus quite, when Greece was young. 
Yet in these times be might have done much worse: 

His strain display'd some feeling — right or wrong ; 
And feeling, in a poet, is the source 

Of others' feeling ; but they are such liars, 

And take all colours — like the hands of dyers. 

LXXXVIII. 

But words are things, and a small drop of ink. 
Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces 

That which makes thousands, perh^ips millions, think ; 
'Tis strange, the shortest letter which man uses 

Instead of speech, may form a lasting link 
Of ages ; to what straits old Time reduces 

Frail man, when paper — even a rag like this, 

Survives himself, his tomb, and all that 's his. 

LXXXIX. 

And when his bones are dust, his grave a blank, 
His station, generation, even his nation. 

Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank 
In chronological commemoration, 

Some dull MS. oblivion long has sank. 
Or graven stone found in a barrack's station 

In digging the foundation of a closet. 

May turn his name up, as a rare deposit. 

XC. 

And glory long has made the sages smile ; 

'Tis something, nothing, words, illusion, wind — 
Depending more upon the historian's style 

Than on the name a person leaves behind : 
Troy owes to Homer what whist owes to Hoyle ; 

The present century was growing blind 
To the great Marlborough's skill in giving knocks, 
Until his late Life by Archdeacon Coxe. 



. . . "Fsvot/iav 
Iv' i)\azv luEO-Ti. novTov 
iTpo6Xi]iJ,' &XtK\vaTov, dicpav 
iiTXo TtKaKa Lovvlov. k. t. X." 

SOPH. Ajax, V. 1217. 



XCI. 

Milton 's the prince of poets — so we say ; 

A little heavy, but no less divine : 
An independent being in his day — 

Learn'd, pious, temperate in love and wine; 
But his life falling into Johnson's way, 

We 're told this great high priest of all the Nine 
Was whipt at college — a harsh sire — odd spouse, 
For the first Mrs. Milton left his house. 2 

XCII. 

All these are, certes, entertaining facts. 

Like Shakspeare's stealing deer. Lord Eicon's bribes; 
Like I'itus' youth, and Caesar's earliest acts ; 

Like Burns (whom Doctor Currie well describes); 
Like Cromwell's pranks ; — but alihough truth exacts 

These amiable descriptions from the scribes. 
As most essential to their hero's story. 
They do not much contribute to his glory. 

XCIII. 

All are not moralists, like Southey, when 
He prated to the world of " Pantisocrasy ;" 

Or Wordsworth unexcised, unhired, who then 
Season'd his pedlar poems with democracy ; 

Or Coleridge.3 long before his flighty pen 
Let to the Morning Post its aristocracy ; 

When he and Southey, following the same path, 

Espoused two partners (milliners of Bath). 

XCIV. 

Such names at present cut a convict figure. 
The very Botany Bay in moral geography ; 

Their loyal treason, renegado rigour, 
Are good manure for their more bare biography ; 

Wordsworth's last quarto, by the way, is bigger 
Than any since the birthday of typography ; 

A drowsy frowzy poem, cali'd the " Excursion," 

Writ in a manner which is my aversion. 

XCV. 

He there builds up a formidable dyke 
Between his own and others' intellect; 

But Wordsworth's poem, and his followers, like 
Joanna Southcote's Shiloh,4 and her sect, 

Are things which in this century don't strike 
The public mind, — so few are the elect; 

And the new births of both their stale virginities 

Have proved but dropsies, taken for divinities. 

XCVI. 

But let me to my story : I must own. 

If I have any fault, it is digression — 
Leaving my people to proceed alone. 

While I soliloquize beyond expression ; 
But these are my addresses from the throne. 

Which put ott" business to the ensuing session : 
Forgetting each omission is a loss to 
The world, not quite so great as Ariosto. 

xcvn. 

I know that what our neighbours call " longueurs," 
(We 've not so good a word, but have the thing, 

In that complete perfection which ensures 
An epic from Bob Southey every spring—) 



2 See Johnson's Life of Milton. 

3 See Coleridge's Biographia Literaria, 1817.— E. 

4 The followers of this fanatic are said to have amount- 
ed, at one time, to a hundred thousand. She announced 
herself ns the mother of a second Shiloh, whose speedy 
advent she confidently predicted. A cradle of expensive 
materials was prepared for the expected prodigy. A Dr. 
Keece and another medical man attested her dropsy; and 
many were her dupes down to the moment of her death, 
in 1814.— E. 



I 



512 



DON JUAJN. 



[Canto III. 



Form not the true temptation which allures 

The reader ; but 't would not be hard to bring 
Some line examples of the epopee, 
To prove its giand ingredient is ennuiA 

XCVIII. 
We learn from Horace, "Homer sometimes sleeps ; " 

We feel without him, Wordsworth sometimes 
wakes, — 
To show with what complacency he creeps, 

With his deir " JVagnners," around his lakes.2 
He wishes for " a boat " to sail the deeps — 

Of ocean ?— No, of air ; and then he makes 
Another outcry for "a little boat," 
And drivels seas to set it well afloat.3 

XCIX. 
If he must fain sweep o'er the ethereal plain, 

And Pegasus runs restive in his " Wagon," 
Could he not beg the loan of Charless Wain ? 

Or pray Medea for a single dragon ? 
Or if too classic for his vulgar brain, 

He fear'd his neck to venture such a nag on, 
And he must needs mount nearer to the moon, 
Could not the blockhead ask for a balloon ? 

C. 
" Pedlars," and <' Boats," and " Wagons ! " Oh ! ye 

Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this? [shades 
That trash of such sort not alone evades 

Contempt, but from the hxthos' vast abyss 
Floats scunilike uppermost, and these Jack Cades 

Of sense and song above vour graves mav hiss — 
The " little boatman " and his "Peter Bell » 
Can sneer at him who drew " Acbitophel ! " * 

CI. 

T' our tale.— The feast was over, the slaves gone, 
The dwarfs and dancing girls had all retired j 

The Arab lore and poet's song were done. 
And every sound of revelry expired ; 

The lady and her lover, left alone. 
The rosy tlood of twilight's sky admired ; — 

Ave Maria ! o'er the earth and sea, 

That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest thee ! 

CII. 

Ave Maria ! blessed be the hour ! 

The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft 
Have felt that moment in its fullest power 

Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft. 
While swung the deep bell in the distant tower, 

Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, 
And not a breath crept through the rosy air, 
And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirr'dvvilh prayer. 

cni. 

Ave Maria ! 't is the hour of prayer ! 

Ave Maria ! 't is the hour of love ! 
Ave Maria ! may our spirits dare 

Look up to thine and to thy Son's above ! 
Ave Maria ! oh that face so fair ! 

Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty dove — 
What though 't is but a pictured image ? — strike — 
That painting is no idol,— 't is too like. 



1 Here follows in the original MS.— 
"Time has approved Ennui to be the best 

Of friends, and opiate draughts : your love and wine 
Which shake so much the human brain and breast, 

Must end in languor ; men must sleep like swine : 
The happy lover and the welcome guest 

Both sink at last into a swoon divine; 
Full of deep raptures and of bumpers, they 
Are somewhat sick and sorry the next day." — E. 

2 Wordsworth's " Benjamin the Wagoner," appeared 
in 1819.— E. 

3 "There's something in a flying horse. 
There's something in a huge balloon: 
Bui through the clouds I 'II never tloat 
Until I have a little boat," &c.— 

WORDSWORTH'S Peter Bell. 

4 "The verses of Drvden. once highly celebrated, are 
fort'Otten." — Mr. W. WORDSWORTH'S Preface. 



CIV. 

Some kinder casuists are pleased to say, 
In nameless print — that I have no devotion ; 

But set those persons down with me to pray, 
And you shall see who has the properest notion 

Of getting into heaven the shortest way j 
My altars are the mountains and the ocean, 

Earth, air, stars,— all that springs from the great 
Whole, 

Who hath produced, and will receive the soul. 

CV. 

Sweet hour of twilight ! — in the solitude 

Of the pine forest, and the silent shore 
Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood, 

Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow'd o'er. 
To where the last Cassarean fortress stood, 

Evergreen forest ! which Boccaccio's lore 
And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me, 
How have I loved the twilight hour and thee ! 

CVI. 

The shrill cicalas, people of the pine. 

Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, 

Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine. 
And vesper bell's that rose the boughs along ; 

The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line, 

His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng 

Which learn'd from this example not to tly 

From a true lover,— shadow'd my mind's eye. 

CVII. 

Oh. Hesperus ! thou bringest all good things 5 — 
Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer, 

To the young bird the parent's brooding wings, 
The welcome stall to the o'erlabour'd steer ; 

Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings, 
Whate'er our household gods protect of dear. 

Are gather'd round us by thy look of rest ; 

Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast. 

CVIII. 

Soft hour ! which wakes the wish and melts the heart 
Of those who sail the seas, on the first day 

When they from their sweet friends are torn apart ; 
Or tills with love the pilgrim on his way 

As the far bell of vesper makes him start, 
Seeming to weep the dying day's decay j 

Is this a fancy which our reason scorns? 

Ah ! surely nothing dies but something mourns ! 6 

CIX. 

When Nero perish 'd by the justest doom 
Which ever the destroyer yet destroy'd, 

Amidst the roar of liberated Rome, 

Of nations freed, and the world overjoy'd, 

Some hands unseen strew'd flowers upon his tomb: 7 
Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void 

Of feeling for some kindness done, when power 

Had left the wretch an uucorrupted hour. 

ex. 

But I 'm digressing ; what on earth has Nero, 

Or any such like sovereign buffoons. 
To do with the transactions of my hero. 

More than such madmen's fellow-man — the moon's? 



5 " 'Eo-TTspc navra 0£p£tj, 
$£p£iS oLvov ~ 0£p£is aiyo, 

•$£p£tS fiarigi naida." — Fragment of Sappho. 

6 "Era gia 1' ora che volge '1 disio, 

A' naviganti, e 'ntenerisce il cuore; 
Lo di ch' han detto a' dolci amici a dio ; 

E che lo nuovo peregrin' d' amore 
Punge, se ode Squilla di lontano, 
Che paia '1 giorno pianger che si muore." — 

DANTE'S Purgatory, canto viii. 
This last line is the lirst of Gray's Elegy, taken by him 
without acknowledgment. 

7 See Suetonius for this fact. 



Canto IV.] 



DON JUAN. 



513 



Sure my invention must be down at zero, 

And I grown one of muiiy " wooden spoons " 
Of verse (the name with which we Canlabs please 
To dub the last of honours in degrees). 

CXI. 

I feel thistediousness will never do — 
'T is being too epic, and 1 nnisf cut down 

(In copying) this lona; canto into two ; 
They '11 never find it out, unless 1 own 

The lact, excepting some experienced few ; 
And then as an improvement 't will be shown : 

I '11 prove that such the opinion of the critic is 

From Aristotle jjaj(si»/i. — ISee I1oi.)itik.7)S. 



CANTO THE FOURTH. 

Nothing so difficult as a beginning 

In poesy, unless perhaps the end ; 
For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning 

The race, he sprains a wing, and down we tend, 
Like Lucifer when hurl'd from heaven for sinning; 

Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend. 
Being pride, which leads the mind to soar too far, 
Till our owa weakness shows us what we are. 

IL 

But Time, which brings all beings to their level, 
And sharp Adversity, will teach at last 

Man,— and, as we would hope,— perhaps the devil, 
That neither of their intellects are vast: 

While youth's hot wishes in our red veins revel. 
We know not this — the blood flows on too fast; 

But as the torrent widens towards the ocean, 

We ponder deeply ou each past emotion. 

in. 

As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow, 
And wish'd that others held the same opinion ; 

They took it up when my days grew more mellow, 
And other minds acknowledged mv dominion : 

Now my sere fancy " falls into the yellow 
Leaf," and Imagination droops her pinion, 

And the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk 

Turns what was once romantic to burlesque. 

IV. 

And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 

'T is that I may not weep ; and if I weep, 

'T is that our nature cannot always bring 
Itself to apathy, for we must steep 

Our hearts first in the depths of Lethe's spring, 
Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep : 

Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx ; ^ 

A mortal mother would on Lethe fix. 



Some have accused me of a strange design 
Against the creed and morals of the land, 

And trace it in this poem every line: 
I don't pretend that I quite underst:uid 

My own meaning when 1 would be vtvy fine ; 
But the fact is that I have nothing plann'd, 

Unless it were to be a moment merry, 

A novel word in my vocabulary. 

VL 

To the kind reader of our sober clime 
This way of writing will appear exotic; 

Pulci was sire of the half-serious rhyme, 

Who sang when chivalry was more Quixotic, 

And reveird in the fancies of the time. 
True knights, chaste dames, huge giants, kings 
despotic ; 

But all these, save the last, being obsolete, 

I chose a modern subject as more meet. 



1 Achillea is said to have been dipped by his mother in 
the river Styx, to render him invulnerable. — E, 



VII. 
How I have treated it, I do not know ; 

Perhaps no better than they have treated me, 
Who have imputed such designs as show 

Not what they saw, but what they wish'd to see; 
But if it gives them pleasure, be it so; 

This is a liberal age, and thoughts are free; 
Meantime Apollo plucks me by the ear, 
And tells me to resume my story here, 

VIIL 

Young Juan and his lady-love were left 
To their own hearts' most sweet society; 

Even Time the pitiless in sorrow cleft 

With his rude scythe such gentle bosoms; he 

Sigh'd to behold them of their hours bereft. 
Though foe to love : and yet they could not be 

Meant to grow old, but die in happy spring. 

Before one charm or hope had taken wing. 

IX. 

Their faces were not made for wrinkles, their 
Pure blood to stagnate, their great hearts to fail ; 

The blank grey was not made to blast their hair. 
But like the climes that know nor snow nor hail 

They were all summer : lightning might assail 
And shiver them to ashes, but to tra^U 

A long and snake-like life of dull decay 

Was not for them — they had too little clay. 

X. 

They were alone once more ; for them to be 
Thus was another Eden ; they were never 

Weary, unless when sepante : the tree 
Cut from its forest root of years — the river 

Damm'd from its fountain — the child from the knee 
And breast maternal wean'd at once for ever, — 

Would wither less than these two torn apart; 

Alas ! there is no instinct like the heart — 

XL 

Tlie heart — which may be broken : happy they ! 

Thrice fortunate ! who of that fragile mould. 
The precious porcelain of human clay. 

Break with the first fall : they can ne'er behold 
The long year link'd with heavy day on day. 

And all which must be borne, and never told ; 
While life's strange principle will often lie 
Deepest in those who long the most to die. 

XIL 

*' Whom the gods love die young," was said of yore,^ 
And m\ny deaths do they escape by this: 

The death of friends, and that which slays even more — 
The death of friendship, love, youth, all that is, 

Except mere breath ; and since the silent shore 
Awaits at last even those who longest miss 

The old archer's shafts, perhaps the early grave 

Which men weep over may be meant to save. 

XIIL 
Haidee and Juan thought not of the dead. 

'Ihe heavens, and earth, and air, seem'd made for 
them: 
They found no fault with Time, save that he fled ; 

They saw not in themselves aught to condemn : 
Each was the other's mirror, and but read 

Joy sparkling in their dark eyes like a gem. 
And knew such brightness was'but the rejection 
Of their exchanging glances of affection. 

XIV. 

The gentle pressure, and the thrilling touch, 
The least glance better understood than words, 

Which still said all, and ne'er could say too much: 
A language, too, but like to that of birds, 

Known but to them, at least appearing such 
As but to lovers a true sense alfords ; 

Sweet playful phrases, which would seem absurd 

To those wlio have ceased to hear such, or ne'er heard : 



2 See Herodotus. 



33 



514 



DON JUAN 



[Canto IV. 



XV. 



All these were theirs, for they were children still, 
And cliildren still they should have ever beenj 

They were not made in the real world to fill 
A busy character in the dull scene, 

But like two beings born from out a rill, 
A nymph and her beloved, all unseen 

To pass their lives in fountains and on flowers, 

And never know the weight of human hours. 

X\'I. 

Moons changing had roll'd on, and changeless found 
Those their biight rise had lighted to such joys 

As rarely they beheld throughout their round ; 
And these were not of the vain kind which cloys, 

For theirs were buoyant spirits, never bound 
By the mere senses j and that which destroys 

Most love, possession, unto them appeared 

A thing which each endearment more endear'd. 

XVII. 

Oh beautiful ! and rare as beautiful ! 

But theiis was love in which the mind delights 
To lose itself, when the old world grows dull. 

And we are sick of its hack sounds and sights, 
Intrigues, adventures of the common school, 

Its petty passions, marriages, and flights, 
Where Hymen's torch but brands one strumpet more, 
Whose husband only knows her not a wh-re. 

xrv'iii. 

Hard words ; harsh tru'h ; a truth which many know. 

Enough.— The faithful and the fairy pair, 
Who never found a single hour too slow, 

What was it made them thus exempt from care ? 
Young innate feelings all have felt below, 

Which perish in the rest, but in them were 
Inherent; what we mortals call romantic. 
And always envy, though we deem it frantic. 

XIX. 

This is in others a factitious state, 

An opium dream of too much youth and reading. 
But was in them their nature or their fate : 

No novels e'er hsd set their young hearts bleeding. 
For Haidee's knowledge was by no means great. 

And Juan was a boy of saintly breeding; 
So that there was no reason for their loves 
More than for those of nightingales or doves. 

XX. 

They gazed upon the sunset ; 't is an hour 
Dear unto all, but dearest to their eyes, 

For it had made them what they were : the power 
Of love had first o'erwhelm'd them from such skies, 

When happiness had been their only dower, 
And twilight saw them link'd in passion's ties; 

Charm'd with each other, all things charm'd that 
brought 

The past still welcome as the present thought. 

XXI. 

I know not why, but in that hour to-night. 
Even as they gazed, a sudden tremor came, 

And swept, as 't were, across their heart's delight, 
Like the wind o'er a harp-string, or a flame, 

When one is shook in sound, and one in sight: 
And thus some boding: flash'd through either frame, 

And call'd from Juan's breast a faint low sigh, 

While one new tear arose in Haidee's eye. 

XXII. 

That large black prophet eye seem'd to dilate 

And follow far the disappearing sun, 
As if their last day of a happy date 

With his broad, bright, and dropping orb were 
gone; 
Juan gazed on her as to ask his fate — 

He felt a grief, but knowing cause for none. 
His glance enquired of hers for some excuse 
For feelings causeless, or at least abstruse. 



XXIII. 

She turn'd to him, and smiled, but in that sort 
Which makes not others smile ; then turn'd aside : 

Whatever feeling shook her, it seem'd short. 
And mas^er'd by her wisdom or her pride ; 

When Juan spoke, too — it might be in sport — 
Of this their mutual feeling:, she replied — 

" If it should be so,— but — it cannot be — 

Or I at least shall not survive to see." 



XXIV. 

Juan would question further, but she press'd 
His lip to hers, and silenced him with this, 

And then dismiss'd the omen from her breast, 
Defying augury with that fond kiss ; 

And no doubt of all methods 't is the best : 
Some people prefer wine — 't is not amiss ; 

I have tried, both ; so those who would a part take 

May choose between the headache and the heartache. 

XXV. 

One of the two, according to your choice. 
Woman or wine, you '11 have to undergo; 

Both maladies are taxes on our joys : 

But which to choose, I really hardly know; 

And if I had to give a casting voice, 

For both sides I could many reasons show. 

And then decide, without great wrong to either, 

It were much batter to have both than neither. 

XXVI. 
Juan and Haidee gazed upon each other 

With swimming looks of speechless tenderness, 
Which mix'd all feelings, friend, child, lover, brother, 

All that the best can mingle and express 
When two pure hearts are pour'd in one another, 

And love too much, and yet can not love less; 
But almost sanctify the sweet excess 
By the immortal wish and power to bless. 

XXVII. 

Mix'd in each other's arms, and heart in heart, 
Why did they not then die? — they had lived too 
long 

Should an^hour come to bid them breathe apart ; 
Years could but bring them cruel things or wrong; 

The world was not for them, nor the world's art 
For beings passionate as Sappho's song ; 

Love was born with them, in them, so intense, 

It was their very spirit — not a sense. 

XXVIII. 
They should have lived together deep in woods, 

Unseen as sings the nightingale ; they were , 
Unfit to mix in these thick solitudes 

Call'd social, haunts of Hate, and Vice, and Care; 
How lonely every freeborn creature broods ! 

The sweetest song-birds nestle iu a pair; 
The eagle soars alone; the gull and crow 
Flock 6'"er their carrion, just like men below. 

XXIX. 

Now pillow'd cheek to cheek, in loving sleep, 

Haidee and Juan their siesta took, 
A gentle slumber, but it was not deep, 

For ever and anon a something shook 
Juan, and shuddering o'er his frame would creep; 

And Haidee's sweet lips murmur'd like a brook 
A wordless music, and her face so fair 
Stirr'd with her dream, as rose-leaves with the air ; 

XXX. 

Or as the stirring of a deep clear stream 
Within an Alpine hollow, when the wind 

Walks o'er it, was she shaken by the dream, 
The mystical usurper of the mind — 

O'erpowering us to be whate'er may seem 
Good to the soul which we no more can bind; 

Strange state of being ! (for 't is still to be) 

Senseless to feel, and with seal'd eyes to see. 



Canto IV.] 



DON JUAN. 



515 



XXXI. 

She dream'd of being alone on the sea-shore, 
Chain'd to a rock ; she knew not how, but stir' 

She could not from the spot, and the loud roar 
Grew, and each wave rose roughly, threatening her ; 

And o'er her upper lip they seem'd to pour. 
Until she sobb'd for breath, and soon they were 

Foaming o'er her lone head, so fierce and high — 

Each broke to drown her, yet she could not die. 

XXXII. 

Anon — she was released, and then she stray'd 
O'er the sharp shingles with her bleeding feet, 

And stumbled almost every step she made; 
And something roll'd before her in a sheet, 

Which she must still pursue howe'er afraid : 
'T was white and indistinct, nor stopp'd to meet 

Her glance nor grasp, for still she gazed and grasp'd, 

And ran, but it escaped her as she clasp'd. 

XXXIII. 

The dream changed : — in a cave she stood, its walls 
Were hung with marble icicles ; the work 

Of ages on its water-fretted halls. 
Where waves might wash, and seals might breed 
and lurk ; 

Her hair was dripping, and the very balls 
Of her black eyes seem'd turn'd to tears, and mirk 

The sharp rocks look'd below each drop they caught, 

Which froze to marble as they fell, — she thought. 

XXXIV. 
And wet, and cold, and lifeless at her feet, 

Pale as the foam that froth'd on his dead brow, 
Which she essay'd in vain to clear, (how sweet 

Were once her cares, how idle seem'd they now !) 
Lay Juan, nor could aught renew the beat 

Of his quench'd heart ; and the sea dirges low 
Rang in her sad ears like a mermaid's song, 
And that brief dream appear'd a life too long. 

XXXV. 

And gazing on the dead, she thought his face 
Faded, or alter'd into something new — 

Like to her father's features, till each trace 
More like and like to Lambro's aspect grew — 

With all his keen worn look and Grecian grace ; 
And starting, she awoke, and what to view ? 

Oh 1 Powers of Heaven ! what dark eye meets she 
there ? 

'T is — 't is her father's — fix'd upon the pair ! 

XXXVI. 

Then shrieking, she arose, and shrieking fell. 
With joy and sorrow, hope and fear, to see 

Him whom she deem'd a habitant where dwell 
The ocean-buried, risen from death, to be 

Perchance the death of one she loved too well : 
Dear as her father had been to Ha idee. 

It was a moment of that awful kind 

I have seen such— but must not call to mind. 

XXXVII. 

Up Juan sprung to Haidee's bitter shriek. 
And caught her falling, and from oft" the wall 

Snatch'd down his sabre, in hot h iste to wreak 
Vengeance on him who was the cause of all : 

Then Lambro, who fill now forbore to speak. 
Smiled scornfully, and said, " Within my call, 

A thousand scimitars await the word ; 

Put up, young man, put up your silly sword.'' 

XXXVIII. 

And Haidee clung around him ; " Juan, 'f is — 
'T is Lambro — 't is my father ! Kneel with me — 

He will forgive us — yes — it must be — yet. 
Oh ! dearest father, in this agony 

Of pleasure and of pain — even while I kiss 
Thy garment's hem with transport, can it be 

That doubt should mingle with my filial joy ? 

Deal with nje as thou wilt, but spare this boy." 



XXXIX. 

High and inscrutable the old man stood, 
Calm in his voice, and calm within his eye — 

Net always signs with him of calmest mood; 
He look'd upon her, but gave no reply ; 

Then turn'd to Juan, in whose cheek the blood 
Oft came and went, as there resolved to diej 

In arms, at least, he stood, in act to spring 

On the first foe whom Lambro's call might bring 



XL. 

" Young man, your sword ; " 



Lambro once more 



said ; 



Juan replied, " Not while this arm is free." 
The old man's cheek grew pale, but not with dread, 

And drawing from his belt a pistol, he 
Replied, " Your blood be then on your own head." 

Then look'd close at the tiint, as" if to see 
'T was fresh — for he had lately used the lock — 
And next proceeded quietly to cock. 

XLI. 

It has a strange quick jar upon the ear. 
That cocking of a pistol, when you know 

A moment more will bring the sight to bear 
Upon your person, twelve yards off, or so j 

A gentlemanly distance, not too near, 
If you have got a former friend for foe ; 

But after being fired at once or twice, 

The ear becomes more Irish, and less nice. 

XLII. 

Lambro presented, and one inst-^nt more 

Had stopp'd this Canto, and Don Juan's breath, 

When Haidee threw herself her boy before ; 
Stern as her sire : " On me," she cried, " let death 

Descend — the fault is mine; this fatal shore 
He found — but sought not, I have pledged my 
faith; 

I love him — I will die with him : I knew 

Your nature's firmness — know your daughter's too." 

XLin. 

A minute past, and she had been all tears, 
And tenderness, and infancy ; but now 

She stood as one who champion'd human fears — 
Pale, statue-like, and stern, she woo'd the blow; 

And tall beyond her sex, and their compeers. 
She drew up to her height, as if to show 

A fairer mark ; and with a fix'd eye scann'd 

Her father's face — but never stopp'd his hand. 

XLIV. 
He gazed on her, and she on him ; 't was strange 

How like they look'd ! the expression was the same; 
Serenely savage, with a little change 

In the large dark eye's mutual-darted flame ; 
For she, too, was as one who could avenge. 

If cause should be — a lioness, though tame. 
Her father's blood before her fither's face 
Boil'd up, and proved her truly of his race. 

XLV. 
I said they were alike, their features and 

Their stature, differing but in sex and years: 
Even to the delicacy of their hand 

There was resemblance, such as true blood wears ; 
And now to see them, thus divided, stand 

In fix'd ferocity, when joyous tears. 
And sweet sensations, should have welcomed both, 
Show what the passions are in their full growth. 

XLVI. 

The father paused a moment, then wilhdrevy 
His weapon, and replaced it ; but stood still. 

And looking on her, as to look her through, 

" Not /," he said, " have sought this stranger's ill ; 

Not / have made 'his desolation : few 

Would bear such outrage, and forbear to kill j 

But I must do my duty — how thou hast 

Done thine, the presbut vouches for the past. 



516 



DON JUAJN 



[Canto IV. 



XLVII. 
" Let him disarm ; or, by my father's head, 

His own shall roll before you like a ball ! " 
He raised his whistle, as the word he said, 

And blew, another answer'd to the call, 
And rushing in disorderly, though led. 

And arm'd from boot to turban, one and all, 
Some twenty of his train came, rank on rank ; 
He gave the word, " Arrest or slay the Frank." 

XLvnr. 

Then, with a sudden movement, he withdrew 
His daughter ; while compress'd within his clasp, 

'Twixt her and Juan interposed the crew; 
In vain she struggled in her father's grasp — 

His arms were like a serpent's coil : then flew 
Upon their prey, as darts an angry asp, 

The file of pirates ; save the foremost, who 

Had fallen, with his right shoulder half cut through. 

XLIX. 

The second had his cheek laid open ; but 
The third, a wary, cool old sworder, took 

The blows upon his cutlass, and then put 
His own well in : so well, ere you could look, 

His man was fioor'd, and helpless at his foot, 
With the blood running like a little brook 

From two smart sabre gashes, deep and red — 

One on the arm, the other on the head. 



And then they bound him where he fell, and bore 
Juan from the apartment : with a sign 

Old Lambro bade them take him to the shore, 
Where lay some ships which were to sail at nine. 

They laid him in a boat, and plied the oar 
Until they reach'd some galliots, placed in line ; 

On board of one of these, and under hatches. 

They stow'd him, with strict orders to the watches. 

LI. 

The world is full of strange vicissitudes, 
And here was one exceedingly unpleasant : 

A gentleman so rich in the world's goods, 
Handsome and young, enjoying all the present. 

Just at the very time when he least broods 
On such a thing is suddenly to sea sent. 

Wounded and chain'd, so that he cannot move, 

And all because a lady fell in love. 

LII. 
Here I must leave him, for I grow pathetic. 

Moved by the Chinese nymph of tears, green tea ! 
Than whom Cassandra was not more prophetic j 

For if my pure libations exceed three, 
I feel my heart become so sympathetic. 

That I must have recourse to black Bohea : 
'T is pity wine should be so deleterious. 
For tea and coffee leave us much more serious, 

LIIL 

Unless when qualified with thee, Cogniac ! 

Sweet Naiad of the Phlegethontic rill ! 
Ah ! why the liver will thou thus attack. 

And make, like other nymphs, thy lovers ill ? 
I would take refuge in weak punch, but rack 

(In each sense of the word), whene'er I fill 
My mild and midnight beakers to the brim. 
Wakes me next morning with its synonym. 

LIV. 
I leave Don Juan for the present, safe — 

Not sound, poor fellow, but severely wounded ; 
Yet could his corporal pangs amount to half 

Of those with which his Haidee's bosom bounded I 
She was not one to weep, and rave, and chafe. 

And then give way, subdued because surrounded ; 
Her mother was a Moorish maid, from Fez, 
Where all is Eden, or a wilderness. 



LV. 

There the large olive rains its amber store 

In marble fonts ; there grain, and flower, and fruit. 

Gush from the earth until the land runs o'er; 
But there, too, many a poison-tree has root. 

And midnight listens to the lion's roar. 
And long, long deserts scorch the camel's foot. 

Or heaving whelm the helpless caravan; 

And as the soil is, so the heart of man. 

LVI. 

Afric is all the sun's, and as her earth 

Her human clay is kindled ; full of power 

For good or evil, "burning from its birth, 
I The Moorish blood partakes the planet's hour, 
' And like the soil beneath it will bring forth : 
I Beauty and love were Haidee's mother's dower ; 
'■ But her large dark eye shovv'd deep Passion's force, 
, Though sleeping like a lion near a source. 



I LVII. 

I Her daughter, temper'd with a milder ray, 
I Like summer clouds all silvery, smooth, and fair, 
Till slowly charged with thunder they display 

Terror to earth, and tempest to the air. 
Had held till now her soft and milky way; 

But overwrought with passion and despair. 
The fire burst forth from her Numidian veins. 
Even as the Simoom sweeps the blasted plains. 

LVIIL 

The last sight which she saw was Juan's gore. 
And he himself o'ermaster'd and cut down; 
His blood was running on the very floor 

Where late he trod, her beautiful, her own ; 
Thus much she view'd an instant and no more, — 

Her struggles ceased with one convulsive groan; 
On her sire's arm, which until now scarce held 
Her writhing, fell she like a cedar fell'd. 
I 

I LIX. 

j A vein had burst, and her sweet lips' pure dyes 
I Were dabbled with the deep blood which ran o'er ; i 
I And her head droop'd as when the lily lies 
I O'ercharged with rain: her summon'd handmaids 

bore 
Their lady to her couch with gushing ej'es ; 

Of herljsand cordials they produced their store, 
But she defied all means they could employ, 
Like one life could not hold, nor death destroy. 

LX. 

Days lay she in that state unchanged, though chill — 
With nothing livid, still her lips were red ; 

She had no pulse, but death seem'd absent still ; 
No hideous sign proclaimed her surely dead ; 

Corruption came not in each mind to kill 
All hope ; to look upon her sweet face bred 

New thoughts of life, for it seem'd full of soul — 

She had so much, earth could not claim the whole. 

LXI. 

The ruling passion, such as marble shows 
When exquisitely chisell'd, still lay there. 

But fix'd as marble's unchanged aspect throws 
O'er the fair Venus, but for ever fair ; 



1 This is no very uncommon eifect of the violence of 
conflicting and different passions. The Doge Francis 
Foscari, on his deposition in 1457, hearing the bells of St. 
Mark announce the election of his successor, " mourut 
Bubitement d'une hemorragie causee par une veine qui 
s'eclata dans sa poitrine," (see Sismondi and Daru, vols, 
i. and ii.) at the age of eighty years, when " Who would 
have thought the old man had so much blood in him?" 
Before I was sixteen years of age, I was witness to a 
melancholy instance of the same effect of mixed passions 
upon a young person, who, however, did not die in con- 
sequence, at that time, but fell a victim some years after- 
wards to a seizure of the same kind, arising from causes 
intimately connected with agitation of mind. 



Canto IV.] 



DON JUAN. 



517 



O'er the Laocoon's all eternal throes, 

And ever-dying Gladiator's air, 
Their energy like life forms all their fame, 
Yet looks not life, for they are still the same. 

LXII. 

She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake. 
Rather the dead, for life seem'd something new, 

A strange sensation which she must partake 
Perforce, since whatsoever met her view 

Struck not on memory, though a heavy ache 
Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat still true 

Brought back the sense of pain without the cause, 

For, for a while, the furies made a pause. 

LXIII. 

She look'd on many a face with vacant eye. 
On many a token without knowing what ; 

She saw them watch her without asking why, 
And reck'd not who around her pillow sat ; 

Not speechless, though she spoke not ; not a sigh 
Relieved her thoughts ; dull silence and quick chat 

Were tried in vain by those who served ; she gave 

No sign, save breath, of having left the grave. 

LXIV. 

Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not; 

Her father watch'd, she turn'd her eyes away ; 
She recognised no being, and no spot. 

However dear or cherish'd in their day ; 
They changed from room to room, but all forgot, 

Gentle, but without memory, she lay ; 
At length those eyes, which they would fain be wean- 
ing 
Back to old thoughts, wax'd full of fearful meaning. 

LXV. 

And then a slave bethought her of a harp ; 

The harper came, and tuned his instrument ; 
At the first notes, irregular and sharp, 

On him her flashing eyes a moment bent. 
Then to the wall she turn'd as if to warp 

Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart re- 
sent ; 
And he began a long low island song 
Of ancient days, ere tyranny grew strong. 

LXVI. 

Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall 

In time to his old tune; he changed the theme, 

And sung of love ; the fierce name struck through all 
Her recollection ; on her flash'd the dream 

Of what she was, and is, if ye could call 
To be so being ; in a gushing stream 

The tears rush'd forth from her o'erclouded brain, 

Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain. 

LXVIL 

Short solace, vain relief! — thought came too quick, 
And whirl'd her brain to madness ; she arose 

As one who ne'er had dwelt among the sick. 
And flew at all she met, as on her foes; 

But no one ever heard her speak or shriek, 

Although her paroxysm drew towards its close; — 

Hers was a phrensy which disdain'd to rave. 

Even when they smote her, in the hope to save. 

LXVIIL 

Yet she betray'd at times a gleam of sense ; 

Nothing could make her meet her father's face. 
Though on all other things with looks intense 

She gazed, but none she ever could retrace ; 
Food she refused, and rai/nent ; no pretence 

Avail'd for eiiher ; neither change of place. 
Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give her 
Senses to sleep — the power seem'd gone for ever. 

44 



LXIX. 

Twelve days and nights she withered thus ; at last. 
Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to show 

A parting pang, the spirit from her past : 
And they who watch'd her nearest could not know 

The very instant, till the change that cast 
Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow, 

Glazed o'er her eyes — the beautiful, the black — 

Oh ! to possess such lustre — and then lack ! 

LXX. 

She died, but not alone ; she held within 
A second principle of life, which might 

Have dawn'd a fair and sinless child of sin ; 
But closed its little being without light, 

And went down to the grave unborn, wherein 
Blossom and bough lie wither'd with one blight ; 

In vain the dews of Heaven descend above 

The bleeding flower and blasted fruit of love. 

Lxxr. 

Thus lived — thus died she ; never more on her 
Shall sorrow light, or shame. She was not made 

Through years or moons the inner weight to bear. 
Which colder hearts endure till they are laid 

By age in earth : her days and pleasures were 
Brief, but delightful — such as had not staid 

Long with her destiny ; but she sleeps well 

By the sea-shore, whereon she loved to dwell, 

LXIL 

That isle is now all desolate and bare. 
Its dwellings down, its tenants pass'd away ; 

None but her own and father's grave is there, 
I And nothing outward tells of human clay ; 

Ye could not know where lies a thing so fair. 
No stone is there to show, no tongue to say. 

What was ; no dirge, except the hollow sea's. 

Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades. 

LXXIII. 

But many a Greek maid in a loving song 
Sighs o'er her name ; and many an islander 

With her sire's story makes the night less long; 
Valour was his, and beauty dwelt wi'.h her ; 

If she loved rashly, her life paid for wrong — 
A heavy price must all pay, who thus err. 

In some shape ; let none think to fly the danger. 

For soon or late Love is his own avenger. 

LXXIV. 

But let me change this theme, which grows too sad, 
And lay this sheet of sorrows on the shelf; 

I don't much like describing people mad, 
For fear of seeming rather touch'd myself— 

Besides, I 've no more on this head to add ; 
And as my Muse is a capricious elf, 

We '11 put about, and try another tack 

With Juan, left half-kill'd some stanzas back. 

LXXV. 

Wounded and fetter'd, " cabin'd, cribb'd, confined," 
Some days and nights elapsed before that he 

Could altogether call the past to mind ; 

And when he did, he found himself at sea. 

Sailing six knots an hour before the wind ; 
'^'he shores of Ilion lay beneath their lee — 

Another time he might have liked to see 'em, 

But now was not much pleased with Cape Sigaeum. 

LXXVI. 

There, on the green and village-cotted hill, is 
(Flank'd by ihe Heilesi)oiit, and b\ the sea) 

Entonib'd the brave>t of the brave, Achilles; 
They say so — (Bryant says the contrary) : 

And further downward, tall' and lowering still, is 
The tumulus— of whom ? Heaven knows; 't maybe 

Falroclus, Ajax, or Frolesilaus ; 

All heroes, who if living still would slay us. 



518 



DON JUAN 



[Canto IV. 



LXXVII. 

High barrows, without marble, or a name, 
A vast, untill'd, and mountain-skirted plain, 

And Ida in the distance, still the same, 
And old Scaniander, (if 't is he) remain ; 

The situation seems still form'd for fame — 
A hundred thousand men might fight again, 

With ease; bu; where I sought for llion's walls, 

The quiet sheep feeds, and the tortoise crawls ; 

LXXVIII. 

Troops of untended horses ; here and there. 
Some little hamlets, with new names uncouth j 

Some shepherds, (unlike Paris) led to stare 
A moment at the European youth 

Whom to the spot their school-boy feelings bear ; 
A Turk, wi'h beads in hand, and pipe in mouth, 

Extremely taken with his own religion. 

Are what I found there— but the devil a Phrygian. 

LXXIX. 

Don Juan, here permitted to emerge 
From his dull cabin, found him>elf a slave; 

Forlorn, and gazing on the deep blue surge, 
O'er^hadow'd there by many a hero's grave ; 

Weak still with loss of blood, he scarce could urge 
A few brief questions ; and the answers gave 

No very satisfactory information 

About his past or present situation. 

LXXX. 

He saw some fellow-captives, who appear'd 
To be Italians, as they were in fact ; 

From them, at least, their destiny he heard, 
Which was an odd one ; a troop going to act 

In Sicily — all singers, duly rear'd 
In their vocation ; had not been attack'd 

In sailing from Livorno by the pirate. 

But sold by the impresario at no high rate.i 

LXXXI. 

By one of these, the buffo 2 of the party, 
Juan was told about their curious case ; 

For although destined to the Turkish mart, he 
Still kept his spirits up — at least his face j 

The little fellow really look'd quite hearty, 
And bore him with some gaiety and grace, 

Showing a much more reconciled demeanour, 

Than did the prima donna and the tenor. 

LXXXII. 

In a few words he told their hapless story, 
Saying, "Our Machiavelian impresario. 

Making a signal off some promontory, 
Hail'd a strange brig ; Corpo di Caio Mario ! 



1 This is a fact. A few years ago a man engaged a com- 
pany for some foreign theatre, embarked them at an Ita- 
lian port, and, carrying them to Algiers, sold them all. 
One of the women, returned from her captivity, I heard 
sing, by a strange coincidence, in Rossini's opera of " L' 
Italiana in Algieri," at Venice, in the beginning of 1817. 
—[We have reason to believe that the following, which 
we take from the MS. journal of a highly respectable tra- 
veller, is a more correct account: — " In 1812, a Signor 
Guariglia induced several young persons of both sexes — 
none of them exceeding fifteen years of age — to accom- 
pany him on an operatic excursion ; part to form the 
opera, and part the ballet. He contrived to get them on 
board a vessel, which took them to Janina, where he sold 
them for the basest purposes. Some died from the effect 
of the climate, and some from suffering. Among the few 
who returned were a Sip.nor Molinari, and a female 
dancer, named Borafiglia, who afterwards became the wife 
of Crespi, the tenor singer. The wretch who so basely 
sold them was, when Lord Byron resided at Venice, em- 
ployed as capo de' vestarj, or head tailor, at the Fenice." 
— Graham.]~E. 

2A comic singer in the opera buffa. The Italians, 
however, distinguish the buffo cantante, which requires 
good singing, from the buffo comieo, iu which there is 
more acting.] — K. 



We were transferr'd on board her in a hurry. 

Without a single scudo of salario ; 
But if the Sultan has a taste for song. 
We will revive our fortunes before long. 

LXXXIIL 

" The prima donna, though a little old. 

And haggard with a dissipated life, 
And subject, when the house is thin, to cold, 

Has some good notes ; and then the tenor's wife, 
With no great voice, is pleasing to behold j 

Last carnival she made a deal of strife, 
By carrying off Count Cesare Cicogna 
From an old Roman princess at Bologna. 

LXXXIV. 

"And then there are the dancers ; there's the Nini, 
With more than one profession gains by all ; 

Then there's that laughing slut the Pelegrini, 
She, too, was fortunate last carnival, 

And made at least five hundred good zecchini, 
But spends so fast, she has not now a paul ; 

And then there 's the Grotesca — such a dancer ! 

Where men have souls or bodies, she must answer. 



LXXXV. 

" As for the figuranti,^ they are like 
The rest of all that tribe; with here and there 

A pretty person, which perhaps may strike, 
The rest are hardly fitted for a fair ; 

There 's one, though tall and stiffer than a pike, 
Yet has a sentimental kind of air, 

Which might go far, but she don't dance with vigour; 

The more 's the pity, with her face and figure. 

LXXXVI. 

" As for the men, they are a middling set : 
The musico is but a crack'd old basin. 

But being qualified in one way yet. 
May the seraglio do to set his face in, 

And as a servant some preferment get ; 
His singing I no further trust can place in : 

From all "the" Pope 4 makes yearly 't would perplex 

To fijid three perfect pipes of the third sex. 

LXXXVII. 

** The tenor's voice is spoilt by affectation. 
And for the bass, the beast can only bellow ; 

In fact, he had no singing education. 
An ignorant, noteless, timeless, tuneless fellow. 

But being the prima donna's near relation, 

Who swore his voice was very rich and mellow, 

They hired him, though to hear him you'd believe 

An ass was pracUjing recitative. 

LXXXVIII. 

" 'T would not become myself to dwell upon 
My own merits, and though young — I see, sir — you 

Have got a travell'd air, which speaks ynu one 
To whom the opera is by no means new : 

You 've heard of Raucocaiiti ? 5_ I 'm the man : 
The tinie may come when you may hear me too ; 

You was not last year at the t'air of Lugo, 

But next, when I'm engaged to sing there — do go. 



3 The figuranti are those dancers of a ballet who do not 
dance singly, but many together, and serve to fill up the 
background during the exhibition nf individual perform- 
ers. They correspond to the chorus in the opera. — Gra- 
ham.— E. 

4 It is strange that it should be the Pope and the Sul- 
tan, who are the chief encouragers of this branch of trade 
— women being pmhibited as singers at St. Peter's, and 
not deemed trust-worthy as guardians of the harem. 

5 Rauco-canti— may be rendered by Hoarse-song. — E. 



Canto IV.] 



DON JUAN. 



519 



LXXXIX. 

" Our baritone i I almost had forgot, 
A pretty lad, but bursting; with conceit ; 

With graceful action, science not a jot, 
A voice of no great comp iss, and not sweet, 

He always is complaining of his lot, 
Forsooth, scarce fit for ballads in the street; 

In lovers' parts his passion more to breathe, 

Having no heart to show, he shows his teeth." 

XC. 

Here Raucocanti's eloquent recital 

Was interrupted by the pirate crew, 
Who came at stated moments to invite all 

The captives back to iheir sad berths ; each threw 
A rueful glance upon the waves, (which bright all 

From the blue skies derived a double blue, 
Dancing all free and happy in the sun,) 
And then went down the hatchway one by one. 

XCI. 

They heard next day— that in the Dardanelles, 

Waiting for his Sublimity's firman. 
The most imperative of sovereign spells, 

Which every body does without who can, 
More to secure them in their naval cells. 

Lady to lady, well as man to man, 
Were to be chain'd and lotted out per couple, 
for the slave market of Constantinople. 

XCH. 

It seems when this allotment was made out, 
There chanced to be an odd male, and odd female. 

Who (after some discussion and some doubt, 
If the soprano might be deem'd to be male, 

They placed him o'er the woman as a scout) 
Were link"d together, and it happen'd the male 

Was Juan, who, — an awkward thing at his age, 

Pair'd otf with a Bacchante blooming visage. 

XCIII. 

With Raucocanfi lucklessly was chain'd 
The tenor; these two hated with a hate 

Found only on the sta^e, and each more pain'd 
With this his tuneful neighbour than his fate ; 

Sad strife arose, for they were so crossgrain'd. 
Instead of beirins: up without debate, 

That each pull'd different ways wiih many an oath, 

"Arcades ambo," id eat — blackguards both. 

XCIV. 
Juan's companion was a Romagnole, 

But bred within the march of old Ancona, 
With eyes that look'd into the very soul 

(And other chief points of a " beila donna "), 
Bright — and as black and burning as a coal ; 

And through her clear brunette complexion shone a 
Great wish to please — a most attractive dower. 
Especially when added to the power, 

XCV. 
But all that power was wasted upon him, 

For sorrow o'er each sense held stern command ; 
Her eye might flash on his, but found it dim : 

And though thus chain'd, as natural her hand 
Touch'd his, nor that — nor any handsome limb 

(And she had some not easy to withstand) 
Could stir his pulse, or make his fiith feel brittle; 
Perhaps his recent wounds might help a little. 

XCVI. 

No matter ; we should ne'er too much enquire, 
But facts are facts : no knisfht could be more true, 

And firmer faith no ladye-love desire; 
We will omit the proofs, save one or two : 

1 A male voice, the compass of which partakes of those 
of the common bass and ttie tenor, but does not extend 
80 far downwards an the one, nor to an equal height with 
the other.— GRAHAM.— E. 



'T is said no one in hand " can hold a fire 

By thought of frosty Caucasus ; " but few, 
I really think ; yet Juan's then ordeal 
Was more triumphant, and not much less real. 

XCVII. 

Here I might enter on a chaste description, 
Having withstood temptation in my youth. 

But hear that several people take exception 
At the first two books having too much truth ; 

Therefore I '11 make Don Juan leave the ship soon, 
Because the publisher declares, in sooth. 

Through needles' eyes it easier for the camel is 

To pass, than those two cantos into families. 

XCVIII. 
'T is all the same to me ; 1 'm fond of yielding, 

And therefore leave them to the purer page 
Of Smollett, Prior, Ariosto, Fielding, 

Who say strange things for so correct an age; 
I once had great alacrity in wielding 

My pen, and liked poetic war to wage, 
And recollect the time when all this cant 
Would have provoked remarks which now it shan't. 

XCIX. 
As boys love rows, my boyhood liked a squabble ; 

But at this hour I wish to part in peace. 
Leaving such to the literary rabble, 

Whether my verse's fame be doom'd to cease, 
While the right hand which wrote it still is able, 

Or of some centuries to take a lease ; 
The grass upon my grave will grow as long. 
And sigh to midnight winds, but not to song. 

C. 

Of poets who come down to us through distance 
Of time and tongues, the foster-babes of Fame, 

Life seems the smallest portion of existence; 
Where twenty ages gather o'er a name, 

'T is as a snowball which derives assistance 
From every flake, and yet rolls on the same, 

Even till an iceberg it may chance to grow; 

But, after all, 't is nothing but cold snow. 

CL 

And so great names are nothing more than nominal, 

And love of glory 's but an rJry lust, 
Too often in its fury overcomi ng all 

Who would as 't were identify their dust 
From out the wide destruction, which, entombing all. 

Leaves nothing till " the coming of the just " — 
Save change ; I 've stood upon Achilles' tomb. 
And heard Troy doubted ; lime will doubt of Rome, 

cn. 

The very generations of the dead 
Are swept away, and tomb inherits tomb, 

Until the memory of an age is fled, 
And, buried, sinks beneath its ofispring's doom: 

Where are the epitaphs our fathers read ? 
Save a few glean'd from the sepulchral gloom 

Which once-named myriads nameless lie beneath. 

And lose their own in universal death. 

CHL 

I canter by the spot each afternoon 
Where perish'd in his fame the hero-boy, 

Who lived too long for men, but died too soon 
For human vanity, the young De Foix ! 

A broken pillar, not uncouthly hewn, 
But which neglect is hastening to destroy. 

Records Ravenna's carnage on iis face, 

While weeds and ordure rankle round the base.a 



2 The pillar which records the battle of Ravenna, ia 
about two miles from the city, on the opposite side of the 
river to the road towards Forli. Gaston de Foix, who 
gained the battle, was killed in it : there fell on both sides 
twenty thousand men. The present state of the pillar 
and its site is described in the text. — "De Foix was 



520 



DON JUAN. 



[Canto IV. 



CIV. 
I pass each day where Dante's bones are laid : 

A little cupola, more neat than solemn, 
rrotects his dust, but reverence here is paid 

To the bard's tomb,i and not the warrior's column : 
The time must come, when both alike decay'd, 

The chieftain's trophy, and the poet's volume, 
Will sink where lie the songs and wars of earth, 
Before Pelides' death, or Homer's birth. 

CV. 

With human blood that column was cemented, 
With human filth that column is defiled, 

As if the peasant's coarse contempt were vented 
To show his loathing of the spot he soil'd: 

Thus is the trophy used, and thus lamented 
Should ever be those blood-hounds, from whose wild 

Instinct of gore and glory earth has known 

Those sufferings Dante saw in hell alone. 

CVI. 

Yet there will still be bards : though fame is smoke. 
Its fumes are frankincense to human thought j 

And the unquiet feelings, which first woke 
Song in the world, wmII seek what then they sought : 

As on the beach the waves at last are broke, 

Thus to their extreme verge the passions brought 

Dash into poetry, which is but passion, 

Or at least was so ere it grew a fashion. 

CVII. 
If in the course of such a life as was 

At once adventurous and contemplative, 
Men who partake all passions as they pass, 

Acquire the deep and bitter power to give 
Their images again as in a glass. 

And in such colours that they seem to live ; 
You may do right forbidding them to show 'em, 
But spoil (I thfnk) a very pretty poem. 

CVIII. 

Oh ! ye, who make the fortunes of all books ! 

Benign Ceruleans of the second sex 1 
Who advertise new poems by your looks. 

Your " imprimatur " will ye not annex ? 
What ! must I go to the oblivious cooks? 

Those Cornish plunderers of Parnassian wrecks 
Ah ! must I then the only minstrel be. 
Proscribed from tasting your Castalian tea ! 

CIX. 

What ! can I prove " a lion " then no more ? 

A ball-room bard, a foolscap, hot-press darling I 
To bear the compliments of many a bore, 

And sigh, " I can't get out," like Yorick's starling; 
Why then I '11 swear, as poet Wordy swore, 

(Because the world won't read him always snarling) 
That taste is gone, that fame is but a lottery. 
Drawn bv the blue-coat misses of a coterie. 



Duke of Nemours, and nephew to Louis XII., -who gave 
him the government of Milan, and made him general of 
his army in Italy. The young hero signalised his valour 
and abilities in various actions, which terminated in the 
battle of Ravenna, fought on Easter-day, 1512. After he 
had obtained the victory, he could not be dissuaded from 
pursuing a body of Spanish infantry, which retreated in 
goodprder. Making a furious charge on this brave troop, 
he was thrown from his horse, and despatched by a thrust 
of a pike. He perished in his twenty-fourth year, and 
the king's affliction for his death embittered all the joy 
arising from his success." — MORERL— E. 

1 Dante was buried ("in sacra minorura aede") at Ra- 
venna, in a handsome tomb, which was erected by his 
protector, Guido da Polenta, restored by Bernardo Bembo, 
in 1483, again restored by Cardinal Corsi, in 1692. and re- 
placed by a more magnificent sepulchre, in 1760, at the 
expense of the Cardinal Luigi Valeut Gonzaga. The Flo- 
rentines having in vain and frequently attempted to re- 
cover his body, crowned his imbge in a church, and his 
picture is still one of the idols of their cathedral.— HOB- 
HOUSE.— E. 



ex. 

Oh ! " darkly, deeply, beautifully blue," 
As some one somewhere sings about the sky, 

And I, ye learned ladies, say of you ; 
They say your stockings are so — (Heaven knows 
why, 

I have examined few pair of that hue) ; 
Blue as the garters which serenely lie 

Round the Patrician left-legs, which adorn 

The festal midnight, and the levee morn. 

CXI. 

Yet some of you are most seraphic creatures — 
But times are alter'd since, a rhyming lover, 

You read my stanzas, and I read your features: 
And — but no matter, all those things are over; 

Still I have no dislike to learned natures. 
For sometimes such a world of virtues cover ; 

I knew one woman of that purple school, 

The loveliest, chastest, best, but — quite a fool. 

CXII. 

Humboldt, « the first of travellers," but not 

The last, if late accounts be accurate, 
Invented, by some name I have forgot, 

As well as the sublime discovery's date, 
An airy instrument, with which besought 

To ascertain the atmospheric state. 
By measuring " the intensity of blue : " 2 
Oh, Lady Daphne ! let me measure you ! 

cxni. 

But to the narrative. — The vessel bound 

With slaves to sell off in the capital, 
After the usual process, might be found 

At anchor under the seraglio wall ; 
Her cargo, from the plague being safe and sound. 

Were landed in the market, one and all, 
And there with Georgians, Russians, and Circassians, 
Bought up for different purposes and passions. 

CXIV. 
Some went off dearly ; fifteen hundred dollars 

For one Circassian, a sweet girl, were given. 
Warranted virgin ; beauty's brightest colours 

Had deck'd her out in all the hues of heaven : 
Her sale sent home some disappointed bawlers. 

Who bade on till the hundreds reach'd eleven ; 
But when the offer went beyond, they knew 
'T was for the Sultan, and at once withdrew. 

CXV. 
Twelve negresses from Nubia brought a price 

Which the West Indian market scarce would bring; 
Though Wilberforce, at last, has made it twice 

WHat 't was ere Abolition ; and the thing 
Need not seem very wonderful, for vice 

Is always much more splendid than a king : 
The virtues, even the most exalted. Charity, 
Are saving — vice spares nothing for a rarity. 

CXVI. 

But for the destiny of this young troop, 
How some were bought by pichas, some by Jews, 

How some to burdens were obliged to stoop, 
And others rose to the command of crews 

As renegadoes ; while in hapless group. 
Hoping no very old vizier might choose. 

The females stood, as one by one they pick'd 'em, 

To make a mistress, or fourth wife, or victim : 

CXVII. 

All this must be reserved for further song ; 

Abo our hero's lot, howe'er unpleasant 
(Because this Canto has become too long), 

Must be postponed discreetly for the present; 
I 'm sensible redundancy is wrong. 

But could not for the muse of me put less in 't : 
And now delay the progress of Don Juan, 
Till what is call'd in Ossian the fifth Duan. 

1 The cyanometer — an instrument invented for ascer- 
taining the intensity of the blue colour of the sky.— E. 



mm 



Canto V.] 



DON JUAN 



521 



CANTO THE FIFTH.i 
I. 

When amatory poets sing their loves 

In liquid lines niellirtuou>Iy Dland, 
And pair their rhymes as Venus yokes her doves, 

They lidle think what mischief is in handj 
The greater their success the worse it proves, 

As Ovid's ver^e may give to understand ; 
Even Petrarch's self, if judged with due severity, 
Is the Platonic pimp of all posterity. 

II. 

I (hersfore do denounce all amorous writing. 
Except in such a way as not to attract ; 

Plain —simple— short, and by no means inviting, 
But with a moral to each error tack'd, 

Form'd rather for instructing than delighting, 
And with all |)assions in their turn attack'd; 

Now, if my Pegasus should not be shod ill, 

This poem will become a moral model. 

III. 

The European with the Asian shore 
Sprinkled with palaces ; the ocean stream 2 

Here and there studded with a seventy-four: 
Sophia's cupola with golden gleam ; 

The cypress groves ; Olympus high and hoar ; 
The twelve isles, and the more than I could dream. 

Far less describe, present the very view 

Which charm'd the charming Mary Montagu. 

IV. 

I have a passion for the name of " Mary," 

For once it was a magic sound to me ; 
And still it half calls up the realms of fairy, 

Where I beheld what never was to be ; 
All feelings changed, but this was last to vary, 

A spell from which even yet I am not quite free: 
But I grow sad — and let a tale grow cold, 
Which must not be pathetically told. 

V. 

The wind swept down the Euxine, and the wave 
Broke foaming o'er the blue Symplegades ; 

'T is a grand sight from off " the Giant's Grave" 3 
To watch the progress of those rolling seas 

Between the Bosphorus, as they lash and lave 
Europe and Asia, you being quite at ease ; 

There's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in, 

Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine. 

VI. 

'T was a raw day of Autumn's bleak beginning, 

When nights are equal, but not so the days ; 
The Parcas then cut short the further spinning 

Of seamen's fates, and the loud tempests raise 
The waters, and repentance for past sinning 

In all, who o'er the great deep take their ways : 
They vow to amend their lives, and yet they don't ; 
Because if drown'd, they can't— if spared, they won't. 

VII. 
A crowd of shivering slaves of every nation, 

And age, and sex, were in the market ranged ; 
Each bevy with the mei chant in his station : 

Poor creatures ! their good looks were sadly changed. 
All save the blacks seen»'d jaded with vexation, 

From friends, and home, and freedom far estranged ; 
The negroes more philosophy display'd, — 
Used to it, no doubt, as eels are to be flay'd. 



1 Canto V. was begun at Ravenna, October the 16th, 
Eiid finished Ndvember the 20th, 1S20. It was published 
late ill lfc'21, along with Cantos III. and IV. ~E. 

2 'i2/C£afOto (noLO. This expression of Homer has 
been much criticised. It hardly answers to our Atlantic 
ideas of the ocean, but is sufficiently applicable to the 
Hellespont, and the Bosphorus, with the Egean intersect- 
ed with islands. 

3 The •' Giant's Grave " is a height on the Asiatic shore 
of the Bosphorus, much frequented by holiday parties; 
like Harrow and Highgate. 



44* 



VIII. 
Juan was juvenile, and thus was full. 

As most at his age are, of hope, and health; 
Yet I must own, he look'd a little dull. 

And now and then a tear stole down by stealth j 
Perhaps his recent loss of blood might pull 

His spirit down ; and then the loss of wealth," 
A mistress, and such comfortable quarters. 
To be put up for auction amongst Tartars, 

IX. 

Were things to shake a stoic ; ne'ertheless. 
Upon the whole his carriage was serene : 

His figure, and the splendour of his dress, 
Of which some gilded remnants still were seen, 

Drew all eyes on him, giving them to guess 
He was above the vulgar by his mien ; 

And then, though pale, he was so very handsome ; 

And then— they calculated on his ransom. 

X. 

Like a backgammon board the place was dotted 
With whites and blacks, in grouf/s on show for sale, 

Though rather more irregularly spotted : 
Some bought the jet, while others chose the pale. 

It chanced amongst the other people lotted, 
A man of thirty, rather stout and hale. 

With resolution in his dark grey eye, 

Next Juan stood, till some might choose to buy. 

XI. 

He had an English look ; that is, was square 
In make, of a complexion white and ruddy. 

Good teeth, with curling rather dark brown hair. 
And, it might be from thought, or toil, or study. 

An open brow a little mark'd with care : 
One arm had on a bandage rather bloody ; 

And there he stood with such sang-froid, that greater 

Could scarce be shown even by a mere spectator. 

XII. 

But seeing at his elbow a mere lad, 

Of a high spirit evidently, though 
At present weigh'd down by a doom which had 

O'erthrown even men, he soon began to show 
A ku:d of blunt compassion for the sad 

Lot of so young a partner in the woe. 
Which for himself he seem'd to deem no worse 
Than any other scrape, a thing of course. 

XIII. 

" My boy ! " — said he, " amidst this motley crew 
Of Georgians, Russians, Nubians, and what not, 

All ragamuffins ditfering but in hue. 

With whom it is our luck to cast our lot, 

The only gentlemen seem I and you ; 
So let us be acquainted, as we ought : 

If I could yield you any consolation, [nation ? " 

'T would give me pleasure.— Pray, what is your 

XIV. 
When Juan answer'd — '* Spanish ! " he replied, 

" I thought, in fact, you could not be a Greek ; 
Those servile dogs are not so proudly eyed : 

Fortune has play'd you here a pretty freak. 
But that 's her way w ith all men, till they 're tried ; 

But never mind,— she'll turn, perhaps, next week J 
She has served me also much the same as you, 
Except that I have found it nothing new." 

XV. 
" Pray, sir," said Jufin, " if I may presume, [rare — 

What brought you here?"— "Oh! nothing very 
Six Tartars and a drag-chain " — " To this doom 

But what conducted, if the question 's fair. 
Is that which I would le;irn."— " I served for some 

Months with the Russian army here and there, 
And taking lately, by Suwarrow's bidding, 
A town, was ta'en myself instead of Widdin."* 



4 A considerable town in Bulgaria, on the right bank of 
the Danube.— E. 



522 



DON JUAN 



[Canto V. 



XVI. 
"Have you no friends?" — "I had — but, by God's 
blessing, 

Have not been troubled with them lately. Now 
I have answer'd Al your questions without pressing, 

And you an equal courtesy should show." 
"Alas ! " said Juan, " 't were a tale distressing, 

And long besides." — " Oh ! if 't is really so, 
You 're right on both accounts to hold your tongue; 
A sad tale saddens doubly, when 't is long. 

xvn. 

" But droop not : Fortune at your time of life, 

Although a female moderately fickle, 
Will hardly leave you (as she 's not your wife) 

For any length of days in such a pickle. 
To strive, too, with our fate were such a strife 

As if the corn-sheaf should oppose the sickle : 
Men are the sport of circumstances, when 
The circumstances seem the sport of men." 

XVIII. 

"'T is not," said Juan, " for my present doom 
I mourn, but for the past ; — I loved a maid : " — 

He paused, and his dark eye grew full of gloom ; 
A single tear upon his eyelash staid 

A moment, and then dropp'd; " but to resume, 
'T is not my present lot, as I have said, 

Which I deplore so much ; for I have borne 

Hardships which have the hardiest overworn, 

XIX. 

" On the rough deep. But this last blow — " and here 
He stopp'd again, and turn'd away his face, 

" Ay," quoth his friend, " I thought it would appear, 
That there had been a lady in the case ; 

And these are things which ask a tender tear, 
Such as I, too, would shed if in your place : 

I cried upon my first wife's dying day, 

And also when my second ran away : 

XX. 

" My third " — " Your third ! " quoth Juan, turn- 
ing round ; 

"You scarcely can be thirty : have you three?" 
" No — only two at present above ground : 

Surely, 't is nothing wonderful to see 
One person thrice in holy wedlock bound ! " 

" Well, then, your third," said Juan ; " what did she? 
She did not run away, too, — did she, sir ? " 
" No, faith." — " What then ? " — " I ran away from 
her." 

XXI. 
" You take things coolly, sir," said Juan. " Why," 

Replied the other, " what can a man do? 
There still are many rainbows in your sky, 

But mine have vanish'd. All, when life is new, 
Commence with feelings warm, and prospects high ; 

But time strips our illusions of their hue, 
And one by one in turn, some grand mistake 
Casts oflF its bright skin yearly like the snake. 

XXII. 

" 'T is true, it gets another bright and fresh. 

Or fresher, brighter ; but the year gone through, 
This skin must go the way, too, of all fiesh, 

Or sometimes only wear a week or two ; — 
Love's the first net which spreads its deadly mesh ; 

Ambition, Avarice, Vengeance, Glory, glue 
The glittering lime-twigs of our latter days, 
Where still vve flutter on for pence or praise." 

XXIII. 
" All this is very fine, and may be true," 

Said Juan ; " but I really do'n't see how 
It betters present times with me or you." 

" No ? " quoth the other ; " yet you will allow 
By setting things in their right point of view, 

Knowledge, at least, is gain'd ; for instance, now, 
We know what slavery is, and our disasters 
May teach us better to behave when masters." 



XXIV. 
" Would we were masters now, if but to try 

Their present lessons on our Pagan friends here," 
Said Juan — swallowing a heart-burning sigh : 

"Heaven help the scholar, whom his fortune sends 
here! " 
" Perhaps we shall be one day, by and by," 

Rejoin'd the other, " when'our'bad luck mends herej 
Meantime (yon old black eunuch seems to eye us) 

I wish to G— d that somebody would buy us ! 

XXV. 

"But after all, what is our present state ? 

'T is bad, and may be better — all men's lot: 
Most men are slaves, none more so than the great. 

To their own whims and passions, and what not; 
Society itself, which should create 

Kindness, destroys what little we had got : 
To feel for none is the true social art 
Of the world's stoics — men without a heart." 

XXVI. 

Just now a black old neutral personage 
Of the third sex stept up, and peering over 

The captives seem'd to mark their looks and age, 
And capabilities, as to discover 

If they were fitted for the purposed cage : 
No lady e'er is ogled by a lover, 

Horse by a blackleg, broadcloth by a tailor, 

Fee by a counsel, felon by a jailor, 

XXVII. 

As is a slave by his intended bidder. 

'T is pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures; 
And all are to be sold, if you consider 

Their passions, and are dext'rous ; some by features 
Are bought up, others by a warlike leader. 

Some by a place— as tend their years or natures; 
The most by ready cash — but all have prices. 
From crowns to kicks, according to their vices. 

XXVIII. 

The eunuch having eyed them o'er with care, 
Turn'd to the merchant, and began to bid 

First but for one, and after for the pair ; 
They haggled, wrangled, swore, too — so they did I 

As though they were in a mere Christian fair, 
Cheapening an ox, an ass, a lamb, or kid; 

So that their bargain sounded like a battle 

For this superior yoke of human cattle. 

XXIX. 

At last they settled into simple grumbling, 

And pulling out reluctant purses, and 
Turning each piece of silver o'er, and tumbling 

Soniedown, and weighing others in their hand, 
And by mistake sequins » with paras jumbling. 

Until the sum was accurately scann'd. 
And then the merchant, giving change, and signing 
Receipts in full, began to think of dining. 

XXX. 

I wonder if his appetite was good ? 

Or, if it were, if also his digestion ? 
Methinks at meals some odd thoughfs might intrude, 

And conscience ask a curious sort of question. 
About the right divine how far we should 

Sell flesh and blood. When dinner has opprest one, 
I think it is perhaps the gloomiest hour 
Which turns up out of the sad twenty-four. 

XXXI. 

Voltaire says " No : "he tells you that Candide 

Found life most tolerable after meals ; 
He 's wrong — unless man were a pig, indeed, 

Repletion rather adds to what he feels, 



1 The Turkish zecchino is a gold coin, worth about 
seven Phillings and sixpence. The para is not quite equal 
to an English halfpenny. — E. 



Canto V.] 



DON JUAN. 



523 



Unless he 's drunk, and then no doubt he 's freed 
From his own brain's oppression while it reels. 
Of food I think with Philip's son,i or rather 
Amnion's (ill pleased with one world and one father j) 

XXXII. 

I think with Alexander, that the act 

Of eating, with another act or two, 
Makes us feel our mortali y in fact 

Redoubled ; when a roast and a ragout, 
And fish, and soup, by i^onie side dishes back'd, 

Can give us either pain or pleasure, who 
Would pique himself on intellects, whose use 
Depends so much upon the gastric juice ? 

XXXIII. 

The other evening ('t was on Friday last) — 

This is a fact, and no poetic fable — 
Just as my great-coat was about me cast, 

My hat and gloves still lying on the table, 
I heard a shot — 't was eight o'clock scarce past — 

And, running out as fast as I was able,3 
I found the military conmiandant 
Stretch'd in the street, and able scarce to pant. 

XXXIV. 

Poor fellow ! for some reason, surely bad, 
They had slain him with five slugs ; and left him 
there 

To perish on the pavement : so I had 
Him borne into the house and up the stair, 

And stripp'd, and look'd to, — But why should I add 
More circumstances ? vain was every care j 

The man was gone : in some Italian quarrel 

Kill'd by five bullets from an old gun-barrel. 

XXXV. 

I gazed upon him, for I knew him well ; 

And though I have seen many corpses, never 
Saw one, whom such an accident befell. 

So calm; though pierced through stomach, heart, 
and liver, 
He seem'd to sleep, — for you could scarcely tell 

(As he bled inwardly, no hideous river 
Of gore divulged the cause) thit he was dead : 
So as I gazed on him, I thought or said — 

XXXVI. 

" Can this be death ? then what is life or death ? 

Speak 1 " but he spoke not : " wake ! " but still he 
slept: — 
" But yesterday and who had mightier breath ? 

A thousand warriors by his word were kept 
In awe : he said, as the centurion sailh, 

' Go,' and he goeth ; 'come,' and forth he stepp'd. 
The trump and bugle till he spake were dumb — 
And now nought left him but the muffled drum." 

XXXVII. 

And they who waited once and worshipp'd — they 
With their rough faces throng'd about the bed 

To gaze once more on the commanding clay 
Which for the last, though not the first, time bled ; 

And such an end ! that he who many a day 
Had f iced Napoleon's foes until they fled, — 

The foremost in the charge or in the sally, 

Should now be butcher'd in a civic alley. 



1 See Plutarch in Alex., Q. Curt. Hist. Alexander, 
and Sir Richard Clayton's "Critical Inquiry into the Life 
of Alexander the Great." 

2 The assassination alluded to took place on the 8lh of 
December, ]b20, in the streets of Ravenna, not a hundred 
paces from the residence of the writer. The circum- 
Btances were us described. 



XXXVIII. 

The scars of his old wounds were near his new, 
Those honourable scars which brought him fame; 

And horrid was the contrast to the view 

But let me quit the theme; as such things claim 

Perhaps even more attention than is due 

From me: I gazed (as oft I have gazed the same) 

To try if I could wrench aught out of death 

Which should confirm, or shake, or make a faith ; 

XXXIX. 

But it was all a mystery. Here we are, 
And there we go : — but where ? five bits of lead, 

Or three, or two, or one, send very far ! 
And is this blood, then, form'd but to be shed ? 

Can every element our elements mar ? 
And air — earth — water — fire live — and we dead ? 

We, whose minds comprehend all things. No more ; 

But let us to the story as before. 

XL. 

The purchaser of Juan and acquaintance 

Bore off his bargains to a gilded boat, 
Embark'd himself and them, and off they went thence 

As fast as oars could pull and water float ; 
They look'd like persons being led to sentence, 

Wond'ring what next, till the caique 3 was brought 
Up in a little creek beiow a wall 
O'ertopp'd with cypresses, dark-green and tall. 

XLI. 

Here their conductor tapping at the wicket 
Of a small iron door, 'twas open'd, and 

He led them onward, first through a low thicket 
Flank'd by large groves, which tower'd on either 
hand: 

They almost lost their way, and had to pick it — 
For night was closing ere they came to land. 

The eunuch made a sign to those on board, 

Who row'd off, leaving them without a word. 

XLII. 
As they were plodding on their winding way 

Through orange bowers, and jasmine, and so forth : 
(Of which I might have a good deal to say, 

There being no such profusion in the North 
Of oriental pfants, " et cetera." 

But that of late your scribblers think it worth 
Their while to rear whole hotbeds in their works 
Because one poet travell'd 'mongst the Turks ;)■! 

XLIII. 
As they were threading on their way, there came 

Into Don Juan's head a thought, which he 
Whisper'd (o his companion : — 't was the same 

Which might have then occurr'd to you or me. 
M Methink?,"— said he,—" it would be no great shame 

If we should strike a stroke to set us free ; 
Let's knock that old black fellow on the head, 
And march away — 't were easier done than said." 

XLIV. 
" Yes," said the other, " and when done, what then ? 

How get out? how the devil got we in ? 
And when we once were fairly out, and when 

From Saint Bartholomew we have saved our skin,c 
To-morrow 'd see us in some other den, 

And worse off than we hitherto have been ; 
Besides, I 'm hungry, and just now would take, 
Like Esau, for my birthright a beef-steak. 



3 The light and elegant wherries plying about the quays 
of Constantinople are so called. 

4 " Eastern Sketches," "Parga," "Phrosyne," " Ilde- 
rim," &c. &c.~E. 

5 St. Bartholomew is said to have been flayed alive. 



524 



DON JUAN. 



[Canto V. 



XLV. 

" We must be near some place of man's abode ; — 
For the old negro's confidence in creeping, 

With his two captives, by so queer a road, 
Shows that he thinks his friends have not been 
sleeping j 

A single cry would bring lliem all abroad: 
'T is therefore better looking before leaping — 

And there, you see, this turn has brought us through. 

By Jove, a noble palace ! — lighted too." 

XLvr. 

It was indeed a wide extensive building 

Which open'd on their view, and o'er (he front 

There seeni'd to be besprent a deal of gilding 
And various hues, as is the Turkish wont, — 

A gaudy taste: for they are little skill'd in 

The arts of which these lands were once the font : 

Each villa on the Bosphorus looks a screen 

New painted, or a pretty opera-scene. 

XLVII. 

And nearer as they came, a genial savour 
Of certain stews, and roast-meats, and pilaus, 

Things which in hungry mortals' eyes find favour, 
Made Juan in his haish intentions pause. 

And put himself upon his good behaviour : 
His friend, too, adding a new saving clause, 

Said, "In Heaven's name let 's get some supper now, 

And then I 'm with you, if you 're for a row." 

XLVIII. 

Some talk of an appeal unto some passion, 
Some to men's feelings, others to their reason ; 

The last of these was never much the fashion. 
For reason thinks all reasoning out of season: 

Some speakers whine, and others lay the lash on, 
But more or less continue still to tease on. 

With arguments according to their " forte j " 

But no one ever dreams of being short. — 

XLIX. 

But I digress : of all appeals,— although 
I grant the power of pathos, and of gold, 

Of beauty, flattery, threats^ a shilling, — no 
Method 's more sure at moments to take hold 

Of the best feelings of mankind, which grow 
More tender, as we every day behold, 

Than that all-softening, overpowering knell, 

The tocsin of the soul — the dinner-bell. 



Turkey contains no bells, and yet men dine ; 

And Juan and his friend, albeit they heard 
No Christian knoll to table, saw no line 

Of lackeys usher to the feist prepared. 
Yet smelt roast-meat, beheld a huge fiie shine, 

And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared, 
And gazed around them to the left and right, 
With the prophetic eye of appetite. 

LI. 

And giving up all notions of resistance, 
They follovv'd close behind their sable guide, 

Who little thought th.it his own crack'd existence 
Was on the point of being set aside : 

He motion'd them to stop at some small distance, 
And knocking at the gate, 't was open'd wide, 

And a magnificent Lirge hall display'd 

The Asian pomp of Ottoman parade. 

Lll. 

I won't describe ; description is my forte. 
But every fool describes in fhese'briglit days 

His wondrous journey to some foreign court. 
And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise — 

Death to his publisher, to him 't is sport ; 

While Nature, tortured twenty thousand ways. 

Resigns herself with exemplary patience 

To guide-books, rhymes, tours, sketches, illustrations. 



LIII. 

Along this hall, and up and down, some, squatted 

Upon their hams, were occupied at chess j 
Others in monosyllable talk chatted, 

And somebcenvd much in love with their own dressj 
I And divers smoked superb pipes, decorated 
I With amber mouths of greater price or less ; 
And several strutted, others slept, and some 
Prepared for supper with a glass of rum.i 

I LIV. 

j As the black eunuch enter'd with his brace 
I Of purchased Infidels, some raised their eyes 
A moment, without slackening from their pace; 
I But tho>e who sate, ne'er stirr'd in any wise : 
: One or two stared the captives in the face, 
' Just as one views a horse to guess his price j 
Some nodded to the negro from their station, 
But no one troubled him with conversation. 

LV. 

He leads them through the hall, and, without stopping, 
I On through a farther range of goodly rooms, 
■Splendid \mi silent, save in 07ie, where, dropping,3 
I A marble fountain echoes through the glooms 
, Of night, which robe the chamber, or where popping 
I Some female head most curiously presumes 
i To thrust its black eyes through the door or lattice, 
I As wondering what the devil noise that is. 

LVI. 

Some faint lamps gleaming from the lofty walls 
I Gave light enough to hint their farther way, 
But not enough to show the imperial halls 

In all the flashing of their full array : 
Perhaps there's nothing — I '11 not say appals, 

But saddens more by night as well as day. 
Than an enormous room without a soul 
To break the lifeless splendour of the whole. 

LVII. 

Two or three seem so little, 07ie seems nothing : 
In deserts, forests, crowds, or by the shore, 

There solitude, we know, has her full growth in 
The spots which were her realms for evermore; 

But in a mighty hall or gallery, both in 

More modern buildings and those built of yore, 

A kind of death comes o'er us all alone, 

Seeing what 's meant for many with but one. 

LVIII. 
A neat, snug study on a winter's night, 

A book, friend, single lady, or a glass 
Of claret, sandwich, and ananpetite, 

Are things which make an iSnglish evening pass ; 
Though certcs by no means so grand a sight 

As is a theatre lit up by gas. 
I pass my evenings in long galleries solely ; 
And that 's the reason I 'm so melancholy. 

LIX. 

Alas ! man makes that great which makes him little: 
I grant you in a church 't is very well : 

What speaks of Heaven should by no means be brittle, 
But strong and lasting-, till no tongue can tell 

Their names who rear'd it; but huge houses fit ill — 
And huge tombs worse — mankind, since Adam fell: 

Methinks the story of the tower of Babel 

Might teach them this much better than I'm able. 



1 In Turkey nothing is more common than for the 
Mussulmans to take several glnsses of strong spirits by 
way of appetizer. I have seen them take as many as six 
of raki before dinner, anil swear that they dined the bet- 
ter for it: I tried the experiment, but fared like the 
Scotchman, who having heard that the birds called kitti- 
wokes were admirable whets, ate six of them, and com- 
plained that "he was no hungrier than when he began." 

2 A common furniture. I recollect being received by 
Ali Pacha, in a large room, paved with marble, contain- 
ing a marble basin, and fountain playing in the centre, 
&c. &c. 



Canto V.] 



DON JUAN. 



525 



LX. 

Babel was Ninirod's hunting-box, and then 
A town of gardens, walls, and wealth amazing, 

Where Nabuchadonosor, king of men, 
Reiijii'd, till one summer's day he took to grazing, 

And Daniel tamed llie lions in their den, 
The people's awe and admiration raising; 

'T was famous, too, for Thisbe and for Pynvmus, 

And the calumniated queen Semiramis.— ^ 

LXI. 
That injured Queen, by chroniclers so coarse. 

Has been accused (1 doubt not by conspiracy) 
Of an improper friendship for her horse 

(Love, like religion, sometimes runs to heresy): 
This monstrous tale had prob:»bly its source 

(For such exaggerations here and there I see) 
In writing " Courser " by mistake for " Courier: " 
I wish the case could come before a jury here.a 

LXII. 
But to resume,— should there be (what may not 

Be in these days?) some infidels, who don't. 
Because they can't find out the very spot 

Of that same Babol, or because they won't 
(Though Claudius Rich, Esquire, some bricks has got. 

And written lately two memoirs upon 't,)3 
Believe the Jews, those unbelievers, who 
Must be believed, though they believe not you. 

LXIII. 

Yet let them think that Horace has exprest 

Shortly and sweetly the masonic folly 
Of those, forgetting the great place of rest, 

Who give themselves to architecture wholly ; 
We know where things and men must end at best: 

A moral (like all morals) melancholy. 
And " Et sepulchri immemor struis domos " 
Shows that we build when we should but entomb us. 

LXIV. 

At last they reach'd a quarter most retired. 
Where echo woke as if from a long slumber ; 

Though full of all things which could be desired. 
One wonder'd what to do with such a number 

Of articles which nobody required ; 
Here wealth had done its utmost to encumber 

With furniture an exquisite apartment, 

Which puzzled Nature much to know what Art meant. 

LXV. 

It seem'd, however, but to open on 
A range or suite of further chambers, which 

Might lead to heaven knows where ; but in this one 
The moveables were prodigally rich : 

Sofas 't was half a sin to sit upon, 
So costly were they ; carpets every stitch 

Of workmanship so rare, they made you wish 

You could glide o'er them like a golden fish. 

LXVI. 

The black, however, without hardly deigning 
A glance at that which wrapt the slaves in wonder, 

Trampled what they scarce trod for fear of staining, 
As if the milky way their feet was under 

With all its stars ; and with a stretch attaining 
A certain press or cupboard niched in yonder — 

In that remote recess which you may see — 

Or if you don't the fault is not in me, — 



1 Babylon was enlarged by Nimrod, strengthened and 
beautified by Nabuchadonosor, and rebuilt by Semiramis. 

2 At the time when Lord Byron was writing thia 
Canto, the unfortunate affair of Uueen Caroline, charged, 
among other offences, with admitting her chamberlain, 
Bergami, originally a courier, to her bed, was occupy- 
ing much attention in Italy, as in England. The allii- 
sions to the domestic troubles of George IV. in the text 
are frequent. — K. 

3 " Two Memoirs on the Ruins of Babylon, by Claudius 
James Rich, Ksq., Hesident for the East India Company, 
at the Court of the Pasha of Bagdat."— E. 



LXVII. 

I wish to be perspicuous ; and the black, 
I say, unlocking the recess, puli'd forth 

A quantity of clothes fit for the back 
Of any Mussulman, whate'er his worth; 

And of variety there was no lack — 
And yet, though I have said there was no dearth,— 

He chose himself to point out what he thought 

Most proper for the Christians he had bought. 

LXVIII. 

The suit he thought most suitable to each 
Was. for the elder and the stouter, first 

A Candiote cloak, which to the knee might reach, 
And trousers not so ti:ht that they would burst, 

But such as fit an Asiatic breech ; 
A shawl, whose folds in Cashmire had been nurst, 

Slippers of satt'ron, dagger lich and handy ; 

In short, all things which form a Turkish Dandy. 

LXIX. 

While he w^as dressing, Baba, their black friend, 
Hinted the vast advantages which they 

Might probably obtain both in the end, 
If they would but pursue the proper way 

Which Fortune plainly seem'd to recommend; 
And then he added, that he needs must say, 

" 'T would greatly tend to better their condition, 

If they would condescend to circumcision. 

LXX. 

" For his own part, he really should rejoice 
To see them true believers, but no less 

Would leave his proposition to their choice." 
The other, thanking him for this excess 

Of goodness, in thus leaving them a voice 
In such a trifle, scarcely could express 

" Sufliciently " (he said) " his approl)ation 

Of all the customs of this polish'd nation. 

LXXI. 

" For his own share — he saw but small objection 

To so respectable an ancient rite; 
And, after swallowing down a slight refection, 

For which he own'd a present appetite, 
He doubted not a few hours of reflection 

Would reconcile him to the business quite." 
" Will it ? " said Juan, sharply : " Strike me dead, 
But they as soon shall circumcise my head I 

LXXII. 

"Cut off a thousand heads, before ——" — " Now, 
pray," 

Replied the other, "do not interrupt: 
You put me out in what I had to say. 

Sir ! — as I said, as soon as I have supt, 
I shall perpend if your proposal may 

Be such as I can properly accept ; 
Provided always your great goodness still 
Remits the matter to our own free-will." 

LXXIII. 
Baba eyed Juan, and said, " Be so good 

As dress yourself — " and pointed out a suit 
In which a Princess with great pleasure would 

Array her limbs; but Juan standing mute, 
As not being in a masquerading mood. 

Gave it a slight kick with his Christian foot; 
And when the old negro told him to " Get ready," 
Replied, "Old gentleinan, I 'm not a lady." 

LXXIV. 

" What you may be, I neither know nor care," 

Said Baba ; " but pray do as I desire : 
I have no more time nor many words to spare." 

"At least," said Juan, "sure I may inquire 
The cause of this odd travesty ?" — " Forbear," 

Said Baba, " to be curious; 't will transpire. 
No doubt, in proper place, and time, and season : 
I have no authority to tell the reason." 



i 



526 



DON JUAIN. 



[Canto V. 



LXXV. 

« Then if I do," said Juan, " I '11 be » — " Hold ! » 

Rejoin'd the negro, "pray be not provoking; 

This spirit's well, but it may wax too bold. 
And you will find us not too fond of joking." 

"What, sir," said Juan, " shall it e'er be told 
That I unsex'd my dress?" But Baba, stroking 

The things down, said, " Incense nie, and 1 call 

Those who will leave you of no sex at all : 

LXXVI. 

" I offer you a hindsome suit of clothes : 
A woman's, true ; but then there is a cause 

Why you should wear them." — "What, though my 
soul loathes 
The effeminate garb ?" — thus, after a short pause, 

Sigh'd Ju in, muttering also some slight oaths, 
" What the devil shall I do with all this gauze?" 

Thus he profanely term'd the finest lace 

Which e'er set off a marriage-morning face. 

LXXVII. 

And then he swore; and, sighing, on he slipp'd 
A pair of trousers of fiesh-coiour'd siik ; 

Next with a virgin zone he was equipp'J, 

Which girt a slight chemise as white as milk; 

But tugging on his petticoat, he tripp'd. 

Which — as we say — or, as the Scotch say, whilk, 

(The rhyme obliges me to this ; sometimes 

Monarchs are less imperative than rhymes) — 

LXXVI II. 
Whilk, which (or what you please), was owing to 

His garment's novelty, and hi< being awkward : 
And yet at last he managed to get through 

His toilet, though no doubt a little backward : 
The negro Baba help'd a little too. 

When some untoward part of Taiment stuck hard; 
And, wrestling both his arms into a gown, 
He paused, and took a survey up and down. 

LXXIX. 

One difficulty still remain'd — his hair 
Was hardly long enough ; but Baba found 

So many false long tresses all to spare. 

That soon his head was most completely crown'd, 

After the manner then in fashion there ; 
And this addition with such gems was bound 

As suited the ensemble of his toilet, 

While Baba made him comb his head and oil it. 

LXXX. 

And now being femininely all array'd, 

With some small aid from scissors, paint, and 
tweezers, 
He look'd in almost all respects a maid, 

And Babi smilingly exclaiin'd, " You see, sirs, 
A perfect transformation here display'd ; 

And now, then, you must come along with me, sirs. 
That is— the Lady :" clapping his hands twice, 
Four blacks were at his elbow in a trice. 

LXXXJ. 

" You, sir," said Baba, nodding to the one, 
" Will please to accompanv those gentlemen 

To supper ; but you, worthy Christian nun, 
V/ill follow me: no trifiin?, sir; for when 

I say a thing, it mu-t at once be done. 

What fear you ? think you this a lion's den? 

Why, 't is a palace ; where the truly wise 

Anticipate the Prophet's paradise. 

LXXXII. 

" You fool ! I tell you no one means you harm." 
" So much the better," Juan said, " for them ; 

Else they shall feel the weight of this my arm, 
Which is not quite so light as you may deem. 

I yield thus far ; but soon will break the charm, 
If any take me for that which I seem : 

So that I trust for every body's sake. 

That this disguise may lead to no mistake." 



LXXXIII. 

" Blockhead ! come on, and see," quoth Baba ; while 

Don Juan, turning to his comrade, who 
Though somewhat grieved, could scarce forbear a smile 

Upon the metamorphosis in view, — 
" Farewell I " they mutually exclaim'd : " this soil 

Seems fertile in adventures strange and new; 
One 's turn'd half Mussulman, and one a maid, 
By this old black enchanter's unsought aid. 

LXXXIV. 
♦'Farewell ! " said Juan : " should we meet no more, 

I wish you a good appetite." — " Farewell ! " 
Replied the other ; " though it grieves nie sore; 

When we next meet, we '11 have a tale to tell : 
We needs must follow when Fate puts from shore. 

Keep V'ur good name: though Eve herself once 
fel'l." 
" Nay," quoth the maid, " the Sultan's self shan't carry 
Unless his highness promises to marry me." [me, 

LXXXV. 
And thus they parted, each by separate doors ; 

Baba led Juan onward room by room 
Through glittering galleries, and o'er marble floors. 

Till a gigantic portal through the gioom, 
Haughty and huge, along the distance lowers ; 

And wafted far arose a rich perfume : 
It seem'd as though they came upon a shrine. 
For all was vast, still, fragrant, and divine. 

LXXXVI. 
The giant door was broad, and bright, and high, 

Of gilded bronze, and carved in curious guise; 
Warriors thereon were battling furiously ; 

Here stalks the victor, there the vanquish'd lies; 
There captives led in triumph droop the eye. 

And in perspective many'a squadron flies: 
It seems the work of times before the line 
Of Rome transplanted fell with Constautine. 

LXXXVII. 

This massy portal stood at the wide close 

Of a huge hall, and on its either side 
Tvvo*little'dwarfs, the least you could suppose, 

Were sate, like ugly imps, as if allied 
In mockery to the enormous gate which rose 

O'er them in almost pyramidic pride: 
The gate so splendid was in all its features,^' 
You never thought about those little creatures, 

LXXXVIIL 
Until you nearly trod on them, and then 

You started back in horror to survey 
The wondrous hideousness of those small men. 

Whose colour was not black, nor white, nor grey, 
But an extraneous mixture, which no pen 

Can trace, although perhaps the pencil may ; 
They were mis-shapen pigmies, deaf and dumb, — 
Monsters, who cost a no less monstrous sum. 

LXXXIX. 

Their duty was — for they were strong, and though 
They look'd so little, did strong things at times"— 

To ope this door, which they could really do, 
The hinges being as smooth as Rogers' rhymes ; 

And now and then, with tough strings of the bow. 
As is the custom of these Eastern climes. 

To give some rebel Pacha a cravat ; 

For mutes are generally used for that. 

XC. 

They spoke by signs — that is, not spoke at all ; 

And looking like two incubi, they glared 
As Baba with his fingers made them fall 

To heaving back the portal folds : it scared 
Juan a moment, as this pair so small, 

With shrinking serpent optics on him stared ; 
It was as if their little looks could poison 
Or fascinate whome'er they fix'd their eyes on. 



1 Features of a gate — a ministerial metaphor: "tlie 
feature upon which this question hinges." See the 
"Fudge Family," or hear Castlereagh. 



Canto V.] 



DON JUAN. 



527 



xcr. 

Before they enfer'd, Baba paused to hint 
To Juan some slight lessons as his 8;uide : 

" If you could just contrive," he said, " to stint 
That somewhat manly majesty of stride, 

'T would be as well, and,— (though there's not much 
in't) 
To swing a little less from side to side. 

Which has at times an aspect of the oddest ; — 

And also could you look a little modest, 

XCII. 
" 'T would be convenient ; for these mutes have eyes 

Like needles, which may pierce those petticoats j 
And if they should discover your disguise. 

You know how near us the deep Bosphorus floats ; 
And you and I may chance, ere morning rise, 

To find our way to Marmora without boats, 
Stitch'd up in sacks — a n)ode of navigation 
A good deal practised here upon occasion." l 

XCIII. 

With this encouragement, he led the way 

Into a room still nobler than the last j 
A rich confusion form'd a disarray 

In such sort, that the eye along it cast 
Could hardly carry any thing away, 

Object on object flash'd so bright and fast; 
A d izzling mass of gems, and gold, and glitter, 
Magnificently mingled in a litter. 

XCIV. 

Wealth had done wonders — taste not much ; such 
things 

Occur in Orient palaces, and even 
In the more chasten'd domes of Western kings 

(Of which I have also seen some six or seven) 
Where I can't say or gold or diamond flings 

Great lustre, there is much to be forgiven ; 
Groups of bad statues, tables, chairs, and pictures, 
On which I cannot pause to make my strictures. 

XCV. 
In this imperial hall, at distance lay 

Under a canopy, and there reclined 
Quite in a confidential queenly way, 

A lady ; Baba slopp'd, and kneeling sign'd 
To Juan, who though not much used to pray, 

Knelt down by instinct, wondering in his mind 
What all this meant : while Baba bow'd and bended 
His head, until the ceremony ended. 

xcvr. 

The lady rising up with such an air 
As Venus rose with from the wave, on them 

Bent like an antelope a Paphian pair 

Of eyes, which put out each surrounding gem j 

And raising up an arm as moonlight fair. 
She sign'd to Baba, who first kiss'd the hem 

Of her deep purple robe, and speaking low, 

Pointed to Juan, who remain'd below. 

XCVII. 
Her presence was as lofty as her state ; 

Her beauty of that overpowering kind, 
Whose force description only would abate: 

I 'd rather leave it much to your own mind, 
Than lessen it by what I could relate 

Of forms and features ; it would strike you blind 
Could I do justice to the full detail ; 
So, luckily for both, my phrases fail. 



XCVIII. 
Thus much however I may add,— her years 

Were ripe, they might make six-and-twenty springs, 
But there are forms which Time to touch forbears. 

And turns aside his scythe to vulgar things. 
Such as was Mary's Queen of Scots ; true — tears 

And love destroy ; and sapping sorrow wrings 
Charms from the charmer, yet some never grow 
j Ugly J for instance— Ninon de I'Enclos.^ 

i XCIX. 

She spake some words to her attendants, who 
I Composed a choir of girls, ten or a dozen, 
■ And were all clad alike ; like Juan, too. 
Who wore their uniform, by Bsba chosen: 

They form'd a very nymph-like looking crew, 
I Which might have cali'd Diana's chorus " cousin," 
; As far as outward show may correspond j 

I won't be bail for any thing beyond. 

I ' C. 

, They bow'd obeisance and withdrew, retiring, 

5 But not by the same door through which came in 

, Baba and Juan, which last stood admiring, 

I At some small distance, all he saw within 

I This strange saloon, much fitted for inspiring 

I Marvel and praise ; for both or none things win ; 

; And I must say, I ne'er could see the very 

, Great happiness of the " Nil Admirari." 



I CI. 

, <« Not to admire is all the art I know 
j (Plain truth, dear Murray,^ needs few flowers of 
! speech) 

\ To make men happy, or to keep them so ;" 
I (So take it in the very words of Creech). 
; Thus Horace wrote we all know long ago ; 
I And thus Pope quotes the precept to re-teach 
! From his translation ; but had none admired, 
Would Pope have sung, or Horace been inspired ? 

CH. 

Baba, when all the damsels were withdrawn, 
Motion'd to Juan to approach, and then 

A second time desired him to kneel down, 
And kiss the lady's foot ; which maxim when 

He heard repeated, Juan with a frown 
Drew himself up to his full height again, 

And said, " It grieved him, but he could not stoop 

To any shoe, unless it shod the Pope." 

cm. 

Baba, indignant at this ill-timed pride, 
Made fierce remonstrances, and then a threat 

He mutter'd (but the last was given aside) 
About a bow-string — quite in vain; not yet 

Would Juan bend, though 't were to Mahomet's bride: 
There's nothing in the world like etiquette 

In kingly chambers or imperial halls. 

As also at the race and county balls. 



1 A few years aeo the wife of Muchtar Pacha complain- 
ed to liis father of his son's supposed infidelity : he asked 
with wliom, and she had the barbarity to give in a list 
of the twelve handsomest women in Yaniiia. They were 
seized, fastened up in sacks, and drowned in the lake the 
same night. One of the guards who was present inform- 
ed me, that not one of the victims uttered a cry, or show- 
ed a symptom of terror at so sudden a •' wrench from all 
we know, from all we love." 



2 Mademoiselle de I'Enclos, celebrated for her beauty, 
her wit, her gallantry, and. above all, for the extraordi- 
nary length of time, during which she preserved her at- 
tractions. She intrigued with the young gentlemen of 
three geneiations. and is said to have had a grandson of 
her own among her lovers. See the works of Madame 
de Sevigne, Voltaire, &;c. <fec. for copious particulars of 
her life. The Biographic Universelle, says — "In her 
old age, her house was the rendezvous of the most distin- 
guished persons. Scarron consiilled her on his romances, 
St. Evremond on his p".ems, Moliere on his comedies, 
Fontenelle on his dialogues, and La Rochefoucault on his 
maxims. Coligny, Sevigne, ^ic. were her lovers and 
friends. At her death, in 1705, in her ninetieth year, 
she bequeathed to Voltaire a considerable sum, to expend 
in books." — E. 

3 The "Murray " of Pope was the great Earl Mans- 
field.— E. 



528 



DON JUAN, 



[Canto V. 



CIV. 

He stood like Atlas, with a world of words 
About his ears, and nathless would not bend ; 

The blood of all his line's Castilian lords 
Boil'd in his veins, and rather than descend 

To stain his pedigree, a thousand swords 
A thousand times of him had made an end ; 

At length perceiving the '■'foot " could not stand, 

Baba proposed that he should kiss the hand. 

CV. 
Here %ras an honourable compromise, 

A half-way house of diplomatic rest, 
Where they might meet in much more peaceful guisej 

And Juan now his willingness exprest 
To use all fit and proper courtesies. 

Adding, that this was commonest and best. 
For through the South, the custom still commands 
The gentleman to kiss the lady's hands. 

CVI. 

And he advanced, though with but a bad grace, 

Though on more thorough-bred i or fairer fingers 
No lips e'er left their transitory trace : 

On such as these the lip too fondly lingers, 
And for one kiss would fain imprint a brace. 

As you will see, if she you love shall bring hers 
In contact ; and sometimes even a fair stranger's 
An almost twelvemonth's constancy endangers. 

CVII. 
The lady eyed him o'er and o'er, and bade 

Bab\ retire, which he obey'd in style, 
As if well-used to the retreating trade ; 

And taking hints in good part all the while, 
He whisper'd Juan not to be afraid, 

And looking on him with a sort of smile, 
Took leave, with such a face of satisfaction. 
As good men wear who have done a virtuous action. 

CVIII. 

When he was gone, there was a sudden change : 
I know not what might be the lady's thought, 

But o'er her bright brow flash'd a tumult strange. 
And into her clear cheek the blood was brought, 

Blood-red as sunset summer clouds which range 
The verge of Heaven ; and in her large eyes wrought 

A mixture of sensations might be scann'd, 

Of half-voluptuousness and half-command. 

CIX. 

Her form had all the softness of her sex, 

Her features all the sweetness of the devil, 
When he put on the cherub to perplex 

Eve, and paved (God knows how) the road to evil ; 
The sun himself was scarce more free from specks 

Than she from aught at which the eye could cavil ; 
Yet, somehow, there was something somewhere want- 
As if she rather ordered than was granting. — [ing, 

ex. 

Something imperial, or imperious, threw 
A chain o'er all she did ; that is, a chain 

Was thrown as 't were abou' the neck of you, — 
And rapture's self will seem nlmost a pain 

With aught which looks like despotism in view; 
Our souls at least are free, and 't is in vain 

We would against them make the flesh obey — 

The spirit in the end will have its way. 

CXI. 

Her very smile was haughty, though so sweet ; 

Her very nod was not an inclination ; 
There was a self-will even in her small feet. 

As though they were quite conscious of her station— 
They trod as upon necks : and to complete 

Her state (it is the custom of her nation), 
A poniard deck'd her girdle, as the sign 
She was a sultan's bride, (thank Heaven, not mine !) 



1 There is nothing, perhaps, more distinctive of birth 
than the hand. It is almost the only sign of blood which 
aristocracy can generate. 



CXII. 

" To hear and to obey " had been from birth 

The law of all around her ; to fulfil 
All phantasies which yielded joy or mirth. 

Had been her slaves' chief pleisure, as her will; 
Her blood was high, her beauty scarce of earth: 

Judge, then, if her caprices e'er stood still ; 
Had she but been a Christian, I 've a no;ion 
We should have found out the " perpetual motion." 

cxni. 

Whate'er she saw and coveted was brought ; 

Whate'er she did not see, if she supposed 
It might be seen, with diligence was sought. 

And when 't was found straightway the bargain 
closed : 
There was no end unto the things she bought, 

Nor to the trouble which her' fancies caused ; 
Tet even her tyranny had such a grace, 
The women pardon'd all except her face. 

CXIV. 

Juan, the latest of her whims, had caught 
Her eye in passing on his way to sale ; 

She order'd him directly to be bought. 
And Baba, who had ne'er been known to fail 

In any kind of mischief to be wrought. 
At all such auctions knew how to prevail: 

She had no prudence, but he had ; and this 

Explains the garb which Juan took amiss. 

CXV. 

His youth and features favour'd the disguise, 
And, should you ask how she, a sultan's bride, 

Could risk or compass such strange phantasies, 
This I must leave sultanas to decide : 

Emperors are only husbands in wives' eyes, 
And kings and consorts oft are mystified, 

As we miy ascertain with due precision, 

Some by experience, others by tradition. 

CXVI. 

But to the main point, where we have been tending : — 
She now conceived all difficulties past, 

And deem'd herself extremely condescending 
When, being made her property at last, 

Without more preface, in her blue eyes blending 
Passion and power, a glance on him she cast. 

And merely saying, " Christian, cinst thou love?" 

Conceived that phrase was quite enough to move. 

cxvn. 

And so it was, in proper time and place ; 

But Juan, who had still his mind o'erflowing 
With Haidee's isle and soft Ionian face, 

Felt the warm blood, which in his fice was glowing, 
Rush back upon his heart, which fiU'd apnce. 

And left his cheeks as pale as snowdrops blowing: 
These words went through his soul like Arab-spears, 
So that he spoke not, but burst into tears. 

CXVIII. 

She was a good deal shock'd ; not shock'd at tears, 
For women shed and use them at their liking ; 

But there is something when man's eye appears 
Wet, still more disagreeable and striking : 

A woman's tear-drop melts, a man's half sears, 
Like molten lead, as if you thrust a pike in 

His heart to force it out, for (to be shorter) 

To them 'tis a relief, to us a torture. 

CXIX. 

And she would have consoled, but knew not how ; 

Having no equals, nothing which had e'er 
Infected her with sympathy till nosv, 

And never having dreamt what 't was to bear 
Aueht of a serious, sorrowing kind, although 

There might arise some pouting petty care 
To cross her brow, she wonder'd how so near 
Her eyes another's eye could shed a tear. 



Canto V.] 



DON JUAN. 



529 



cxx. 

But nature teaches more than power can spoil, 
And, when a strong although a strange sensation 

Moves — female hearts are such a genial soil 
For kinder feelings, whatsoe'er their nation, 

They naturally pour the •' wine and oil," 
Samaritans in every situation ; 

And thus Gulbeyaz, though she knew not why, 

Felt an odd glistening moisture in her eye. 

CXXI. 

But tears must stop like all things else ; and soon 
Juan, who for an instant had been moved 

To such a sorrow by the intrusive tone 
Of one who dared to ask if " he had loved," 

Call'd back the stoic to his eyes, which shone 
Bright with the very weakness he reproved; 

And although sensitive to beauty, he 

Felt most indignant still at not being free. 

CXXII. 

Gulbeyaz, for the first time in her days. 
Was much embarrass'd, never having met 

In all her life with aught save prayers and praise; 
And as she also risk'd her life to get 

Him whom she meant to tutor in love's ways 
Into a comfortable tete-a-tete, 

To lose the hour would make her quite a martyr, 

And they had wasted now almost a quarter. 

CXXIII. 

I also would suggest the fitting time. 

To gentlemen in any such like case. 
That is to say — in a meridian clime. 

With us there is more law given to the chase, 
But here a small delay forms a great crime: 

So recollect^that the extremest grace 
Is just two minutes for your declaration — 
A moment more would hurt your reputation. 

CXXIV. 

Juan's was good ; and might have been still better, 

But he had got Haidee into his head : 
However strange, he could not yet forget her, 

Which made him seem exceedingly ill-bred. 
Gulbeyaz, who look'd on him as her debtor 

For having had him to her palace led. 
Began to blush up to the eyes, and then 
Grow deadly pale, and then blush back again. 

CXXV. 

At length, in an imperial way, she laid 
Her hand on his, and bending on him eyes, 

Which needed not an empire to persuade, 
Look'd into his for love, where none replies : 

Her brow grew black, but she would not upbraid. 
That being the last thing a proud woman tries ; 

She rose, and pausing one chaste moment, threw 

Herself upon his breast, and there she grew. 

CXXVI. 

This was an awkward test, as Juan found, 
But he was steel'd by sorrow, wrath, and pride : 

With gentle force her white arms he unwound. 
And seated her all drooping by h'rs side. 

Then rising haughtily he glanced around. 
And looking coldly in her face, he cried, 

"The prison'd eagle will not pair, nor I 

Serve a sultana's sensual phantasy. 

CXXVII. 
«* Thou ask'st, if I can love? be this the proof 

How much I have loved — that I love not thee ! 
In this vile garb, the distaff, web, and woof, 

Were fitter for me : Love is for the free ! 
I am not dazzled by this splendid roof; 

Whate'er thy power, and great it seems to be. 
Heads bow, knees bend, eyes watch around a throne, 
And hands obey — our hearts are still our own." 



CXXVIIL 
This was a truth to us extremely trite ; 

Not so to her, who ne'er had heard such things : 
So deem'd her least command must yield delight. 

Earth being only made for queens and kings. 
If hearts lay on the left side or the right 

She hardly knew, to such perfection brings 
Legitimacy its born votaries, when 
Aware of their due royal rights o'er men. 

CXXIX. 

Besides, as has been said, she was so fair 
As even in a much humbler lot had made 

A kingdom or confusion anywhere. 

And also, as may be presumed, she laid 

Some stress on charms, which seldom are, if e'er, 
By their possessors thrown into the shade: 

She thought hers gave a double " right divine; " 

And half of that opinion 's also mine. 

cxxx. 

Remember, or (if you can not) imagine, 
Ye ! who have kept your chastity when young. 

While some more desperate dowager has been waging 
Love with you, and been in the dog-days stung 

By your refusal, recollect her raging ! 
Or recollect all that was said or sung 

On such a subject ; then suppose the face 

Of a young downright beauty in this case. 

CXXXI. 

Suppose, — but you already have supposed, 
The spouse of Potiphar, the Lady Booby,*- 

Phasdra, and all which story has disclosed 
Of good examples; pity that so few by 

Poets and private tutors are exposed. 

To educate — ye youth of Europe — you by ! 

But when you have supposed the few we know, 

You can't suppose Gulbeyaz' angry brow. 

CXXXII. 

A tigress robb'd of young, a lioness. 

Or any interesting beast of prey, 
Are similes at hand for the distress 

Of ladies who can not have their own way ; 
But though my turn will not be served with less. 

These don't express one half what I should say : 
For what is stealing young ones, few or many, 
To cutting short their hopes of having any ? 

CXXXHI. 

The love of offspring's nature's general law. 
From tigresses and cubs to ducks and ducklings ; 

There 's nothing whets the beak, or arms the claw. 
Like an invasion of their babes and sucklings; 

And all who have seen a human nursery, saw 
How mothers love their children's squalls and 
chucklings; 

This strong extreme effect (to tire no longer 

Your patience) shows the cause must still be stronger. 

CXXXIV. 

If I said fire flash'd from Gulbeyaz' eyes, 
'T were nothing — for her eyes flash'd always fire; 

Or said her cheeks assumed the deepest dyes, 
I should but bring disgrace upon the dyer. 

So supernatural was her passion's rise ; 

For ne'er till now she knew a check'd desire: 

Even ye who know what a check'd woman is 

(Enough, God knows !) would much fall short of this. 

CXXXV. 

Her rage was but a minute's, and 't was well — 
A moment's more had slain her; but the while 

It lasted 't was like a short glimpse of hell : 
Nought 's more sublime than energetic bile, 

Thoush horrible to see yet grand to tell, 
Like ocean warring 'gainst a rocky isle; 

And the deep passions flashing through her form 

Made her a beautiful embodied storm. 



1 In Fielding's novel of Joseph Andrevvs.-- -E. 



45 



34 



I 



530 



DON JUAN. 



[Canto V. 



CXXXVI. 

A vulgar tempest 't were to a typhoon 
To inatcli a commou fury with her rage, 

And yet she did not want to reach the moon, 
Like moileiate Hotspur on the immortal page; 

Her anger pitch'd in o a lower tune. 
Perhaps the fault of her soft sex and age — 

Her wish was but to " kill, kill, kill," lik.> Lear's, 

And then her thirst of blood was queuch'd in tears. 

CXXXVH. 

A storm it ragetl, and like the storm it pass'd, 

Fass'd without words — in fact she could uot speak J 

And then her sex's shame bivke in at last, 
A sentiment till then in her but weak, 

But now it rlow'd in natural and fast, 
As water through an unexpected leak, 

For she felt humbled — and humiliation 

Is sometimes good for people in her station. 

CXXXVHL 

It teaches them that they are tlesh and blood, 
It aUo gentlv hints to'them that others, 

Although of clay, are yet not quite of nmd ; 
That urns and pipkins are but fragile brvithers, 

And works of the same pottery, bad or good, 

Though not all born of the same sires and mothers; 

It teaches — Heaven knows only what it teaches, 

But sometimes it may mend, and often reaches. 

CXXXIX. 

Her first thought was to cut off Juan's head ; 

Her second, to cut only his — acquaintance; 
Her third, to ask him where he had been bred ; 

Her fourth, to rally him into repentance; 
Her fifth, to call her'maids and go to beil ; 

Her sixth, to stab herself; her seventh, to sentence 
The lash to Baba : — but her grand resource 
Was to sit down again, and cry of course. 

CXL. 

She thought to stab herself, but then she had 
The dagger close at hand, which made it awk\vard; 

For Eastern stays are little made to pad. 
So that a poniard pierces if 't is stuck hard : 

She thought of killing Juau — but, poor lad ! 

Though he deserves! it well for being so backward, 

The cutting ofl" his head was not the art 

Most likely to attain her aim — his heart. 

CXLL 

Juan was moveil : he had made up his mind - 

To be impaled, or quarter'd as a dish 
For dogs, or to be slain with pangs retined. 

Or thrown to lions, or made tails for fish, 
And thus heroically st(xxi resign'd, 

Rather than sin — except to his own wish : 
But all his great prejuratives for dying 
Dissolved like snow before a woman crying. 

CXLU. 

As through his palms Bob Acres' valour oozed. 
So Jum's viitue ebb'J, I know not how ; 

And first he wonder'd why he had refused ; 
And then, if matteis could be m ule up now ; 

And next his savage virtue he accused. 
Just as a friar may accuse his vow, 

Or as a dame repents her of her oath. 

Which mostly ends in some small breach of both. 

CXLIII. 

So he began to stammer some excuses ; 

But words are not enough in such a matter. 
Although you borrow'd all that e'er (he muses 

Have sung, or even a Dandy's dandiest chatter. 
Or all the figures Ca>tlereagh abu>f's ; 

Just as a languid smile began to li.itter 
His jH-ace was making, but befoix* he ventured 
Further, old Baba rather briskly euler'd. 



CXLIV. 

*« Bride of the Sun ! and Sister of the Moon ! " 
''T wad thus he s^ake.) " and Entpress of the Earth! 

Whose frown would put the sphe.es all out of tune, 
Whase smile makes all the planets dance with 
miith, 

Your slave brings tidings — he hopes not too soon — 
Which your sublime attention n»ay l>e worth: 

The Sun himself h.^s sent me like a ray. 

To hint that he is coming up this way." 

CXLV. 

" Is it," exclaim'd Gulbeyaz, " as you say? 

I wish to heaven he would not shine till morning I 
But bid my women form the milky way. 

Hence, iny old comet ! give ;he stars due warning — 
And, Christian ! mingle with then> as you may. 

And as you \i have me jxardon your past scorn* 
ing-^ — " 
Here theV were interruptetl bv a humming 
Sound, and then by a cry, " "fhe Sultan's coming 1 " 

CXLVI. 

First came her damsels, a decorous file. 
And then his Highne-<s' eunuchs, black and whi'.e; 

The train mishl reach a quaner of a mile : 
His majesty was always so polite 

As to announce his visits a long while 
Before he came, especi.illy at night; 

For being the last wife of the Emperor, 

She was of course the favourite of the fout 

CXLVII. 
His Highness was a man of solemn port, 

Shawl'd to the nose, and beanle^l to the eyes, 
Snatch'd fn^m a prison to preside at court. 

His lately Ixiwstrung brother causeti his rise; 
He was as good a sovereign of the sort 

As any mentione^l in the histories 
Of Cantemir, or Knolles, where few shine 
Save Solyman, the glory of their liue.i 

CXLVIIL 
He went to mosque in state, and said his prayers 

With njore than " Oriental scrupulosity ; '"■» 
He left to his vi/ier all state affairs, 

And show'd but little i-oyal curiosity : 
1 know not if he had domestic cares — 

No process proveil connubial animosity ; 
Four wives and twice five hundred maids, unseen, 
Were ruled as calmly as a Christian queen. 

CXUX. 

If now and then there happenM a sliitht slip, 
Little was heard of criminal or crime; 

The story scarcely pass'd a single tip — 
The sack and se> had settled all in time, 

From which the secret nobixly could rip: 
The i>ublic knew no more than does this rhyme ; 

No scandals made the daily press a curse — 

Morals were better, and the fish no worse. 

CL. 

He saw with his own eyes the moon was round, 
Was also certain that the earth was square, 

Because he had journey'd titty n\il«, and found 
No sign that it was circular anywhere : 



1 It majr not be xinworthy of rrtnark, th«t Baixui, in bii 
essay ou "Kmpire," hints that Solymau was the lust of 
his line; on what authority, I know not. Thexe are hi« 
wonls : — . " The itesiniition of Miixlaplia whs tv^ fatal to 
Solymau's line, us the suii-ession nf the Turks from Scty- 
nnui, until this vlay, is Kiispn-teil to 1', " .f 

slraiise blixxt ; for that S»)ymus Ihe tit > i 

to be supposititious." Hut Haoon, in 1 

Ihorilies. is often inu-curate. I eoulit ;,: *. ii 

iustanees fn^in his .\ pitpihtheKras uuly. 6ee uolo u( the 
eml of this Canto.— £. 

auibbon.— 1>« 



Canto V.] 



DON JUAN. 



531 



His empire also was without a bound : 

'T is true, a little troubled here and there, 
By rebel pachas, and encroaching giaours, 
But then they never came to " the Seven Towers ; " i 

CLI. 

Except in shape of envoys, who were sent 
To lodge there when a war broke out, according 

To the true law of nations, which ne'er meant 
Tiiose scoundrels, who have never had a sword in 

Their dirty diplomatic hands, to vent 

Their spleen in maliin°: strife, and safely wording 

Their lies, yclep'd despatches, without risk or 

The singeing of a single iuky whisker. 

CLir. 

He had fifty daughters and four dozen sons, 
Of whom all such as came of age were stow'd, 

The former in a palace, where like nuns 

They lived till some Bashaw was sent abroad, 

When she, whose turn it was, was wed at once. 
Sometimes at six years old — though this seems odd, 

'T is true ; the reason is, that the Bashaw 

Must make a present to his sire in law. 

CLin. 

His sons were kept in prison, till they grew 
Of years to fill a bowstring or the throne, 

One or the other, but which of the two 
Could yet be known unto the fates alone ; 

Meantime the education they went through 

Was princely, as the proofs have always shown ; 

So that the heir apj)arent still was found 

No less deserving to be hang'd than crown'd. 

CLIV. 

His Majesty saluted his fourth spouse 

With all the ceremonies of his rank, 
Who cle\r'd her sparkling eyes and sniooth'd her brows, 

As suits a matron who has play'd a prank ; 
These must seem doubly mindful of their vows, 

To save the credit of their breaking bank : 
To no men are such cordial greetings given 
As those whose wives have made them fit for heaven. 

CLV. 

His Highness cast around his great black eyes, 
And looking, as he always look'd, perceived 

Juan amongst the damsels in disguise, 
At which he seem'd no whit surprised nor grieved, 

But just remr\rk'd with air sedate and wise. 
While still a fluttering sigh Gulbeyaz heaved, 

•' I see ynu 've bought another girl ; M is pity 

That a mere Christian should be half so pretty." 

CLVI. 
This compliment, which drew ail eyes upon 

The new-bought virgin, made her blush and shake. 
Her comrades, also, thought themselves undone : 

Oh ! Mahomet ! that his Majesty should lake 
Such notice of a giaour, while scarce to one 

Of them his lips imperial ever spake ! 
There was a general whisper, toss, and wriggle, 
But etiquette forbade them all to giggle. 

CLvn. 

The Turks do well to shut — at least, sometimes — 
The women up — because, in sad reality, 

Their chastity in these unhappy climes 
Is not a thing of that astringent qualify 

Which in the North prevents precocious crimes, 
And makes our snow less pure than our morality ; 

The sun, which yearly melts the polar ice, 

Has quite the contrary efl'ect on vice. 



1 The Btate prison of Constantinople, in which the 
Porte shuts up the ministers of hostile powers, who are 
dilatory in taking their ttcparliire, under pretenee of pro- 
tecting them from the insults of the mob.-- • IlOrE.-- E. 



CLvni. 

Thus in the East they are extremely strict. 
And wedlock and a padlock mean the same j 

Excepting only when the former 's pick'd 
It ne'er can be replaced in proper frame; 

Spoilt, as a pipe of claret is when prick'd : 
But then their own polygamy's to blame ; 

Why don't they knead two virtuous souls for life - 

Into that moral centaur, man and wife ? 

CLIX. 

Thus far our chronicle ; and now we pause, 
Though not for want of matter; but 'tis time. 

According to the ancient epic laws, 
To slacken sail, and anchor with our rhyme. 

Let this fifth canto meet with due applause, 
The sixth shall have a touch of the sublime ; 

Meanwhile, as Homer sometimes sleeps, perhaps 

You '11 pardon to my muse a few short naps. 



NOTE. 

Lord Bacon's Aphorisms. 

[See ante, p. 530, note.] 
Bacoii's Jpophtliegms. Observations. 

91. 
Michael Angelo, the famous This was not the 
painter, painting in the pope's portrait of a cardinal. 



chapel the portraiture of hell 
and danmed souls, made one 
of the damned souls so like a 
cardinal that was his enemy, 
as everybody at first sight 
knew it : whereupon the car- 
dinal complained to Pope 
Clement, humbly praying it 
might be defaced. The pope 
said to him. Why, you know 
very well I have power to de- 
liver a soul out of purgatory, 
but not out of hell. 

155. 

Alexander, after the battle 
of Granicum, had very great 
ofl'ers made him by Darius. 
Consulting with his captains 
concerning them, Parmenio 
said, Sure, I would accept of 
these offers, if I were as Alex- 
ander. Alexander answered. 
So would 1, if I were as Par- 
menio. 

158. 
Antigonus, when it was told 
him that the enemy had such 
volleys of arrows that they 
did hide the sun, said, That 
falls out well, for it is hot 
weather, and so we shall fight 
in the shade. 

162. 
There was a philosopher 
that disputed with Adrian the 
Emperor, and did it but weak- 
ly. One of his friends that 
stood by afterwards said unto 
him, Methinks you were not 
like yourself last day, in argu- 
ment with the Emperor: I 
could have answered better 
myself. Why, said the phi- 
losopher, would you have n\e 
contend with him that com- 
mands thirty legions ? 



but of the pope's mas- 
ter of the ceremonies. 



It was after the bat- 
tle of Issus and during 
the siege of Tyre, and 
7iot immediately after 
the passage of the 
Granicus, that this is 
said to have occurred. 



This was not said 
by Antigonus, but by a 
Spartan, previously to 
the battle of Thermo- 
pylae. 



This happened un- 
der Augustus Cassar, 
and not during the 
reign of Adrian. 



532 



DON JUAN. 



[Canto V. 



ie4. 

There was one that found 
a great mass of money, dig- 
ging under ground in his 
grandfather's house, and be- 
ing somewhat doubtful of the 
case signified it to ihe em- 
peror that he had found such 
treasure. The emperor made 
a rescript thus : Use it. He 
writ back again, that the sum 
was greater than his state or 
condition could use. The 
emperor writ a new rescript 
thus : Abuse it. 

178. 
One of the seven was wont 
to say, that laws were like 
cobwebs: where the small 
flies were caught, aod the 
great break through. 

209. 
An orator of Athens said to 
Demosthenes, The Athenians 
will kill you if they wax 
mad. Demosthenes replied, 
And they will kill you, if 
they be in good sense. 

221. 
There was a philosopher 
about Tiberius that, looking 
into the nature of Caius, said 
of him, That he was mire 
mingled with blood. 



There was a king of Hun- 
gary took a bishop in battle, 
and kept him prisoner : 
whereupon the pope writ a 
monitory to him, for that he 
had broken' the privilege of 
holy church, and taken his 
son : the king sent an embas- 
sage to him, and sent withal 
the armour wherein the 
bishop was taken, and this 
only in writing — Ftrfe nuin 
hxc sit vestisfilii tui ? Know 
now whether this be thy son's 
coat? 

267. 
Demetrius, king of Mace- 
don, had a petition ofifered 
him divers times by an old 
woman, and answered he had 
no leisure ; whereupon the 
woman said aloud, Why then 
give over to be king. 



This happened to 
the father of Herodes 
Atticus, and the an- 
swer was made by the 
Emperor Nerva, who 
deserved that his name 
should have been stated 
by the " greatest — 
wisest — meanest of 
mankind." 



This was said by 
Anacharsis the Scy- 
thian, and not by a 
Greek. 



This was not said 
by Demosthenes, but 
to Demosthenes by 
Phocion. 



I the Life and Writings of Lope de Vega, vol. i. p. 213. 

' edition of 1817. 

I Voltaire has even been termed a »' shallow fellow," 
, by some of the same school who called Drvden's Ode 
] "a drunken song ;" — a sc/iooZ (as it is called, I pre- 
I sume, from their education being still incomplete) the 
j whole of whose filthy trash of Epics, Excursions, &c. 
I &c. &c. is not worth the two words in Zaire, *'Fovs 
' plevrez,'' or a single speech of Tancred : — a school, 
the apostate lives of whose renegidoes, with their tea- 
drinking neutrality of morals, and their convenient 
treachery in politics — in the record of their accumu- 
lated pretences to virtue can produce no actions (were 
all their good deeds drawn up in arrav) to equal or ap- 
proach the sole defence of the family'of CalAs, by that 
great and unequalled genius — the universal Voltaire. 

I have ventured to remark on these little inaccura- 
cies of "the greatest genius that England, or perhaps 
any other country ever produced," merely to show our 
national injustice in condemning generally the great- 
est genius of France for such inadvertencies as these, 
of which the highest of England has been no less 
guilty. Query, was Bacon a greater intellect than 
Newton ? 



This was not said of 
Caius (Caligula, I pre- 
sume, is intended by 
Caius), but of Tiberius 
himself. 



This reply was not 
made by a king of 
Hungary, but sent by 
Richard the First, 
Coeur de Lion, of Eng- 
land, to the Pope, with 
the breast-plate of the 
bishop of Beauvajs. 



CAMPBELL. 



VOLTAIRE. 

Having stated that Bacon was frequently incorrect 
in his citations from history, I have thought it neces- 
sary in what regards so great a name (however tri- 
fling), to support the assertion by such facts as more 
immediately occur to me. They are but trifles, and 
yet for such trifles a schoolboy would be whipped (if 
still in the fourth form) ; and Voltaire for half a dozen 
similar errors has been treated as a superficial writer, 
notwithstanding the testimony of the learned Warton : 
— " Voltaire, a writer of much deeper research than 
is imagined, and the first who has displayed the litera- 
ture and customs of the dark ages with any degree of 
penetration and comprehension." For another dis- 
tinguished testimony to Voltaire's merits in literary re- 
search, see also Lord Holland's excellent Account of 



Being in Ihe humour of criticism, I shall proceed, 
after having ventured upon the slips of Bacon, to touch 
upon one or two as trifling in the edition of the 
British Poets, by the justly celebrated Campbell. But 
I do this in good will, and trust it will be so taken. If 
' any thing could add to my opinion of the talents and 
true feeling of that gentleman, it would be his classi- 
cal, honest, and triumphant defence of Pope, against 
the vulgar cant of the day, and its existing Grub- 
I street. 

I The inadvertencies to which I allude are,— 
I Firstly, in speaking of Anstey, whom he accuses of 
hiving taken "his leading characters from Smollett." 
Anstey's Bath Guide was published in 1766. Smol- 
i lett's Humphry Clinker ('he only work of Smollett's 
I from which Tnbitha, &c. &c. could have been taken) 
I was written during SmolletVs last residence at Leg- 
Ihorn, in 1770 — ".4rg-a/," if there has been any bor- 
rowing, Anstey must be the creditor, and not the 
debtor. I refer Mr. Campbell to his own data in his 
lives of Smollett and Anstey. 

Secondly, Mr. Campbell says in the life of Cowper 
[ (note to page 358. vol. vii.) that he knows not to whom 
Cowper alludes in these lines : — 

" Nor he who, for the bane of thousands iMrn, 
Built God a church, and laugh'd his word to scorn." 

The Calvinist meant Voltaire, and the church of 
This did not happen Ferney, with its inscription " Deo erexit Voltaire." 
to Demetrius, but to \ Thirdly, in the life of Burns, Mr. Campbell quotes 
-• " — Shakspeare thus : — 

"To gild refined gold, to paint the rose, 
Or add fresh perfume to the violet." 

This version by no means improves the original, which 
is as follows : — 

"To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, 
To throw a perfume on the violet," &cc.—King John. 

A great poet quoting another should be correct : he 
should also be accurate, when he accuses a Parnassian 
brother of that dangerous charge " borrowing : " a poet 
hnd better borrow any thing (excepting money) than 
the thoughts of another — they are always sure to be 
reclaimed ; but it is very hard, having been the lender, 
to be denounced as the debtor, as is the case of Austey 
versus Smollett. 

As there is " honour amongst thieves," let there be 
some amongst poets, and give each his due, — none can 
afltbrd to give it more than Mr. Campbell himself, who, 
with a high reputation for originality, and a fame 
which cannot be sh:»ken, is the only poet of the times 
(except Rogers) who can be reproached (and tn him it 
is indeed a reproach) with having written too little. 

Ravenna, Jan. 5, 1621. 



Philip, King of Mace 
don. 



Canto VI.) 



DON JUAN. 



533 



PREFACE TO CANTOS VI. VII. AND VIII. i 

The details of the siege of Ismail in two of the fol- 
lowing cantos (i. e. the seventh and eighth) are taken 
from a French Work, entitled "Histoire de la Nou- 
velle Russie." Some of the incidents attributed to 
Don Juan really occurred, particularly the circum- 
stance of his saving the infant, which was the actual 
case of the late Due de Richelieu, then a young volun- 
teer in the Russian service, and afterward the founder 
and benef (Ctor of Odessa, where his name and memory 
can never cease to be regarded with reverence. 

In the course of these cantos, a stanza or two will be 
found relative to the late Marquis of Londonderry, but 
written some lime before his decease. Had that per- 
son's oligarchy died with him, they would have been 
suppressed; as it is, I am aware of nothing in the 
manner of his death 2 or of his life to prevent the free 
expression of the opinions of aU whom his whole ex- 
istence was consumed in endeavouring to enslave. 
That he was an amiable man in private life, may or 
may not be true : but with this the public have no- 
ttiing to do; and as to lamenting his death, it will be 
time enough when Ireland has ceased to mourn for his 
birth. As a minister, I, for one of millions, looked 
upon him as the most de^potic in intention, and the 
weakest in intellect, that ever tyrannised over a coun- 
try. It is the first time, indeed, since the Normans, 
that England has been insulted by a minister (sit least) 
who could not speak English, and that parliament per- 
mitted itself to be dictated to in the language of Mrs. 
Malaprop. 

Of the manner of his death little need be said, ex- 
cept that if a poor radical, such as Waddington or 
Watson, had cut his throat, he would have been buri- 
ed in a cross-road, with the usual appurtenances of the 
stake and mallet. But the minister was an elegant 
lunatic — a sentimental suicide — he merely cut the 
" carotid artery," (blessings on their learning 1) and, 
lo! the pageant, and the Abbey! and " the syllables 
of dolour yelled forth "by the newspapers — and the 
harangue of the Coroner in a eulogy over the bleed- 
ing body of the deceased — (an Antony worthy of 
such a Caesar) — and the nauseous and atrocious cant 
of a degraded crew of conspirators against all that is 
sincere and honourable. In his death he was necessa- 
rily one of two things by the law^ — n felon or a 
madman — and in either case no great subject for pane- 
gyric. In his life he was — what all the world knows, 
and half of it will feel for years to come, unless his 
death prov^a "moral lesson " to the surviving Sejani 4 
of Europe. It may at least serve as some consolation 
to the nations, that their oppressors are not happy, and 
in some instances judge so justly of their own actions 
as to anticipate the sentence of mankind.— Let us hear 
no more of this man; and let Ireland remove the 
ashes of her Grattan from the sanctuary of Westmin- 
ster. Shall the patriot of humanity repose by the 
Werther of politics ! I ! 

With regard to the objections which have been made 
on another score to the already published cantos of this 
poem. I shall content myself with two quotations from 
Voltaire:— "La pudeur s'est enfuite des casurs, et 
s'est refugiee sur les levres." . . . . " Plus les moeurs 



1 Cantos VI. VII. and VIII. were written at Pisa, in 
1822, and publislied in London, in July, 1823. — K. 

2 Robert, second Marquis of Londonderry, died, by his 
own hand, at his seat at North Cray, in Kent, in August, 
1822. During the session of parliament which had just 
closed, his lordship appears to have sunk under the weight 
of his labours, and insanity was the consequence.— K. 

3 I say by the law of the land—ihe laws of humanity 
judge more gently; but as the legitimates have always 
the law in their mouths, let them here make the most 
of it. 

4 From this number must be excepted Canning. Can- 
ning is B genius, almost a universal one, an orator, a wit, 
a p'let, a Htatenman ; and no man of talent can long pur- 
sue the path of his lale predecessor, Lord C. If ever 
man saved his country, Canning can; but will he? I, for 
one, hope so. 



45* 



sont depraves, plus les expressions deviennent me- 
surees ; on croit regagner en langage ce qu'on a perdu 
en vertu." 

This is the real fact, as applicable lo the degraded 
and hypocritical mass which leavens the present Eng- 
lish generation, and is the only answer they deserve. 
The hackneyed and lavished title of Blasphemer — 
which, with Radical, Liberal, Jacobin, Reformer, &c., 
are the changes which the hirelings are daily ringing 
ill the ears of those who will listen — should be wel- 
come to all who recollect on whom it was originally 
bestowed. Socrates and Jesus Christ were put to death 
publicly as blasphemers, and so have been and may be 
many who dare to omxise the most notorious abuses of 
the name of God ana the mind of man. But persecu- 
tion is not refutation, nor even triumph : the " wretch- 
ed infidel," as he is called, is probably happier in his 
prison than the proudest of his assailants. With his 
opinions I have nothing to do — they may be right or 
wrong — but he has suffered for them, and that very 
suffering for conscience' sake will make more prose- 
lytes to deism than the example of heterodox 5 Pre- 
lates to Christianity, suicide statesmen to oppression, 
or overpensioned homicides to the impious alliance 
which insults the world with the name of "Holy!" 
I have no wish to trample on the dishonoured or the 
dead; but it would be well if the adherents to the 
classes from whence those persons sprung should abate 
a little of the cant which is the crying sin of this 
double-dealing and false-speaking time of selfish spoil- 
ers, and but enough for the present. 

Pisa, July, 1822. 



CANTO THE SIXTH 



" There is a tide in the affairs of men. 

Which, taken at the flood,"' — you know the rest,6 
And most of us have found it now and then ; 

At least we think so, though but few have guess'd 
The moment, till too late to come again. 

But no doubt every thing is for the best — 
Of which the surest sign is in the end : 
When things are at the worst they sometimes mend. 

H. 

There is a tide in the affairs of vromen, 

Which, taken at the flood, leads— God knows where: 
Those navigators must be able seamen 

Whose charts lay down its current to a hair; 
Not all the reveries of Jacob Behmen ^ 

With its strange whirls and eddies can compare: 
Men with their heads reflect on this and that — 
But women with their hearts on heaven knows what ! 

III. 

And yet a headlong, headstrong, downright she, 
Young, beautiful, and daring— who would risk 

A throne, the world, the universe, to be 
Beloved in her own way, and rather whisk 

The stars from out the sky, than not be free 
As are the billows when the breeze is brisk — 

Though such a she 's a devil (if that there be one), 

Yet she would make full many a Manichean. 



5 When Lord Sandwich said "he did not know the dif- 
ference between orthodoxy and heterodoxy," Warburton, 
the bishop, replied, "Orthodoxy, my lord, is my doxy, and 
heterodoxy is another man's doxy." A prelate of the 
present day has discovered, it seems, a third kind of doxy, 
which has not greatly exalted in the eyes of the elect, 
that which Bentham calls " Church-of-Euglandism." 

6 See Shakspeare, Julius Cesar, act iv. so. iii. 

7 A noted visionary, horn neor Gorliiz, in Upper Lues- 
tin, in 1576, and founder of the sect called Behmenites. 
He had numerous followers in Germany, and has not been 
without admirers in England; one of these, the famous 
William Law, author of the "Serious Call," edited an 
edition of his works. — E. 



534 



DON JUAN 



[Canto VI. 



IV. 

Thrones, worlds, et cetera, are so oft upset 
By commonest ambition, that when passion 

O'erthrows the same, we readily forget. 
Or at the least forgive, the loving rash one. 

If Antony be well reniembei'd yet, 
'T is not his conquests keep his name in fashion, 

But Actium, lost for Cleopatra's eyes, 

Outbalances all Caesar's victories. 

V. 

He died at fifty for a queen of forty ; 

I wibh their years had been fifieen and twenty. 
For then wealth, kingdoms, worlds are but a sport — I 

Remember when, though I had no great plenty 
Of worlds to lose, yet still, to pay my "court, I 

Gave what I had — a heart : as the world went, I 
Gave what was worth a world ; for worlds could never 
Restore me those pure feelings, gone for ever. 

VI. 

'T was the boy's " mite," and, like the " widow's," may 
Perhaps be vveigh'd hereafter, if not now ; 

But whether such things do or do not weigh, 
All who have loved, or love, will still allow 

Life has nought like it. God is love, they say, 
And Love 's a God, or was before the brow 

Of earth was wrinkled by the sins and tears 

Of — but Chronology best knows the years. 

VII. 
We left our hero and third heroine in 

A kind of state more awkward than uncommon. 
For gentlemen must sometimes risk their skin 

For that sad tempter, a forbidden woman : 
Sultans too much abhor this sort of sin, 

And don't agree at all with the wise Roman, 
Heroic, stoic Cato, the sententious. 
Who lent his lady to his friend Horlensius.i 

VIII. 

I know Gulbeyaz was extremely wrong; 

I own it, I deplore it, I condemn it ; 
But I detest all fiction even in song. 

And so must tell the truth, howe'er you blame it. 
Her reason being weak, her passions strong, 

She thought that her lord's heart (even could she 
claim it) 
Was scarce enough ; for he had fifty-nine 
Years, and a fifteen-hundredth concubine. 

IX. 

I am not, like Cassio, " an arithmetician," 
But by the " bookish theoric" it appears, 

If 't is summ'd up with feminine precision, 
That, adding to the account his Highness' years, 

The fair Sultana err'd from inanition ; 
For, were the Sultan just to all his dears. 

She could but claim the fifteen-hundredth part 

Of what should be monopoly — the heart. 

X. 

It is observed that ladies are litigious 

Upon all legal objects of possession. 
And not the least so when they are religious. 

Which doubles what they think of the transgression: 
With suits and prosecutions they besiege us. 

As the tribunals show through many a session, 
When they suspect that any one goes shares 
In that to which the law makes them sole heirs. 



1 Cato gave up his wife, Martia, to his friend Horten- 
sius; but, on the death of the latter, took her back again. 
This conduct was ridiculed by the Romans, who observ- 
ed, that Martia entered the house of Hortensius very 
poor, but returned to the bed of Cato loaded with trea- 
sures.— PLUTARCH. 



XI. 

Now if this holds good in a Christian land, 
The heathen also, though with lesser latitude, 

Are apt to carry things with a high hand. 

And take, what kings call •' an imposing attitude ; " 

And for their rights connubial make a stand, [tude ; 
When their liege husbands treat them with ingrati- 

And as four wives must have quadruple claii^s, 

The Tigris hath its jealousies like Thames. 

XII. 

Gulbeyaz was the fourth, and (as I snid) , 
The favourite ; but what 's favour amongst four ? 

Polygamy may well be held in dread, 
Not only as a sin, but as a bore: 

Most wise men with one moderate woman wed, 
Will scarcely find philosophy for more j 

And all (except Mahometans) forbear 

To make the nuptial couch a " Bed of Ware." 2 

XIIL 

His Highness, the sublimest of mankind,— 

So styled according to the usual forms 
Of every monarch, till they are consign'd 

To those sad hungry jacobins the worms, 
Who on the very loftiest kinsrs have dined, — 

His Highness gazed upon Gult>eyaz' charms, 
Expecting all the welcome of a lover 
(A " Highland welcome " 3 all the wide world over). 

XIV. 
Now here we should distinguish ; for howe'er 

Kisses, sweet words, embraces, and all that, 
May look like what is — neither here nor there, 

They are put on as easily as a hat. 
Or rather bonnet, which the fair sex wear, 

Trimm'd either heads or hearts to decorate, 
Which form an ornament, but no more part 
Of heads, than their caresses of the heart. 

XV. 
A slight blush, a soft tremor, a calm kind 

Of gentle feminine delight, and shown 
Morein the eyelids than the eyes, resign'd 

Rather to hide what pleases most unknown. 
Are the best tokens (to a modest mind) 

Of love, when seated on his loveliest throne, 
A sincere woman's breast, — for over-warm 
Or over-coW annihilates the charm. 

XVI. 

For over-warmth, if false, is worse than truth; 

If true, 't is no great lease of its own fire ; 
For no«ne, save in very early youth. 

Would like (I think) "to trust all to desire, 
Which is but a precarious bond, in sooth. 

And apt to be transferr'd to the first buyer 
At a sad discount : while your over-chilly 
Women, on t'other hand, seem somewhat silly. 

XVII. 

That is, we cannot pardon their bad taste, 
For so it seems to lovers swift or slow. 

Who fain would have a mutual flame confess'd, 
And see a sentimental passion glow. 

Even were St. Francis' paramour their guest, 
In his monastic concubine of snow ; — •* 

In short, the maxim for the amorous tribe is 

Horatian, "Medio tu tutissimus ibis." 



2 "At Ware, the inn known by the sign of the Sara- 
cen's Head, still contains the famous tied, measuring 
twelve feet square, to which an allusion is made by Shak- 
speare in 'Twelfth Night.' " — CLUTTERBUCK'S Herf- 
ford, vol. iii. p. 285.— E. 

3 See Waverley. 

4 " The blessed Francis, being strongly solicited one day 
by the emotions of the flesh, pulled off his clothes and 
scourged himself soundly : being after this inflamed with 
a wonderful fervour of mind, he plunged his naked body 
into a great heap of snow. The devil, being overcome, 
retired immediately, and the holy man returned victori- 
ous intohis cell." — See BUTLER'S Liven oj theSaints. 



Canto VL] 



DON JUAN. 



535 



XVIII. 

The " tu " 's too much,— but let it stand,— the verse 
Requires it, that 's to say, the Enslish rhyme, 

And not the pink of old hexameters ; 
But, after all, there's neither tune nor time 

In the last line, which cmuot well be worse, 
And was thrust in to close the octave's chime : 

I own no prosody can ever rate it 

As a rule, but truth may, if you translate it. 

XIX. 
If fair Gulbeyaz overdid her part, 

I know not — it succeeded, and success 
Is much in most things, not less in the heart 

Than other articles of female dress. 
Self-love in man, too, beats all female art ; 

They lie, we lie, all lie, but love no less : 
And no one virtue yet, except starvation, 
Could stop that worst of vices — propagation. 

XX. 

We leave this royal couple to repose : 
A bed is not a throne, and they may sleep, 

Whate'er their dreams be, if of joys or woes: 
Yet disappointed joys are woes as deep 

As any man's clay mixture undergoes. 

Our least of sorrows are such as we weep ; 

'T is the vile daily drop on drop which wears 

The soul out (like the stone) with petty cares. 

XXI. 

A scolding wife, a sullen son, a bill 

To pay, unpaid, protested, or discounted 

At a per-centage; fi child cross, dog ill, 
A favourite horse fallen lame just as he's mounted, 

A bad old woman making a worse will. 

Which leaves you minus of the cash you counted 

As certain; — these are paltry things, and yet 

1 've rarely seen the man they did not fret. 

XXII. 

I 'm a philosopher ; confound them all ! 

Bills, beasts and men, and — no ! not womankind ! 
With one good hearty curse I vent my gall. 

And then my stoicism leaves nought behind 
Which it can either pain or evil call. 

And I can give my whole soul up to mind ; 
Though what is soul or mind, their birth or growth, 
Is more than I know — the deuce take them both ! 

XXIII. 

So now all things are d— n'd one feels at ease, 

As after reading Athanasius' curse. 
Which doth your true believer so much please : 

I doubt if any now could make it worse 
O'er his worst enemy when at Jiis knees, 

'T is so sententious, positive, and terse, 
And decorates the book of Common Prayer 
As doth a rainbow the just clearing air. 

XXIV. 
Gulbeyaz and her lord were sleeping:, or 

At least one of them ! — Oh, the heavy night, 
When wicked wives, who love some bachelor, 

Lie down in dudgeon to sigh for the light 
Of the grey morning, and look vainly for 

Its twinkle through the lattice dusky quite — 
To toss, to tumble, doze, revive, and quake 
Lest their too lawful bed-fello<v should wake ! 

XXV. 

These are beneath the canopy of heaven, 

Also beneath the canopy of beds 
Four-posted and silk-curtain'd, which are given 

For rich men and their brides to lay Iheir heads 
Upon, in sheets while as what bards call "driven 

Snow." Well ! 't is all hap-hizard when one weds, 
Gulbeyaz was an empress, but had been 
Perhaps as wretched if a peasant's quean. 



XXVI. 
Don Juan in his feminine disguise. 

With all the damsels in their long array, 
Had bow'd themselves before th' imperial eyes, 

And at the usual signal ta'en their way 
Back to their chambers, those long galleries 

In the seraglio, where the ladies lay 
Their delic\te limbs ; a thousand bosoms there 
Beating for love, as the caged bird's for air. 

xxvn. 

I love the sex, and sometimes would reverse 
The tyrant's i wish, '• that mankind only had 

One neck, which he with one fell stroke might pierce :" 
My wish is quite as wide, but not so bad. 

And much more lender on the whole than fierce; 
It being (not now, but only while a lad) 

That womankind had but one rosy mouth, 

To kiss them all at once from North to South. 

XXVIII. 

Oh, enviable Briareus ! with thy hands 

And heads, if thou hadst all things multiplied 

In such proportion ! — But my Muse withstands 
The giant thought of being a Titan's bride, 

Or travelling in Patagonian lands; 
So let us tjack to Lilliput, and guide 

Our hero through the labyrinth of love 

In which we left him several lines above. 

XXIX. 

He went forth with the lovely Odalisques,^ 
At the given signal join'd to their array ; 

And though he certainly ran many risks. 
Yet he could not at times keep, by the way, 

(Although the consequences of such frisks 
Are worse than the worst damages men pay 

In moral England, where the thing's a tax,) 

From ogling all their charms from breasts to backs. 

XXX. 

Still he forgot not his disguise : — along 

The galleries from room to room they walk'd, 

A virgin-like and edifying throng. 
By eunuchs flank'd ; while at their head there stalk'd 

A dime who kept up discipline among 

The female ranks, so that none stirr'd or talk'd 

Without her sanction on their she-parades : 

Her title was " the Mother of the Maids." 

XXXI. 

Whether she was a " mother," I know not. 
Or whether they were "maids" who call'd her 

But this is her seraglio title, got [mother; 

I know not how, but good as any other ; 

So Cantemir 3 cm tell you, or De Tott : 4 
Her office was, to keep aloof or smother 

All bad propensities in hfteen hundred 

Young women, and correct them when they blunder'd. 

xxxn. 

A goodly sinecure, no doubt ! but made 
More easy by the absence of all men — 

Except his majesty,— w ho, with her aid, 
And guards, and bolt-;, and walls, and now and then, 

A slight example, just to cast a sh tde 
Along the rest, contrived to keep this den 

Of beauties cool as an Italian convent, 

Where all the passions have, alas I but one vent. 



1 Caligula --See Suetonius. "Being in a rage at the 
people, for favouring a parly in the Circensian games in 
opposition to him, he cried out, • I wish the Roman peo- 
ple had but one neck.' " 

2 The ladies of the seraglio. 

3 Demetrius Cantemir, a prince of Moldavia; whose 
" History of the Growth and Decay of the Ottoman Em- 
pire," was translated into English, by Tindal. He died 
in 1723.— E. 

4 "Memoirs of the State of the Turkish Empire, 
1785."— E. 



536 



DON JUAN 



[Canto VI. 



XXXIII. 
And what is that ? Devotion, doubtless — how 

Could you ask such a question ? — but we will 
Continue. As I said, this goodly row 

Of ladies of all countries at the will 
Of one good man, with stately march and slow, 

Like water-lilies floating down a rill — 
Or rather lake — for rills do not run slowly, — 
Paced on most maiden-like and melancholy. 

XXXIV. 

But when they reach'd their own apartments, there, 
Like birds, or boys, or bedlamites broke loose, 

Waves at spring-tide, or women anywhere 
When freed from bonds (which are of no great use 

After all), or like Irish at a fair. 
Their guards being gone, and as it were a truce 

Establish'd between them and bondage, Ihey 

Began to sing, dance, chatter, smile, and play. 

XXXV. 

Their talk, of course, ran most on the new comer ; 

Her shape, her hair, her air, her every thing : 
Some thought her dress did not so much become her, 

Or wonder'd at her ears without a ring ; 
Some said her years were getting nigh their summer, 

Others contended they were but in spring ; 
Some thought her rather masculine in height, 
While others wish'd that she had been so quite. 

XXXVL 

But no one doubted on the whole, that she 
W,\s what her dress bespoke, a damsel fair, 

And fresh, and " beautiful exceedingly," 
Who with the brightest Georgians i might compare: 

They wonder'd how Gulbeyaz, too, could be 
So silly as to buy slaves who might share 

(If that his Highness wearied of his bride) 

Her throne and power, and every thing beside. 

xxxvn. 

But what was strangest in this virgin crew, 
Although her beauty was enough to vex. 

After the first investigating view, 

They all found out as few, or fewer, specks 

In the fair form of their companion new. 
Than is the custom of the gentle sex. 

When they survey, with Christian eyes or Heathen, 

In a new face " the ugliest creature breathing." 

XXXVIIL 

And yet they had their little jealousies, 
Like all the rest ; but upon this occasion, 

Whether there are such things as sympathies 
Without our knowledge or our approbation, 

Although they could not see through his disguise, 
All felt a soft kind of concatenation, 

Like magnetism, or devil ism, or what 

You please — we will not quarrel about that : 

XXXIX. 

But certain 't is they all felt for their new 
Companion something newer still, as 'twere 

A sentimental friendship through and through. 
Extremely pure, which made them all concur 

In wishing her their sister, save a few 

Who wish'd they had a brother just like her, 

Whom, if they were at home in sweet Circassia, 

They would prefer to Padishah or Pacha. 



1 "It is in the adjacent climates of Georgia, Mingrelia, 
and Circassia, that nature has placed, at least to our eyes, 
the model of beauty, in the shape of the limbs, the colour 
of the skin, the symmetry of the features, and the ex- 
pression of the countenance; the men are formed for ac- 
tion, the women for love."— GIBBON. 

2 Padisha is the Turkish title of the Grand Signior. 



XL. 
Of those who had most genius for this sort 

Of sentimental friendship, there were three, 
Lolah, Katinka,3 and Dudu ; in short, 

(To save description)' fair as fair can be 
Were they, according to the best report. 

Though ditfering in stature and degree. 
And clime and time, and country and complexion; 
They all alike admired their new connection. 

XLI. 
Lolah was dusk as India and as warm ; 

Katinka was a Georgian, white and red, 
With great blue eyes, a lovely hand and arm, 

And feet so small they scarce seem'd made to tread, 
But rather skim the earth ; while Dudu's form 

Look'd more adapted to be put to bed, 
Being somewhat large, and languishing, and lazy, 
Yet of a beauty that would drive you crazy. 

XLIL 
A kind of sleepy Venus seem'd Dudu, 

Yet very fit to " murder sleep " in those 
Who gazed upon her cheek's transcendent hue. 

Her Attic forehead, and her Phidian nose : 
Few angles were there in her form, 'tis true. 

Thinner she might have been, and yet scarce lose ; 
Yet, after all, 't would puzzle to say where 
It would not spoil some separate charm to pare, 

XLIII. 
She was not violently lively, but 

Stole on your spirit like a May-day breaking; 
Her eyes were not too sparkling, yet, half-shut. 

They put beholders in a tender taking; 
She look'd (this simile's quite new) just cut 

From marble, like Pyg'malion's statue waking. 
The mortal and the marble s'ill at strife. 
And timidly expanding into life. 

XLIV. 
Lolah demanded the new damsel's name — 

"Juanna." — Well, a pretty name enough. 
Katinka ask'd her also whence she came — 

"From Spain."— "But where is Spain ?"—" Don't 
ask such s'uflf, 
Nor show your Georgian ignorance — for shame ! " 

Said Lolah, with an accent rather rough, 
To poor Katinka : " Spain's an island near 
Morocco, betwixt Egypt and Tangier." 

XLV. 
Dudu said nothing, but sat down beside 

Juanna, playing with her veil or hair ; 
And looking at her steadfastly, she sigh'd. 

As if she pitied her for being there, 
A pretty stranger, without friend or guide, 

And all abash'd, too, at the general stare 
Which welcomes hapless strangers in all places, 
With kind remarks upon their mien and faces. 

XLVI. 
But here the Mother of the Maids drew near. 

With, " Ladies, if is time to go to rest. 
I 'ni puzzled what to do with you, my dear," 

She added to Juanna, their new guest : 
"Your coming has been unexpected here, 

And every couch is occupied ; you had best 
Partake of mine ; but by to-morrow early 
We will have all things settled for you fairly." 

XLVI I. 

Here Lolah interposed — " Mamma, you know 
You don't sleep soundly, and I cannot bear 

That any body should disturb you so; 
I '11 take Juanna ; we 're a slenderer pair 

Than you would make the half of ; — don't say no ; 
And I of your young charge will take due care." 

But here Katinka interfered, and s:iid, 

" She also had compassion and a bed." 



3 Katinka was the name of the youngest of the three 
girls, at whose house Lord Byron resided while at Athens, 
in 1610.— E. I 



L' . 



Canto VI.J 



DON JUAN 



537 



XLVIII. 
" Besides, I hate to sleep alone," quoth she. 

The matron frown'd : " why so ? " — " For fear of 
ghosts," 
Replied Katinka ; " I am sore I see 

A phantom upon each of the four posts ; 
And then I have the worst dreams that can be, 

Of Guebres, Giaours, and Ginns, and Gouls in hosts." 
The dame replied, " Between your dreams and you, 
I fear Juanna's dreams would be but few. 

XLIX. 

"You, Lolah, must continue still to lie 
Alone, for reasons which don't matter; you 

The same, Katjnka, until by and by ; 
And I shall place Juanna with Dudu, 

"Who's quiet, inoffensive, silent, shy. 
And will not toss and chatter the night through. 

What say you, child ?" — Dudu said nothing, as 

Her talents were of the more silent class ; 



But she rose up, and kiss'd the matron's brow 

Between the eyes, and Lolah on both cheeks, 
Katinka too ; and with a gentle bow 

(Curt'sies are neither used by Turks nor Greeks) 
She took Juanna by the hand to show 

Their place of rest, and left to both their piques, 
The others pouting at the matron's preference 
Of Dudu, though they held their tongues from de- 
ference. 

LI. 
It was a spacious chamber (Oda is 

The Turkish title), and ranged round the wall 
Were couches, toilets — and much more than this 

I might describe, as I have seen it all, 
But it suffices — little was amiss ; 

'T was on the whole a nobly furnish'd hall, 
With all things ladies want, save one or two. 
And even those were nearer than they knew. 

LII. 

Dudu, as has been said, was a sweet creature. 
Not very dashing, but extremely winning, 

With the most regulated charms of feature. 
Which painters cannot catch like faces sinning 

Against proportion — the wild strokes of nature 
Which tliey hit off at once in the beginning, 

Full of expression, right or wrong, that strike. 

And pleasing, or unpleasing, still are like. 

LIII. 

I But she was a soft landscape of mild earth, 
I Where all was harmony, and calm, and quiet. 
Luxuriant, budding ; cheerful without mirth. 

Which, if not happiness, is much more nigh it 
Than are your mighty passions and so forth, 

Which some call " the sublime : " I wish they 'd 
try it : 
I 've seen your stormy seas and stormy women. 
And pity lovers rather more than seamen, 

LIV. 

But she was pensive more than melancholy. 
And serious more than pensive, and serene. 

It may be, more than either — not unholy 

Her thoughts, at least till now, appear to have been. 

The strangest thing was, beauteous, she was wholly 
Unconscious, albeit turn'd of quick seventeen, 

That she was fair, or dark, or short, or tall ; 

She never thought about herself at all. 

LV. 
And therefore was she kind and gentle as 

The Age of Gold (when gold was yet unknown, 
By which its nomenclature came to pass ; 

Thus most ai)propriately h^s been shown 
"Lucus a non lucendo," not what was, 

But what was not .; a sort of style that 's grown 
Extremely common in this age, whose metal 
The devil may decompose, but never settle : 



LVI. 

I think it may be of " Corinthian Brass," l 

Which was a mixture of all metals, tjut 
The brazen uppermost). Kind reader ! pass 

This long parenthesis : I could not shut 
It sooner for the soul of me, and class 

My faults even with your own ! which meaneth. Put 
A kind construction upon them and me : 
But that you won't — then don't — I am not less free. 

LVII. 
'T is time we should return to plain narration. 

And thus my narrative proceeds : — Dudu, 
With every kindness short of ostentation, 

Show'd Juan, or Juanna, through and through 
This labyrinth of females, and each station [few : 

Described — what's strange — in words extremely 
I have but one simile, and that 's a blunder, 
For wordless woman, which is silent thunder. 

LVIII. 
And next she gave her (I say her, because 

The gender still was epicene, at least 
In outward show, which is a saving clause) 

An outline of the customs of the East, 
With all their chaste integrity of laws. 

By which the more a harem is increased, 
The stricter doubtless grow the vestal duties 
Of any supernumerary beauties. 

LIX. 

And then she gave Juanna a chaste kiss : 
Dudu was fond of kissing — which I 'm sure 

That nobody can ever take amiss, 
Because 't is pleasant, so that it be pure, 

And between females means no more than this — 
That they have nothing better near, or newer. 

" Kiss " rhymes to " bliss" in fact as well as verse — 

I wish it never led to something worse. 

LX. 

In perfect innocence she then unmade 

Her toilet, which cost little, for she was 
A child of Nature, carelessly array'd : 

If fond of a chance ogle at her glass, 
'T was like the fawn, which, in the lake display 'd, 

Beholds her own shy, shadowy image pass, 
When first she starts, and then returns to peep, 
Admiring this new native of the deep. 

LXI. 
And one by one her articles of dress 

Were laid aside ; but i:ot before she ofFer'd 
Her aid to fair Juanna, whose excess 

Of modesty declined the assistance profFer'd: 
Which pass'd well off — as she could do no less; 

Though by this polifesse she rather suffer'd, 
Pricking her fingers with those cursed pins, 
Which surely were invented for our sins, — 

LXII. 
Making a woman like a porcupine, 

Not to be rashly touch'd. But still more dread. 
Oh ye ! whose fate it is, as once 't was mine, 

In early youth, to turn a lady's maid ; — 
I did my very boyish best to shine 

In tricking her out for a masquerade: 
The pins were placed sufficiently, but not 
Stuck all exactly in the proper spot. 

LXIII. 

But these are foolish things to all the wise, 
And I love wisdom more than she loves me J 

My tendency is to philosophise 
On most things, from a tyrant to a tree ; 

But still the spouseless virgin Knowledge flies. 

What are we ? and whence came we ? what shall be 

Our ultimate existence ? what 's our present? 

Are questions answerless, and yet incessant. 



1 This brass, eo famous in antiquity, is a mixture of 
gold, silver, and copper, and is supposed to have been pro- 
duced by the fusion of these metals, in which Corinth 
abounded, when it was sacked. — E. 



\ 



i 



538 



DON JUAJN 



[Canto VI. 



LXIV. 

There was deep silence in the chamber : dim 
And distant troin each other burn'd the lights, 

And slumber hover'd o'er each lovely limb 
Of the fair occupants : if there be ^p^ites, 

They should have vvalk'd there in their sprightlieat 
trim, 
By way of change from their sepulchral sites, 

And shown themselves as ghosts of better taste 

Than haunting some old ruin or wild waste. 

LXV. 

Many and beautiful lay those around, 

Like flowers of ditfereut hue, and clime, and root, 
In some exotic garden sometimes found. 

With co.>t, and care, and warmth induced to shoot. 
One with her auburn tresses lightly bound. 

And fair brows gently drooping, as the fruit 
Nods from the tree, was slumbering with soft breath, 
And lips apart, which show'd the pearls beneath. 

LXVI. 

One with her flush'd cheek laid on her white arm, 
And raven ringlets g.ither'd in dark crowd 

Above her brow, lay dreaming soft and warm ; 

And smiling through her dieam, as through a cloud 

The moon breaks, haFf uiiveird each further charm. 
As, slighily stirring in her snowy shroud. 

Her beauties seized the unconscious hour of night 

Ail bashfully to struggle into light. 

LXVII. 

This is no bull, although it sounds so ; for 

'I was night, but there were lamps, as hath been 
said. 
A third's all pallid aspect ofFer'd more 

The traits of sleeping sorrow, and betray'd 
Through the heaved breast the dream of some far shore 

Beloved and deplored ; while slowly strny'd 
(As night-dew, on a cypress glittering, tinges 
The black bough) tear-drops through her eyes' dark 
fringes. 

LXV III. 
A fourth as marble, statue-like and still, 

Lay in a breathless, hush'd, and stony sleep; 
White, cold, and pure, as looks a frozen rill, 

Or the snow minaret on an Alpine steep. 
Or Lot's wife done in salt, — or what you will ; — 

My similes are gather'd in a heap. 
So pick and choose — perhaps you '11 be content 
With a carved lady on a monument. 

LXIX. 

And lo ! a fifth appears ; — and what is she ? 

A lady of " a certain age," which means 
Certainly aged — what her years might be 

I know not, never counting past their teens; 
But there she slept, not quite so fair to see. 

As ere that awful period intervenes 
Which lays both men and women on the shelf, 
To meditate upon their sins and self. 

LXX. 

But all this time how slept, or dream'd, Dudu ? 

With strict inquiry I could ne'er discover. 
And scorn to add a syllable untrue; 

But ere the middle watch was hardly over, 
Just when the fading lamps waned dim and blue, 

And phantoms hover'd, or might seem to hover, 
To those who like their company, about 
The apartment, on a sudden she scream'd out: 

LXXL 

And that so loudly, that upstarted all 

The Oda, in a general commotion : 
Matron and maids, and those whom you may call 

Neither, came crowding like the waves of ocean, 
One on the other, throughout the whole hall. 

All trembling, wondering, without the least notion 
More than I have myself of what could make 
The calm Dudu so turbulently wake. 



LXXIL 

But wide awake she was, and round her bed, 
With floating draperies and wi'h flying hair, 

With eager eyes, and light but hurried tiead, 
And bosjnjs, arms, and ai.kles glancing bare. 

And bright as any meteor ever bied 
By the North Pole,— they sought her cause of care, 

For she seem'd agitated, flu>h'd, and frighten'd. 

Her eye dilated and her colour heighteu'd. 

LXXllL 

But what is strange — and a strong proof how great 

A blessing is sound sleep — Juanua lay 
As fast as ever husband by his mate 

In holy matrimony snores away. 
Not all the clamour b;oke her happy state 

Of slumber, ere they shook her, — so they say 
At least, — and ihen she, too, unclosed her eyes. 
And yawn'd a good deal w ith discreet surprise. 

LXXIV. 
And now commenced a strict investigation, 

Which, as all spoke at (nee, and more than once 
Conjecturing, woi.dering, asking a narration, 

Alike might puzzle either wil or dunce 
To answer In a very clear oration. 

Dudu had never pass'd for wanting sense, 
But, being " no orator as Brutus is," 
Could not at first expound what was amiss. 

LXXV. 
At length she said, that in a slumber sound 

She dream'd a dream, of walking in a wood — 
A '• wood obscure," like that where Dan'e found 

Himself in at the age when all grow good ; 
Life's half-way house,where dames with virtue crown'd 

Run much less risk of lovers turning rude ; 
And that this wood was full of pleasant fruits, 
And trees of goodly growth and spreading roots; 

LXXVI. 
And in the midst a golden apple grew, — 

A most prodigious pippin — but it hung 
Rather too high and distant ; that she threw 

Her glances on it, and then, longing, flung 
Stones and w hatever she could pick up, to 

Bring down the fruit, which still perversely clung 
To its own bough, and dangled yet in sight. 
But always at a most provoking height; — 

LXXVIL 

That on a sudden, when she least had hope. 

It fell down of its own accord before 
Her feet ; that her first movement was to stoop 

And pick it up, and bite it to the core; 
That just as her young lip began to ope 

Upon the golden fruit the vision bore, 
A bee flew out, ai:d stung her to the heart, 
And so — she woke with a great scream and start. 

LXXVIIL 
All this she told with some confusion and 

Dismay, the usual con^equence of dreams 
Of the unpleasant kind, with n^ne at hand 

To expound their vain and visionary gleams. 
I 've known some odd ones which seem'd really plann'd 

Prophetically, or that which one deems 
A " strange coincidence," to use a phra>e 
By which such things are settled now-a-days.i 

LXXIX. 
The damsels, who had thoughts of some great harm, 

Began, as is the consequence of fear, 
To scold a little at the filse alarm 

That broke for nothing on their sleeping ear. 
The matron, too, was wroth to leave her warm 

Bed f r the dream she had been oblijed to hear. 
And chafed at poor Dudu, who only sigh'd, 
And said, that she was sorry she had cried. 



1 One of the advocates employed for Queen Caroline in 
the House of Lords, upoke of some of the most puzzling 
passaces in the history of her intercourse with Bergami.as 
amounting to " odd instances of strange coincidence." — E. 



Canto VL] 



DON JUAN, 



539 



LXXX. 

" I 've heard of stories of a cock and bull ; 

But visions of an apple and a bee, 
To take us from our natural rest, and pull 

The whole Oda from their beds at half-past three, 
Would make us think the moon is at its full. 

You surely are unweli, child! we must see, 
To-morrow, what his IJi^hness's physician 
Will say to this hysteric of a vision. 

LXXXI. 

"And poor Juanna, too, the child's first night 
Within these walls, to be broke in upon 

With such a clamour— I had thought it right 
Th it the young stranger should not lie alone, 

And, as the quietest of all, she might 

With you, Dudu, a good night's rest have known J 

But DOW I must transfer her to the charge 

Of Lolah — though her couch is not so large." 

LXXXII. 

Lolah's eyes sparkled at the proposition; 

But poor Dudu, with 1 irge drops in her own, 
Resulting from the scolding or the vision, 

Implored that present pardon might be shown 
For this first fault, and that on no condition 

(She added in a soft and piteous tone) 
Juanna should be taken from her, and 
Her future dreams should be all kept in hand. 

LXXX! I r. 

She promised never more to have a dream, 
At least to dream so loudly as just now ; 

She wonder'd at herself how she could scream — 
'T was foolish, nervous, as she must allow, 

A ftmd hallucination, and a theme 

For laughter — but she felt her spirits low, 

And begg'd they would excuse her ; she 'd get over 

This weakness in a few hours, and recover. 

LXXXIV. 

And here Juanna kindly interposed, 

And said she felt herself extremely well 

Where she then was, as her sound sleep disclosed. 
When all around rana: like a locsin bell : 

She did not find herself the least disposed 
To quit her gentle partner, and to dwell 

Apart from one who had no sin to show 

Save that of dreaming once " mal-a-propos." 

LXXXV. 

As thus Juanna spoke, Dudu turn'd round 
And hid her face within Juanna's breast : 

Her neck alone was seen, but that was found 
The colour of a budding rose's crest. 

I can't tell why she blush'd, nor cm expound 
The mystery of this rupture of their rest j 

All that I know is, that the facts I state 

Are true as truth has ever been of late. 

LXXXVI. 

And so good night to them — or, if you will, 

Good morrow — for the cock had crown, and light 

Began to clothe each Asiatic hill, 
And the mosque crescent struggled into sight 

Of the long caravan, which in the chill 

Of dewy dawn wound slowly round each height 

That stretches to the stony belt, which girds 

Asia, where Kaff looks down upon the Kurds. 

LXXXVII. 

With the first ray, or rather grey of morn, 
Gulbeyaz rose from restlessness; and pale 

As Passion rises, with its bosom worn, 
Array'd herself with mantle, gem, and veil: 

The nightingale that sings with the deep thorn, 
Which fable places in her breast of wail. 

Is lighter far of heart and voice than those 

Whose headlong passions form their proper woes. 



Lxxxviir. 

And that 's the moral of this composition, 
If people would but see its real drift ; — 

But that they will not do without suspicion, 
Because all gentle readers have the gift 

Of closing 'gainst the light their orbs of vision ; 
While genile writers also love to lift 

Their voices 'gainst each other, which is natural. 

The numbers are too great for them to flatter all. 

LXXXIX. 

Rose the sultana from a bed of splendour. 
Softer than the soft Sybarite's, who cried 

Aloud because his feelings were too tender 
To biook a ruffled rose-leaf by his side, — 

So beautiful that art could little mend her, 

Though pale with conflicts between love and pride; — 

So agitated was she with her error. 

She did not even look into the mirror, 

XC. 
Also arose about the self-same time. 

Perhaps a little later, her great lord. 
Master of thirty kingdoms so sublime. 

And of a wife by whom he was abhorr'd; 
A thing of much less import in that clime — 

At least to those of incomes which afford 
The filling up their whole connubial cargo — 
Than where two wives are under an embargo. 

XCI. 

He did not think much on the matter, nor 

Indeed on any other: as a man 
He liked to have a handsome paramour 

At hand, as one may like to have a fan, 
And therefore of Circassians had good store, 

As an amusement after the Divan ; 
Though an unusual fit of love, or duty. 
Had made him lately bask in his bride's beauty. 

XCII. 

And now he rose ; and after due ablutions 

Exac'ed by the customs of the East, 
And prayers and other pious evolutions. 

He drank six cups of coffee at the least. 
And then withdrew to hear about the Russians, 

Whose victories had recently increased 
In Catherine's reign, whom glory still adores. 
As greatest of all sovereigns and w s. 

XCIII. 

But oh, thou grand legitimate Alexander! 

Her son's son, let not this last phrase offend 
Thine ear, if it should reach — and now rhymes wander 

Almost as far as Petersburgh, and lend 
A dreadful impulse to each loud meander 

Of murmuring Liberty's wide waves, which blend 
Their roar even with the Baltic's — so you be 
Your father's son, 't is quite enough for me. 

XCIV, 

To call men love-begotten, or proclaim 
Their mothers as the antipodes of Timon, 

That hater of mankind, would be a shame, 
A libel, or whate'er you please to rhyme on : 

But people's ancestors are hist 'ry's game ; 
And if one lady's slip could leave a crime on 

All generations, I should like to know 

What pedigree the best would have to show ? 

XCV. 
Had Catherine and the sultan understood 

Their own true interests, which kings rarely know. 
Until 't is taught by lessons rather rude. 

There was a way to end 'heir strife, although 
Perhaps precarious, had they but thought good, 

Without the aid of prince or plenipo : 
She to dismiss her guards and he his harem. 
And for their other matters, meet and share 'em. 






540 



DON JUAN 



[Canto VI. 



XCVI. 
But as it was, his Highness had to hold 

His daily council upon ways and means 
How to encounter with this martial scold, 

This modern Amazon and queen of queans; 
And the perplexity could not be told 

Of all the pillars of the state, which leans 
Sometimes a little heavy on the backs 
Of those who cannot lay on a new tax. 

XCVII. 
Meantime Gulbeyaz, when her king was gone, 

Retired into her boudoir, a sweet place 
For love or breakfast ; private, pleasing, lone, 

And rich with all contrivances which grace 
Those gay recesses : — many a precious slone 

Sparkled along its roof, and many a vase 
Of porcelain held in the fetter'd flowers, 
Those captive soothers of a captive's hours. 

xcvni. 

Mother of pearl, and porphyry, and marble, 
Vied with each other on this costly spot ; 

And singing birds wi'hout were heard to warble; 
And ttie stain'd glass which lighted this fair grot 

Varied each ray ; — but all descriptions garble 
The true efiFect, and so we had belter not 

Be too minule; an outline is the best, — 

A lively reader's fancy does the rest. 

XCIX. 

And here she summon'd Baba, and required 
Don Juan at his hands, and information 

Of what had pass'd since all the slaves retired. 
And whether he had occupied their station : 

If matters had been managed as desired, 
And his disguise with due consideration 

Kept up ; and above all, the where and how 

He had pass'd the night, was what she wish'd to know. 



Baba, with some embarrassment, replied 
To this long catechism of questions, ask'd 

More easily than answer'd,— that he had tried 
His bestto obey in what he had been task'd ; 

But there seem'd something that he wish'd to hide. 
Which liesitation more hetray'd than mask'dj 

He scratched his ear, the infillible resource 

To which embarrass'd people have recourse. 

CI. 

Gulbeyaz was no model of true patience, 
Nor much disposed to wait in word or deed j 

She liked quick answers in all conversations; 
And when she saw him stumbling like a s'eed 

In his replies, she puzzled him for fresh ones; 
And as his speech grew still more broken-kneed. 

Her cheek began to tlush, her eyes to sparkle. 

And her proud brow's blue veins to swell and darkle. 

CII. 

When Biba saw the=e symptoms, which he knew 
To bode him no great good, he deprecated 

Her anger, and beseech'd she 'd hear him through — 
He could not help the thing which he related : 

Then out it came at length, that to Dudu 
Juan was eiven in charge, as hath been stated; 

But not by Baba's fault, he said, and swore on 

The holy camel's hump, besides the Koran. 

CHI. 

The chief dame of the Oda, upon whom 
The discipline of the whole harem bore, 

As soon as they re-enter'd their own room, 
For Baba's function stopt short at the door. 

Had settled all ; nor could he then presume 
(The aforesaid Baba) just then to do more, 

Without exciting s' ch suspicion as 

Might make the matter still worse than it was. 



CIV. 
He hoped, indeed he thought, he could be sure, 

Juan had not betray'd himself; in fact 
'T was certain that his conduct hnd been pure, 

Because a foolish or imprudent act 
Would not alone have made him insecure, 

But ended in his being found out and sacVd, 
And thrown into the sea. — Thus Baba spoke 
Of all save Dudu's dream, which was no joke. 

CV. 

This he discreetly kept in the back ground. 
And talk'd away — and might have talk'd till now, 

For any further answer that he found, 

So deep an anguish wrung Gulbeyaz' brow : 

Her cheek turn'd ashes, ears rung, brain whirl'd round, 
As if she had received a sudden blow. 

And the heart's dew of pain sprang fast and chilly 

Oer her fair front, like Morning's on a lily. 

CVI. 

Although she was not of the fainting sort, 
Baba thought she would faint, but there he err'd — 

It was but a convulsion, which though short 
Can never be described ; we all have heard. 

And some of us have felt thus "■all amort,''^ 

When things beyond the common have occurr'd j — 

Gulbeyaz proved in that brief agony 

What she could ne'er express — then how should I ? 

CVII. 

She stood a moment as a Pythoness 

Stands on a tripod, agonised, and full 
Of inspiration gather'd from distress, 

When all the heart-s'rings like wild horses pull 
The heart asunder ; — then, as more or less 

Their speed abated or their strength grew dull, 
She sunk down on her seat by slow degrees. 
And bow'd her throbbing head o'er trembling knees. 

CVIII. 

Her face declined and was unseen ; her hair 
Fell in long tresses like the weeping willow, 

Sweeping the marble underneath her chair. 
Or rather sofa, (for it was all pillow, 

A low, soft ottoman,) and black despair 

Stirr'd up and down her bosom like a billow, 

Which rushes to some shore whose shingles check 

Its farther course, but must receive ils wreck. 

CIX. 

Her head hung down, and her long hair in stooping 
Conceal'd her features better than a veil ; 

And one hand o'er the ottoman lay drooping. 
White, waxen, and as alabaster pale : 

Would that I were a painter ! to be grouping 
All that a poet drags into detail ! 

Oh that my words were colours ! but their tints 

May serve perhaps as outlines or slight hints. 

ex. 

Baba, who knew by experience when to talk 
And when to hold his tongue, now held it till 

This passion might blow o'er, nor dared to balk 
Gulbeyaz' taciturn or speaking will. 

At length she rose up, and began to walk 
Slowly along the room, but silent still, 

And her brow clear'd, but not her troubled eye ; 

The wind was down, but still the sea ran high. 

CXI. 

She stopp'd, and raised her head to speak — but paused. 
And then moved on again with rapid pace ; 

Then slacken'd it, which is the march most caused 
By deep emotion : — you may sometimes trace 

A feeling in each footstep, as disclosed 
By Sallust in his Catiline, who, chased 

By all the demons of all passions, show'd 

Their work even by the way in which he trode. 



Canto VII.] 



DON JUAN. 



541 



cxii. 

Gulbeyaz stopp'd and beckon'd Baba : — *' Slave ! 

Bring the two slaves ! " she said in a low tone, 
But one which Baba did not like to brave, 

And yet he shudder'd, and t^eem'd rather prone 
To prove reluctant, and beg^g'd leave to crave 

(Though he well knew the meaning) to be shown 
What slaves her highness wi-h'd to indicate, 
For fear of any error, like the late. 

CXIII. 
** The Georgian and her paramour," replied 

The imperial bride — and added, "Let the boat 
Be ready by the secret portal's side : 

You know the rest." The words stuck in her throat. 
Despite her injured love and fiery pride; 

And of this Baba willingly took note. 
And begg'd by every hair of Mahomet's beard, 
She would revoke the oider he had heard. 

CXIV. 
" To hear is to obey," he said ; <' but still, 

Sultana, think upon the consequence: 
It is not that I shall not all fulfil 

Your orders, even in their severest sense; 
But such precipitation may end ill. 

Even at your own imperative expense: 
I do not mean destruction and exposure, 
In case of any premature disclosure; 

cxv. 

"But your own feelings. Even should all the rest 
Be hidden by the rolling waves, which hide 

Already many a once love-beaten breast 
Deep in the caverns of the deadly tide — 

You love this boyish, new, seraglio guest, 
And if this violent remedy be tried — 

Excuse my freedom, when I here assure you, 

That killing him is not the way to cure you." 

CXVI. 

" What dost thou know of love or feeling ? —Wretch ! 

Begone ! " she cried, with kindling eyes — " and do 
My bidding ! " Baba vanish'd, for to stretch 

His own remonstrance further he well knew 
Might end in acting as his own " Jack Ketch ; " 

And though he wish'd extremely to get through 
This awkward business without harm to others, 
He still preferr'd his own neck to another's. 

CXVII. 

Away he went then upon his commission, 
Growling and grumbling in good Turkish phrase 

Against all women of whate'er condition, 
Especially sultanas and their ways; 

Their obstinacy, pride, and indecision. 
Their never knowing their own mind two days, 

The trouble that they gave, their immorality, 

Which made him daily bless his own neutrality. 

CXVIII. 

And then he call'd his brelhren to his aid. 
And seat one on a summons to the pair, 

That they must instantly be well array'd. 
And above all be comb'd even to a hair. 

And brought before the empress, who had made 
Inquiries after them with kindest care : 

At which Dudu look'd strange, and Juan silly ; 

But go they must at once, and will I — nill I. 

CXIX. 

And here I leave them at their preparation 
For the imperial presence, wherein whether 

Gulbeyaz show'd them both commiseration, 
Or got rid of the parties altogether. 

Like other angry ladies of her nation, — 
Are things the turning of a hair or feather 

May settle ; but far be 't from me to anticipate 

Id what way feminine caprice may dissipate. 

46 



CXX. 

I leave them for the present with good wishes. 
Though doubts of their well doing, to arrange 

Another part of history; for the dishes 
Of this our banquet we must sometimes change; 

And trusting Juan may escape the fishes, 
Although his situation now seems strange 

And scarce secure, as such digressions are fair, 

The Muse will lake a little touch at warfare. 



CANTO THE SEVENTH. 
I. 

Love ! Glory ! what are ye who fly 

Around us ever, rarely to alight ? 
There 's not a meteor in the polar sky 

Of such transcendent and more fleeting flight. 
Chill, and chain'd to cold earth, we lift on high 

Our eyes in search of either lovely light ; 
A thousand and a thousand colours they 
Assume, then leave us on our freezing way. 

IL 

And such as they are, such my present tale is, 
A non-descript and ever-varying rhyme, 

A versified Aurora Borealis, 

Which flashes o'er a waste and icy clime. 

When we know what all are, we must bewail us. 
But ne'ertheless I hope it is no crime 

To laugh at all things — for I wish to know 

What, after all, are all things — but a show ? 

III. 

They accuse me — Afe — the present writer of 
The present poem — of— I know not what — 

A tendency to under-rafe and scoflf 

At human power and virtue, and all that ; 

And this they say in language rather rough. 
Good God ! I wonder what they would be at ! 

1 say no more than hath been said in Dante's 
Verse, and by Solomon and by Cervantes ; 

IV. 

By Swift, by Machiavel, by Rochefoucault, 
By Fenelon, by Lu'her, and by Plato; 

By Tillotson, and Wesley, and Rousseau, 
Who knew this life was not worth a potato. 

'T is not their fault, nor mine, if this be so — 
For my part, I pretend not to be Cato, 

Nor even Diogenes.— We live and die. 

But which is best, you know no more than I. 



Socrates said, our only knowledge was [sant 

"To know that nothing could be known ;" a plea- 
Science enough, which levels to an ass 

Each man of wisdom, future, past, or present. 
Newton (that proverb of the mind), alas ! 

Declared, with all his grand discoveries recent, 
That he himself felt only " like a youth 
Picking up shells by the great ocean — Truth." 

VI. 

Ecclesiastes said, " that all is vanity " — 
Most modern preachers say the same, or show it 

By Iheir examples of true Christianity : 

In short, all know, or very soon may know it ; 

And in this scene of all-confess'd inanity. 
By saint, by sage, by preacher, and by poet. 

Must I restrain me, through the fenr of strife, 

From holding up the nothingness of life ? 

VII. 

Dogs, or men ! — for I flatter you in saying 
That ye are dogs — your betters far — ye may 

Read, or read not, what I am now essaying 
To show ye what ye are in every way. 

As little as the moon stops for the baying 
Of wolves, will the bright muse withdraw one ray 

From out her skies — then howl your idle wrath! 

While she still silvers o'er your gloomy path. 



542 



DON JUAN 



[Canto VII. 



VIII. 

"Fierce loves and faithless wars " — I am not sure 
If this be the right reading — 'tis no matter j 

The fact 's about the same, I am secure ; 
I sing them both, and am about to batter 

A town which did a famous siege endure, 
And was beleaguer'd both by land and water 

By Souvarofi, or Anglice Suwarrow, 

Who loved blood as an alderman loves marrow. 

IX. 

The fortress is call'd Ismail, and is placed 
Upon the Danube's left branch and left bank, 

With buildings in the Oriental taste, 
But still a fortress of the foremost rank, 

Or was at least, unless 't is since defaced, 
Which with your conquerors is a common prank ; 

It stands some eighty versts from the high sea, 

And measures round of toises thousands three. 



Within the extent of this fortification 
A borough is c-omprised along the height 

Upon the left, which fnm its loftier stafion 
Commands the city, and upon its site 

A Greek h id raised around this elevation 
A quantity of palisades upright, 

So placed as to impede the tire of those 

Who held the place, and to assist the foe's. 

XI. 

This circumstance may serve to give a notion 
Of the h'gh talents of this new Vauban : 

But the town ditch below was deep as ocean. 
The rampart higher than you'd wish to hang: 

But then there was a great want of precaution 
(Prithee, excuse this engineering slang), 

Nor work advanced, nor cover'd way \vas there, 

To hint at least " Here is no thoroughfare." 

XII. 

But a stone bastion, with a narrow gorge, 
And walls as thick as most skulls born as yet ; 

Two batteries, cap-a-pie, as our St. George, 
Case-mated i one, and t' other " a barbette," 2 

Of Danube's bank took formidable charge; 
While two and twenty cannon duly set 

Rose over the town's right side, in bristling tier, 

Forty feet high upon a cavalier. 

XIII. 

But from the river the town 's open quite, 
Because the Turks could never be persuaded 

A Russian vessel e'er would heave in sight ; 
And such their creed was, till they were invaded, 

When it grew rather late to set things right : 
But as the Danube cnuld not well be waded, 

They look'd upon the Muscovite flotilla. 

And only shouted, " Allah 1 " and " Bis Millah ! " 

XIV. 

The Russians now were ready to attack ; 

But oh, ye goddesses of war and glory ! 
How shall I spell the mme of each Cossacque 

Who were immortal, could one tell their story ? 
Alas ! what to their memory can lack ? 

Achilles' self was not more grim and gory 
Than thousands of this new and polish'd nation. 
Whose names want nothing but — pronunciation. 



1 Casemate is a work made under the rampart, like a 
cellar or cave, with loopholes to place guns in it, and is 
bombproof. — Milit. Dict.— E. 

2 When the breastwork of a battery is only of such 
height that the guns may fire over it without being 
obliged to make embrasures, the guns are said to fire Id 
barbet.— 76irf.— K. 



XV. 
Still I '11 record a few, if but to increase 

Our euphony : there was Strongenotf, and Strokonoff, 
Meknop, Serge Low, Arsniew of modern Greece, 

And Tschitsshakoff, and Roguenoft", and ChokenofF, 
And others of twelve consonan's apiece ; 

And more might be found out, if 1 could poke enough 
Into gazettes ; but Fame (capricious strumpet). 
It seems, has got an ear as well as trumpet, 

XVI. 

And cannot tune those discords of narration. 
Which may be names at Moscow, into rhyme ; 

Yet there were several worth commemoration, 
As e'er was virgin of a nuptial chime; 

Soft words, too, fi:ted for the peroration 
Of Londonderry drawling against time, 

Ending in " ischskin," " ousckin,' " itfskchy," "ouski," 

Of whom we can insert but Rousamouski, 

XVII. 

Scherematoff and Chrematoff, Koplophti, 
Koclobski, Kourakin, and Mouskin Pouskin, 

All proper men of weapons, as e'er scofF'd high 
Against a foe, or ran a sabre through skin: 

Little cared they for Mahomet or Mufti, 
Unless to make their kettle drums a new skin 

Out of their hides, if parchment had grown dear, 

And no more handy substiiu'e been near. 

XVIII. 
Then there were foreigners of much renown, 

Of various nations, and all volunteers; 
Not fighting for their country or its crown, 

But wishing to be one day brigadiers; 
Also to have the sacking of a town ; 

A pleasant thing to young men at their years. 
'Moiigst them were severaf Englishmen of pith, 
Sixteen called Thomson, and nineteen named Smith. 

XIX. 
Jack Thomson and Bill Thomson ; — all the rest 

Had been call'd ."/emm?/," after the great bar4; 
I don't know whether they had arms or crest. 

But such a godfather 's as good a card. 
Three of the Smiths were Peters ; but the best 

Amongst them all, hard blows to inflict or ward. 
Was he, since so renown'd " in country quarters 
At Halifax ; " but now he served the Tartars. 

XX. 

The rest were Jacks and Gills and Wills and Bills, 
But when I 've added that the elder Jack Smith 

Was born in Cumberland among the hills, 
And that his father was an honest blacksmith, 

I 've said all / know of a name that fills 
Three lines of the despatch in taking " Schmack- 
smith," 

A village of Moldavia's waste, wherein 

He fell,' immortal in a bulletin. 

XXL 

I wonder (although Mars no doubt 's a god I 

Praise) if a man's name in a bulletin 
May make up for a hitUet in his body? 

I hope this little question is no sin, 
Because, though I am but a simple noddy, 

I think one Shakspeare puts the same thought in 
The mouth of some one in his plays so doting, 
Which many people pass for wits by quoting. 

XXII. 

Then there were Frenchmen, gallant, young, and gay: 

But I 'm too great a patriot to record 
Their Gallic names upon a glorious day ; 

I 'd rather tell ten lies thin say a word 
Of truth ; — such truths are treason ; they betray 

Their country ; and as traitors are abhorr'd. 
Who name the French in English, save to show 
How Peace should make John Bull the Frenchman's 
foe. 



f 



Canto VII.] 



DON JUAN. 



543 



XXIII. 

The Russians, having built two batteries on 
An isle near Ismail, had two ends in view ; 

The first was to bonnbard it, and knock down 
The public buildings and tlie private too, 

No matter what poor souls might be undone. 
The city's shape su|2;ested this, 't is true ; 

Forni'd like an amphitheatre, each dwelling 

Presented a fine mark to throw a shell in. 

XXIV. 

The second object was to profit by 

The moment of the general consternation, 

To attack the Turk's flotilla, which lay nigh 
Extremely tranquil, anchor'd at its station : 

But a third motive was as probably 
To frighten them into capitulation ; 

A phantasy which sometimes seizes warriors. 

Unless they are game as bull-dogs and fox-terriers. 

XXV. 
A habit rather blamable, which is 

That of despising those we combat with, 
Common in many cases, was in this 

The cause of killing TchitchitzkofF and Smith ; 
One of the valorous '• Smiths" whom we sh^ll miss 

Out of those nineteen who late rhymed to " pith ; " 
But 't is a name so spread o'er " Sir " and " Madam," 
That one would think the first who bore it " Adam." 

XXVI. 

The Russian batteries were incomplete, 
Because they were constructed in a hurry ; 

Thus the same cause which makes a verse want feet. 
And throws a cloud o'er Longman and John Murray, 

When the sale of new books is not so fleet 
As they who prinf them think is necessary. 

May likewise put off for a time what story 

Sometimes calls " murder," and at others " glory." 

XXVII. 

Whether it was their engineer's stupidity, 
Their haste, or waste, I neither know nor care, 

Or some contractor's personal cupidity, 
Saving his soul by cheating in the ware 

Of homicide, but there was no solidity 
In the new batteries erected there ; 

They either miss'd, or they were never miss'd, 

And added greatly to the missing list. 

XXVIII. 

A sad miscalculation about distance 
Made all their naval matters incorrect ; 

Three fireships lost their amiable existence 
Before they reach'd a spot to take effect: 

The match was lit too soon, and no assistance 
Could remedy this lubberly defect ; 

They blew up in the middle of the river, 

While, though 't was dawn, the Turks slept fast as 
ever. 

XXIX. 

At seven they rose, however, and survey'd 

The Russ flotilla getting under way ; 
'T was nine, when still advancing undismay'd, 

Within a cable's length their vessels lay 
Off Ismail, and commenced a cannonade. 

Which was returned with interest, I may say, 
And by a fire of musketry and grape. 
And shells and shot of every size and shape. 

XXX. 

For six hours bore they without intermission 
The Turkish fire, and, aided by their own 

Land batteries, work'd lljeirguns with great precision; 
At length they found mere cannonade alone 

By no means would produce the town's submission, 
And made a signal to retreat at one. 

One bark blew up, a second near the works 

Running aground, was taken by the Turks. 



XXXI. 

The Moslem, too, had lost both ships and men ; 

But when they saw the enemy retire. 
Their Delhis i mann'd some boats, and sail'd again, 

And gall'd the Russians with a heavy fire, 
And tried to make a landing on the main ; 

But here the effect fell short of their desire: 
Count Damas drove them back in'o the water 
Pell-mell, and with a whole gazeUe of slaughter. 

XXXII. 

" If," (says the historian here) " I could report 
All that the Russians did upon this day, 

I think that several volumes would fall short, 
And I should still have many things to snyj" 

And so he says no more — but pavs his court 
To some distin^uish'd strangers in that fray ; 

The Prince de Ligne, and Langeron, and Damas, 

Names great as any that the roll of Fame has. 

XXXIII. 

This being the case, may show us what Fame is: 
For out of these three '■^preux Chevaliers," how 

Many of common readers give a guess 

That such existed ? (and they may live now 

For aught we know.) Renown's all hit or miss ; 
Tliere 's fortune even in fame, we must allow. 

'T is true, the Memoirs 2 of the Prince de Ligne 

Have half withdrawn from him oblivion's screen. 

XXXIV. 

But here are men who fought in gallant actions 

As gallantly as ever heroes fought, 
But buried in the heap of such transactions 

Their names are rarely found, nor often sought, 
Thus even good fame may suffer sad contractions, 

And is extinguish'd sooner than she ought : 
Of all our modern battles, I will bet 
You can't repeat nine names from each Gazette. 

XXXV. 

In short, this last attack, though rich in glory, 
Show'dthat somewhere, somehow, there was a fault, 

And Admiral Ribas (known in Russian story) 
Most strongly recommended an assault; 

In which he was opposed by young and hoary, 
Which made a long debate ; but 1 must halt, 

For if I wrote down every warrior's speech, 

I doubt few readers e'er would mount the breach. 

XXXVI. 

There was a man, if that he was a man. 

Not that his manhood could be call'd in question, 

For had he not been Hercules, his span 
Had been as short in youth as indigestion 

Made his last illness, when, all worn and wan. 
He died beneath a tree, as much unblest on 

The soil of the green province he had wasted, 

As e'er was locust on the land it blasted. 



XXXVII. 

This was Potemkin — a great thing in days 
When homicide and harlotry made great; 

If stars and titles could entail long praise. 
His glory might half equal his estate. 

This fellow, being six foot high, could raise 
A kind of phantasy proportionate 

In the then sovereign of the Ru-sian people, 

Who measured men as you would do a steeple. 

1 "Properly madmen : a species of troops, who, in the 
Turkish army, act as the forlorn hope." — D'HERBE- 
LOT.~E. 

2 " Letters and Reflections of the Austrian Field-Mar- 
ehal, Charles Joseph, Prince de Lipne, edited by the Baro- 
ness de Stael-Holstein," 2 vols. 1809.— E. 



544 



DON JUAN 



[Canto VII. 



XXXVIII. 

While things were in abeyance, Ribas sent 
A courier to the prince, and he succeeded 

In ordering matters after his own bent ; 
I cannot tell the way in which he pleaded, 

But shortly he had cau-e to be content. 
In the mean time, the bitteries proceeded, 

And fourscore cannon on the Danube's border 

Were briikly fired and answer'd in due order. 

XXXIX. 

But on the thirteenth, when already part 

Of the troops were embark'd, the siege to raise, 

A courier on the spur inspired new heart 
Into all panters for newspaper praise, 

As well as dilettanti in war's art. 
By his despatches couch'd in pithy phrase ; 

Announcing the appointment of that lover of 

Battles to the command, Field-Marshal Souvaroflf. 

XL. 

The letter of the prince to the same marshal 
Was worthy of a Spartan, had the cause 

Been one to which a good heart could be partial — 
Defence of freedom, country, or of laws ; 

But as it was mere lust of power to o'er-arch all 
With its proud brow, it merits slight applause. 

Save for its style, which said, all in a trice, 

"You will take Ismail at whatever price." 

XLI. 

" Let there be light ! said God, and there was light ! " 
" Let there be blood ! " says man, and there 's a sea ! 

The fiat of this spoll'd child of the Night 
(For Day ne'er saw his merits) could decree 

More evil in an hour, than thirty bright 

Summers could renovate, though they should be 

Lovely as those which ripen'd Eden's fruit ; 

For war cuts up not only branch, but root. 

XLII. 

Our friends, the Turks, who with loud " Allahs " now 

Began to signalise the Russ retreat, 
Were damnably mistaken ; few are slow 

In thinking that their enemy is beat, 
(Or beaten, if you insist on grammar, though 

I never think about it in a heat,) 
But here I say the Turks were much mistaken, 
Who hating hogs, yet wish'd to save their bacon. 

XLin. 

For, on the sixteenth, at full gallop, drew 
In sight two horsemen, who were deem'd Cossacques 

For some time, till they came in nearer view. 
They had but little baggage at their backs, 

For there were but three shirts between the two; 
But on they rode upon two Ukraine hacks. 

Till, in approaching, were at length descried 

In this plain pair, Suwarrow and~his guide. 

XLIV. 

" Great joy to London now ! " says some great fool. 
When London had a grand illumination. 

Which to that bottle-conjuror. John Bull, 
Is of all dreams the first hallucination ; 

So that the streets of colour'd lamps are full, 
That Sage {said John) surrenders at discretion 

His purse, his soul, his sense, and even his nonsense, 

To gratify, like a huge moth, this one sense. 

XLV. 
'T is strange that he should farther ** damn his eyes," 

For they are damn'd ; that once all-famous oath 
Is to the devil now no farther prize, 

Since John has lately lost the use of both. 
Debt he calls wealth, and taxes Paradise; 

And Famine, wiih her gaunt and bony growth, 
Which stare him in the face, he won't examine, 
Or swears that Ceres bath begotten Famine. 



XLVL 

But to the tale ; — great joy unto the camp I 

To Russian, Tartar, English, French, Cossacque, 

O'er whom Suwarrow shone like a gas-lamp, 
Presaging a most luminous attack ; 

Or like a wisp along the marsh so damp, 
Which leads beholders on a boggy walk, 

He flitted to and fro a dancing light, 

Which all who saw it foUow'd, wrong or right. 

XLVII. 

But certes matters took a different face ; 

There was enthusiasm and much applause, 
The fleet and cimp saluted with great grace. 

And all presaged good fortune to their cause. 
Within a cannon-shot length of the place 

They drew, constructed ladders, repair'd flaws 
In former works, made new, prepared fascines, 
And all kinds of benevolent machines. 

XLvin. 

'T is thus the spirit of a single mind 

Makes that of multitudes take one direction, 
As roll the \^■aters to the breathing wind, 

Or roams the herd beneath the bull's protection ; 
Or as a little dog will lead the blind, 

Or a bell-wether form the flock's connection 
By tinkling sounds, when they go forth to victual ; 
Such is the sway of your great men o'er little. 

XLIX. 
The whole camp rung with joy ; you would have 
thought 

That they were going to a marriage feast 
(This metaphor, I think, holds good as aught, 

Since there is discord after both at least): 
There was not now a luggage boy but sought 

Danger and spoil with ardour much increased; 
And why .■" because a little — odd — old man, 
Stript to his shirt, was come to lead the van. 

L. 
But so it was ; and every preparation 

Was made with all alacrity : the first 
Detachment of three columns took its station 

And waited but the signal's voice to burst 
Upon the foe : the second's ordination 

Was also in three columns, with a thirst 
For glory gaping o'er a sea of slaughter : 
The third, in columns two, attack'd by water. 

LI. 

New batteries were erected, and was held 
A general council, in which unanimity, 

That stranger to most councils, here prevail'd. 
As sometimes liappens in a great extremity j 

And every diflSculty being dispell'd, 
Glory began to dawn with due sublimity, 

While Souvarotf, determined to obtain it, 

Was teaching his recruits to use the bayonet.i 

LIL 

It is an actual fact, that he, commander 
In chief, in proper person deign'd to drill 

The awkward squad, and could afford to squander 
His time, a corporal's duty to fulfil ; 

Just as you 'd break a sucking salamander 
To swallow flame, and never take it ill : 

He show'd them how to mount a ladder (which 

Was not like Jacob's) or to cross a ditch. 

Lin. 

Also he dress'd up, for the nonce, fascines 
Like men with turbans, scimitars, and dirks. 

And made them charge with bayonets these machines 
By way of lesson against actual Turks ; 

And when well practised in these mimic scenes. 
He judged them proper to assail the works ; 

At which your wise men sneer'd in phrases witty : 

He made no answer : but he took the city. 



1 Fact : Suwarrow did this in pereon. 



- 



Canto VII.J 



DON JUAN. 



545 



LIV. 

Most things were in this posture on the eve 
Of the ;)ssault, and al! the camp was in 

A stern repose ; which you would scarce conceive ; 
Yet men resolved to dish through thick and thin 

Are very silent when they once believe 
That all is settled : — tliere was little din, 

For some were thinking of their home and friends, 

And others of themselves and latter ends. 

LV. 

Suwarrow chiefly was on the alert, 

Surveying, drilling, ordering, jesting, pondering, 
For the man was, we safely may assert, 

A thing to wonder at beyond most wondering; 
Hero, burtbon, halt-demon, and half-dirt, 

Praying, instructing, desolating, plundering; 
Now Mars, now Momus ; and vvhen bent to storm 
A fortress, Harlequin in uniform. 

LVI. 

The day before the assault, while upon drill — 
For this great conqueror play'd the corporal — 

Some Cossacques, hovering like hawks round a hill. 
Had met a party towards the twilight's fall, 

One of whom spoke their tongue — or well or ill, 
'T was much that he was understood at all ; 

But whether from his voice, or speech, or manner. 

They found that he had fought beneath their banner. 

Lvn. 

Whereon immediately at his request 

They brought him and his comrades to head-quarters; 
Their dress was Moslem, but you might have guess'd 

That these were merely masquerading Tartars, 
And that beneath each Turkish-fashion'd vest 

Lurk'd Christianity ; which sometimes barters 
Her inward grace for outward show, and makes 
It difficult to shun some strange mistakes. 

Lvni. 

Suwarrow, who was standing in his shirt 
Before a company of Calmucks, drilling. 

Exclaiming, fooling, swearing at the inert, 
And lecturing on the noble art of killing, — 

For deeming human clay but common dirt, 
This great philosopher was thus instilling 

His maxims, which to martial comprehension 

Proved death in battle equal to a pension ; — 

LIX. 

Suwarrow, when he saw this company, 

Of Cossacques and their prey, turn'd round and cast 
Upon them his slow brow and piercing eye : — 

" Whence come ye ?"— " From Constantinople last, 
Captives just now escap'd," was the reply. 

" What are ye ? " — " What you see us." Briefly 
pass'd 
This dialogue ; for he who answer'd knew 
To whom he spoke, and made his words but few. 

LX. 

" Your names ? " — <' Mine 's Johnson, and my com- 
rade 's Juan ; 

The other two are women, and the third 
Is neither man nor woman." The chief threw on 

The party a slight glance, then said, " I have heard 
Your name before, the second is a new one: 

To bring the other three here was absurd : 
But let that pass : — I think I have heard your name 
Id the Nikolaiew regiment ? " — '< The same." 

LXI. 

« You served at Widdin ? » — " Yes." — " You led the 
attack?" 

" I did."—" What next ? "— *' I really hardly know." 
" You were the first i' the breach ?"—" I was not slack 

At least to follow those who might be so." 
" What follow'd ? " — "A shot laid me on my back. 

And I became a prisoner to the foe." 
" You shall have vengeance, for the town surrounded 
Is twice as strong as that where you were wounded. 



Lxn. 

" Where will you serve ? " — " Where'er you please." 
— "I know 

You like to be the hope of the forlorn. 
And doubtless would be foremost on the foe 

After the hardships you 've have already borne. 
And this young fellow — say what can he do ? 

He with ihe beardless chin and garments torn ?" 
" Why, general, if he hath no greater fault 
In war than love, he had better lead the assault." 

Lxni. 

" He shall if that he dare." Here Juan bow'd 
Low as the compliment deserv'd. Suwarrow 

Continued : " Your old regiment 's allow'd. 
By special providence, ^o lead to-morrow, 

Or it may be to-night, the assault : I have vow'd 
To several saints, that shortly plough or harrow 

Shall pass o'er what was Ismail, and its tusk 

Be unimpeded by the proudest mosque. 

LXIV. 

" So now, my lads, for glory ! " — Here he turn'd 
And drill'd away in the most classic Russian, 

Until each high, heroic bosom burn'd 

For cash and conquest, as if from a cushion 

A preacher had held forth (who nobly spurn'd 
All earthly goods save tithes), and bade them push on 

To slay the P.tgans who resisted, battering 

The armies of the Christian Empress Catherine. 

LXV. 

Johnson, who knew by this long colloquy 
Himself a favourite, ventured to address 

Suwarrow, though engaged with accents high 
In his resumed amusement, *' I confess 

My debt in being thus allow'd to die 
Among Ihe foremost ; but if you 'd express 

Explicitly our several posts, my friend 

And self "would know what duty to attend." 

LXVI. 

"Right ! I was busy, and forgot. Why, you 
Will join your former regiment, which should be 

Now under arms. Ho ! Katskoff, take him to — 
(Here he call'd up a Polish orderly) 

His post, I mean the regiment Nikolaiew: 
The stranger stripling may remain with me; 

He 's a fine boy. The women may be sent 

To the other baggage, or to the sick tent." 

LXVII. 

But here a sort of scene began to ensue : 

The ladies, — who by no means had been bred 

To be disposed of in a way so new. 
Although their harem education led 

Doubtless to that of doctrines the most true. 
Passive obedience, — now raised up the head. 

With flashing eyes and starting tears, and flung 

Their arms, as hens their wings about their young, 

LXVIII. 

O'er the promoted couple of brave men 
Who were thus honour'd by the greatest chief 

That ever peopled liell with heroes slain. 
Or plunged a province or a realm in grief. 

Oh, foolish mortals ! Always taught in vain ! 
Oh, glorious laurel ! since for one sole leaf 

Of thine imaginary deathless tree, 

Of blood and tears must flow the unebbing sea. 

LXIX. 

Suwarrow, who had small regard for tears. 
And not much sympathy for blood, survey'd 

The women with their hair about their ears, 
And natural agonies, with a slight shade 

Of feeling : for however habit sears 
Men's hearts against whole millions, when their 
trade 

Is butchery, sometimes a single sorrow 

Will touch even heroes — and such was Suwarrow. 



46* 



35 



546 



DON JUAN 



[Canto VII. 



LXX, 

He said, — and in the kindest Calmuck tone, — 
" Why, Johnson, what the devil do you mean 

By bringing women here ? They shall be shown 
All the attention possible, and seen 

In safety to the wagons, where alone 
In fact they can be safe. You should have been 

Aware this kind of baggage never thrives : 

Save wed a year, I hate recruits with wives." 

LXXI. 

"May it please your excellency," thus replied 
Our British friend, " these are the wives of others, 

And not our own. I am too qualified 
By service with my military brothers 

To break the rules by bringing one's own bride 
Into a camp : I know that nought so bothers 

The hearts of the heroic on a charge, 

As leaving a small family at large. 

LXXII. 

*' But these are but two Turkish ladies, who 

With their attendant aided our escape, 
And afterwards accompanied us through 

A thousand perils in this dubious shape. 
To me this kind of life is not so new ; 

To them, poor things, it is an awkward scrape, 
I therefore, if you wish me to fight freely. 
Request that they may both be used genteelly." 

LXXII I. 

Meantime these two poor girls, with swimming eyes, 
Look'd on as if in doubt if they could trust 

Their own protectors ; nor was their surprise 
Less than tlieir grief (and truly not less just) 

To see an old man, rather wild than wise 
In aspect, plainly clad, besmear'd with dust, 

Stript to his waistcoat, and that not too clean. 

More fear'd than all the sultans ever seen. 

LXXIV. 

For every thing seem'd resting on his nod, 
As they could read in all eyes. Now to them, 

Who were accustom'd, as a sort of god, 
To see the sultan, rich in many a gem, 

Like an imperial peacock stalk abroad 
(That royal bird, whose tail 's a diadem,) 

With all the pomp of power, it was a doubt. 

How power could condescend to do without. 

LXXV. 

John Johnson, seeing their extreme dismay, 
Though little versed in feelings oriental. 

Suggested some slight comfort in his way : 
Don Juan, who was much more sentimental. 

Swore they should see him by the dawn of day, 
Or that the Russian army should repent all : 

And, strange to say, they found some consolation 

In this — for females like exaggeration. 

LXXVI. 

And then with tears, and sighs, and some sliffht kisses, 
They parted for the present — these to await, 

According to the artillery's hits or misses, 

What sages call Chance, Providence, or Fate — 

(Uncertainly is one of many blisses, 
A mortgage on Humanity's estate) — 

While their beloved friends began to arm, 

To burn a town which never did them harm. 

LXXVII. 

Suwarrow, — who but saw things in the gross, 
Being much too gross to see them in detail, 

Who calculated life as so much dross. 
And as the wind a widow'd nation's wail, 

And cared as little for his army's loss 

(So that their efforts should at length prevail) 

As wife and friends did for the boils of Job, — 

What was't to him to hear two women sob? 



LXXVIIL 

Nothing. — The work of glory still went on 

In preparations for a cannonade 
As terrible as that of Uion, 

If Homer had found mortars ready made j 
But now, instead of slaying Priam's son, 

We only can but talk of escalade. 
Bombs, drums, guns, bastions, batteries, bayonets, 

bullets; 
Hard words, which stick in the soft Muses' gullets. 

LXXIX. 

Oh, thou eternal Homer ! who couldst charm 
AH ears, though long ; all ages, though so short. 

By merely wielding with poetic arm 
Arms to which men will never more resort, 

Unless gunpowder should be found to harm 
Much less than is the hope of every court. 

Which now is leagued young Freedom to annoy ; 

But they will not find Libeny a Troy : — 

LXXX. 

Oh, thou eternal Homer ! I have now 
To paint a siege, wherein more men were slain, 

With deadlier engines and a speedier blow, 
Than in thy Greek gazette of that campaign; 

And yet, like all men else, I must allow, 
To vie with thee would be about as vain 

As for a brook to cope with ocean's flood ; 

But still we moderns equal you in blood; 

LXXXL 

If not in poetry, at least in fact ; 

And fact is truth, the grand desideratum ! 
Of which, howe'er the Muse describes each act. 

There should be ne'ertheless a slight substratum. 
But now the town is going to be attack'd ; 

Great deeds are doing — how shall I relate 'em ? 
Souls of immortal generals ! Phoebus watches 
To colour up his rays from your despatches. 

LXXXII. 

Oh, ye great bulletins of Buonaparte ! 

Oh, ye less grand long lists of kill'd and wounded ! 
Shade of Leonidss, who fought so hearty. 

When my poor Greece was once, as now, sur- 
rounded ! 
Oh, Cjesar's Commentaries ! now impart, ye 

Shadows of glory ! (lest I be confounded) 
A portion of your fading twilight hues. 
So beautiful, so fleeting, to the'Muse. 

LXXXIII. 

When I call " fading " martial immortality, 
I mean, that every age and every year. 

And almost every day, in sad reality, 
Some sucking hero is cornpell'd to rear. 

Who, when we come to sum up the totality 
Of deeds to human happiness most dear, 

Turns out to be a butcher in great business. 

Afflicting young folks with a sort of dizziness. 

LXXXIV. 

Medals, rank, ribands, lace, embroidery, scarlet, 
Are things immortal to immortal man. 

As purple to the Babyl'^nian harlot: 
An uniform to boys is like a fan 

To women ; there is scarce a crimson varlet 
But deems himself the first in Glory's van. 

But Glory 's glory ; and if you would find 

What that is — ask the pig who sees the wind ! 

LXXXV. 
At least he feels it, and some say he sees, 

Because he runs before it like a pig ; 
Or, if that simple sentence should displease, 

Say, that he scuds before it like a brig, 
A schooner, or — but it is time to ease 

This Canto, ere my Mu>e perceives fatigue. 
The next shall ring a peal to shake all people, 
Like a bob-major from a village steeple. 



Canto VIII.] 



DON JUAN. 



547 



LXXXVI. 

Hark ! through the silence of the cold, dull night, 
The huiri of armies gathering rank on rank ! 

Lo ; dusky masses steal in dubious sight 
Along the leaguer'd wail and bristling bank 

Of the arm'd river, while with straggling light 
The stars peep through the vapours dim aiid dank, 

Which curl in curious wreaths : — how soon the smoke 

Of Hell shall pall them in a deeper cloak ! 

LXXXVII. 
Here pause we for the present — as even then 

That awful pause, dividing life from death, 
Struck for an instant on the hearts of men, 

Thousands of whom were drawing their last breath! 
A moment — and all will be life again ! 

The march ! the charge ! the shouts of either faith ! 
Hurra ! and Allah ! and — one moment more — 
The death-cry drowning in the battle's roar. 



CANTO THE EIGHTH. 



Oh, blond and thunder! and oh, blood and wounds ! 

These are but vulgar oaths, as you may deem. 
Too genUe reader 1 and most shocicing sounds: 

And so they are ; yet thus is Glory's dream 
Unriddled, and as my true Muse expounds 

At present such things, since they are her theme, 
So be they her inspirers ! Call them Mars, 
Bellona, what you will — they mean but wars. 

n. 

All was prepared — the fire, the sword, the men 

To wield them in their terrible array. 
The army, like a lion from his den, 

March'd forth with nerve and sinews bent to slay,— 
A human Hydra, issuing from its fen 

To breathe destruction on its winding way, 
Whose heads were heroes, which cut off in vain 
Immediately in others grew again. 

III. 
History can only take things in the gross ; 

But could we know them in detail, perchance 
In balancing the profit and the loss. 

War's merit it by no means might enhance. 
To waste so much gold for a little dross, 

As hath been done, mere conquest to advance. 
The drying up a single tear has more 
Of honest f.ime, than shedding seas of gore. 

IV. 
And why ? — because it brings self-approbation ; 

Whereas the other, after all its glare, 
Shouts, bridges, arches, pensions fmm a nation, 

Which (it may be) has not much left to spare, 
A higher title, or a loftier station, 

Though they may make Corruption gape or stare. 
Yet, in the end, except in Freedom's battles, 
Are nothing but a child of Murder's rattles. 

V. 
And such they are — and such they will be found : 

Not so Leonidas and Washington, 
Whose every bittle-field is holy ground, 

Which breathes of nations saved, not worlds undone, 
How sweetly on the ear such echoes sound ! 

While the mere victor's may appal or stun 
The servile and the vain, such names will be 
A watchword till the future shall be free. 

VI. 

The night was dark, and the thick mist allow'd 
Nought to be seen save the artillery's tl mie. 

Which arch'd the horizon like a tiery cloud. 
And in the Danube's waters shone the same — 

A mirror'd hell ! the volleying roar, and Imd 
Long booming of each peal on peal, o'ercame 

The ear far more than thunder; for Heaven's flashes 

Spare, or smite rarely— man's make millions ashes ! 



VII. 

The column order'd on the assault scarce pass'd 

Beyond the Russian batteries a few toises, 
When up the bristling Moslem rose at last. 

Answering the Christian thunders with like voices: 
Then one vast hre, air, earth, and stream embraced, 

Which rock'd as 't were beneath the mighty noises ; 
While the whole rampart blazed like Etna, when 
The restless Titan hiccups in his den : 

VIII. 
And one enormous shout of " Allah ! " rose 

In the same moment, loud as even the roar 
Of war's most mortal engines, to their foes 

Hurling defiance : city, stream, and shore 
Resounded " Allah ! " and the clouds which close 

With thick'ning canopy the contiict o'er. 
Vibrate to the Eternal name. Hark! through 
All sounds it pierceth — " Allah ! Allah ! Hu ! " i 

IX. 

The columns were in movement one and all. 

But of the portion which atiack'd by water, 
Thicker than leaves the lives began to fall. 

Though led by Arseniew, that great son of slaughter, 
As brave as ever faced both bomb and ball. 

"Carnage," (so Wordsworth tells you) " is God's 
daughter : "2 
If he speak truth, she is Christ's sister, and 
Just now behaved as in the Holy Land. 

X. 
The Prince de Ligne was wounded in the knee ; 

Count Chapeau-Bras, too, had a ball between 
His cap and head, which proves the head to be 

Aristocratic as was ever seen, 
Bee i use it then received no injury 

More than the cap; in fact, the ball could mean 
No harm unto a right legitimate head : 
" Ashes to ashes " — why not lead to lead ? 

XL 

Also the General Markow, Brigadier, 

Insisting on removal of the prince 
Amidst some groaning thousands dying near, — 

All common fellows who might writhe and wince. 
And shriek for water into a deaf ear, — 

The General Markow, who could thus evince 
His sympathy for rank, by the same token. 
To teach him greater, had his own leg broken. 

XIL 

Three hundred cannon threw up their emetic, 
And thirty thousand muskets flung their pills 

Like hail, to make a bloody diuretic. 
Mortality ! thou hast thy monthly bills: 

Thy plagues, thy famines, thy physicians, yet tick. 
Like the death-wa'ch, wihin our ears the ills 

Past, present, and to come ; — but all may yield 

To the true portrait of one battle-iield. 

XI IL 

There the still varying pangs, which multiply 
Until their very number makes men hard 

By the infinilies of agnny. 

Which meet the gaze, whate'er it may regard — 

The groan, the roll in dust, the all-white eye 
Turn'd back within its socket,- these reward 

Your rank and file by thousands, while the rest 

May win perhaps a riband at the breast ! 

1 Allah Hu ! is properly the war-cry of the Mussulmans, 
and they dwell on the last syllable, which gives it a wild 
and peculiar effect. 

2 " But Thy* most dreaded instrument 

In wtirking i>ut a pure inient, 

Is man array'd for mutual slaughter; 

Yea, Carnage is thy daughter ! " 

VVOKDSWOUl H'S Thanksgiving Ode. 

*To wit, the Deity's : this is perhaps as pretty a pedi- 
gree for murder as ever wns found out by Gnrler King at 
Arms.--AVhat would have been said, had any free-spoken 
people discovered such a lineage? 



i.,4«.,.ii-«^ »..'K,... . ... ^^Ajm^nprnm^'^' 



mmmmfmm 



548 



DON JUAN 



[Canto VIII. 



XIV. 
Yet I love glory ; — glory's a great thing : — 

Think what it is to be in your old age 
Maintain'd at the expense of your good king: 

A moderate pension shakes'full many a sage, 
And heroes are but made for bards to sing, 

Which is still better ; thus in verse to wage 
Your wars eternally, besides enjoying 
Half-pay for life, make mankind worth destroying. 

XV. 

The troops, already disembark'd, push'd on 
To take a battery on the i ight : the others, 

Who landed lower down, their landing done, 
Had set to work as briskly as their brothers : 

Being grenadiers, they mounted one by one, 
Cheerful as children climb the breasts of mothers, 

O'er the entrenchment and the palisade, 

Quite orderly, as if upon parade. 

XVI. 

And this was admirable ; for so hot 
The fire was, that were red Vesuvius loaded, 

Besides its lava, with all sorts of shot 
And shells or hells, it could not more have goaded. 

Of officers a third fell on the spot, 
A thing which victory by no means boded 

To gentlemen engaged in the assault : 

Hounds, when the huntsman tumbles, are at fault. 

XVII. 

But here I leave the general concern, 
To track our hero on his path of fame : 

He must his laurels separately earn ; 

For fifty thousand heroes, name by name, 

Though all deserving equally to turn 
A couplet, or an elegy to claim, 

Would form a lengthy lexicon of glory. 

And what is worse still, a much longer story : 

XVIII. 

And therefore we must give the greater number 
To the Gazette — which doubtless fairly dealt 

By the deceased, who lie in famous slumber 
In ditches, fields, or wheresoe'er they felt 

Their clay for the last lime their souls encumber ; — 
Thrice happy he whose name has been well spelt 

In the despatch : I knew a man whose loss 

Was printed Grove, although his name was Grose.i 

XIX. 
Juan and Johnson join'd a certain corps, 

And fought away with might and main, not knowing 
The way which they had never trod before. 

And still less guessing where they might be going j 
But on they march'd, dead bodies trampling o'er. 

Firing, and thrusting, slashing, sweating, glowing. 
But fighting thoughtlessly enough to win. 
To their two selves, one whole bright bulletin. 

XX. 

Thus on they wallow'd in the bloody mire 
Of dead and dying thousands, — sometimes gaining 

A yard or two of ground, which brought them nigher 
To some odd angle for which all were straining j 

At other times, repulsed by the close fire. 

Which really pour'd as if all hell were raining 

Instead of heaven, they stumbled backwards o'er 

A wounded comrade, sprawling in his gore. 



1 A fact : see the Waterloo Gazettes. I recollect re- 
marking at the time to a friend: — "There \s fame ! a 
man is killed, his name isGrose, and they print itGrove." 
I was at college with the deceased, who was a very ami- 
able and clever man, and hie society in great request for 
his wit, gaiety, and "Chansons a boire." 



XXI. 

Though 't was Don Juan's first of fields, and though 

The nightly muster and the silent march 
In the chill dark, when courage does not glow 

So much as under a triumphal arch. 
Perhaps might make him shiver, yawn, or throw 

A glance on the dull clouds (as thick as starch, 
Which stitfen'd heaven) as if he wish'd for day ; — 
Yet for all this he did not run away. 

XXII. 
Indeed he could not. But what if he had ? 

There have been and are heroes who begun 
With something not much better, or as bad : 

Frederic ihe Great from Molwitz deign'd to run 
For the first and last time ; for, like a pad, 

Or hawk, or bride, most mortals after one 
Warm bout are broken into their new tricks, 
And fight like fiends for pay or politics. 

XXIII. 
He was what Erin calls, in her sublime 

Old Erse or Irish, or it may be Punic ; — 
(The antiquarians 2 who can settle time. 

Which settles all things, Roman, Greek, or Runic, 
Swear that Pat's language sprung from the same clime 

With Hannibal, and wears the Tyrian tunic 
Of Dido's alphabet ; and this is rational 
As any other notion, and not national) ; — 

XXIV. 

But Juan was quite " a broth of a boy," 
A thing of impulse and a child of song; 

Now swimming in the sentiment of joy, 

Or the sensation (if that phrase seem wrong), 

And afterward, if he must needs destroy, 
In such good company as always throng 

To battles, sieges, and that kind of pleasure, 

No less delighted to employ his leisure; 

XXV. 

But always without malice : if he warr'd 
Or loved, it was with what we call " the best 

Intentions," which form all mankind's trump card. 
To be produced when brought up to the test. 

The statesman, hero, harlot, lawyer — ward 
Off each attack, when people are in quest 

Of their designs, by saying they meant ivcll ; 

'T is pity " that such meaning should pave hell." 3 

XXVI. 

I almost lately have begun to doubt 

Whether hell's pavement — if it be so paved — 
Must not have latterly been quite worn out. 

Not by the numbers good intent hath saved. 
But by the mass who go below without 

Those ancient good intentions, which once shaved 
And smooth'd the brimstone of that s'reet of hell 
Which bears the greatest likeness to Pall Mall. 

XXVII. 

Juan, by some strange chance, which oft divides 
Warrior from warrior in their grim career. 

Like chastest wives from constant husbands' sides 
Just at the close of the first bridal year. 

By one of those odd turns of Fortune's tides, 
Was on a sudden rather puzzled here. 

When, after a good deal of heavy firing. 

He found himself alone, and friends retiring. 

XXVIII. 
I don't know how the thing occurr'd — it might 

Be that the greater part were kill'd or wounded, 
And that the rest had faced unto the right 

About ; a circumstance which has confounded 
Caesar himself, who, in the very sight 

Of his whole army, which so much abounded 
In courage, was obliged to snatch a shield, 
And rally back his Romans to the field. 



2 See General Valaucey and Sir Lawrence Parsons. 

3 The Portuguese proverb says, that " hell is paved with 
good intentions." 



Canto VIII.] 



DON JUAN. 



549 



XXIX. 

Juan, who had no shield to snatch, and was 

No Csesar, but a line young lad, who fought 
He knew not why, arriving at this pass, 

Stop[)'d for a minute, as perhaps he ought 
For a much longer time ; Ihen, like an ass — 

(Start not, kind reader, since great Homer thought 
This simile enough for Ajax, Juan 
Perhaps may find it better than a new one) ; — 

XXX. 
Then, like an ass, he went upon his way, 

And what was stranger, never look'd behind j 
But seeing, flashing forward, like the day 

Over the hills, a fire enough to blind 
Those who di>like to look upon a fray. 

He stumbled on, to try if he could find 
A path to add his own slight arm and forces 
To corps, the greater part of which were corses. 

XXXI. 

Perceiving then no more the commandant 

Of his own corps, nor even the corps, which had 
Quite disappear'd — the gods know how ! (1 can't 

Account for every thing which may look bad 
In history ; but we at least may grant 

It was not marvellous that a mere lad, 
In search of glory, should look on before. 
Nor care a pinch of snuff about his corps :) — 

XXXII. 
Perceiving nor commander nor commanded. 

And left at large, like a young heir, to make 
His way to — where he knew not — single-handed j 

As travellers follow over bog and brake 
An " ignis fatuus ; " or as sailors stranded 

Unto the nearest hut themselves betake; 
So Juan, following honour and his nose, 
Rush'd where the thickest fire announced most foes. 

XXXIII. 
He knew not where he was, nor greatly cared, 

For he was dizzy, busy, and his veins 
Fill'd as wiih lightning — for his spirit shared 

The hour, as is the case with lively brains ; 
And where the hottest fire was seen and heard. 

And the loud cannon peal'd his hoarsest strains, 
He rush'd, while earth and air were sadly shaken 
By thy humane discovery, Friar Bacon ! i 

XXXIV. 
And as he rush'd along, it came to pass he 

Fell in with what was late the second column, 
Under the orders of the General Lascy, 

But now reduced, as is a bulky volume, 
Into an elegant extract (much less massy) 

Of heroism, and took his place with solemn 
Air 'midst the rest, who kept their valiant faces 
And levell'd weapons still against the glacis. 

XXXV. 
Just at this crisis up came Johnson too. 

Who had " retreated," as the phrase is when 
Men run away much rather than go through 

Destruction's jaws into the devil's den ; 
But Johnson was a clever fellow, who 

Knew when and how " to cut and come again," 
And never ran away, except when running 
Was nothing but a valorous kind of cunning. 

XXXVI. 
And so, when all his corps were dead or dying, 

Except Don Juan, a mere novice, whose 
More virgin valour never dreamt of flying. 

From ignorance of danger, which endues 
Its votaries, like innocence relying 

On its own strength, with careless nerves and 
Johnson retired a little, just to rally [thews,— 

Those who catch cold in *' shadows of Death's valley." 



1 Gunpowder is said to have been discovered by this 
friar. [Though Friar Bacon seems to tiave discovered 
gunpowder, he had the humanity not to record his dis- 
covery in intelligible language.— E.] 



XXXVII. 

And there, a little shelter'd from the shot, 
Which rain'd from bastion, battery, parapet, 

Rampart, wall, casement, house — for there was not 
In this extensive city, sore beset 

By Christian soldiery, a single spot 

Which did not combat like the devil, as yet, — 

He found a number of Chasseurs, all scatter'd 

By the resistance of the chase they batler'd. 

XXXVIII. 

And these he call'd on ; and, what 's strange, they came 

Unto his call, unlike " the spiiits from 
The vasty deep," to whom you may exclaiin. 

Says Hotspur, long ere they will leave their home. 
Their reasons were uncertainty, or shame 

At shrinking from a bullet or a bomb, 
And that odd impulse, which in wars or creeds 
Makes men, like cattle, follow him who leads. 

XXXIX. 

By Jove ! he was a noble fellow, Johnson, 

And though his name, than Ajax or Achilles 
Sounds less harmonious, underneath the sun soon 

We shall not see his likeness : he could kill his 
Man quite as quietly as blows the monsoon 

Her steady breath (which some months the same 
Seldom he varied feature, hue, or muscle, {still is) : 
And could be very busy without bustle ; 

XL. 
And therefore, when he ran away, he did so 

Upon reflection, knowing that behind 
He would find others who would fain be rid so 

Of idle apprehensions, which like wind 
Trouble heroic stomachs. Though their lids so 

Oft are soon closed, all heroes are not blind, 
But when they light upon immediate death, 
Retire a little, merely to take breath. 

XLI. 
But Johnson only ran off", to return 

With many other warriors, as we said, 
Unto that rather somewhat misty bourn, 

Which Hamlet tells us is a pass of dread. 
To Jack, howe'er, this gave but slight concern : 

His soul (like galvanism upon the dead) 
Acted upon the living as on w ire. 
And led them back into the heaviest fire. 

XLII. 
Egad ! they found the second time what they 

The first time thought quite terrible enough 
To fly from, malgre all which people say 

Of glory, and all that immortal stuff 
Which fills a regiment (besides their pay, 

That daily shilling which makes warriors tough) — 
They found on their return the self-same welcome. 
Which made some think, and others know, a ?iell come. 

XLIII. 
They fell as thick as harvests beneath hail. 

Grass before scythes, or corn below the sickle, 
Proving that trite old truth, that life 's as fiail 

As any other boon for which men stickle. 
The Turkish batteries thrash'd them like a flail 

Or a good boxer, into a sad pickle 
Putting the very bravest, who were knock'd 
Upon the head,' before their guns were cock'd. 

XLIV. 
The Turks behind the traverses and flanks 

Of the next bastion, fired away like devils. 
And swept, as gales sweep foam away, whole ranks: 

However, Heaven knows how, the Fate who levels 
Towns, nations, worlds, in her revolving pranks, 

So order'd it, amid these sulphury revels, 
That Johnson and some few who had not scamper'd 
Reach'd the interior talus 2 of the rampart. 



2 " Talus,— the slope or inclination of a wall, whereby, 
reclining at the top so as to fall within its base, the 
thickness is gradually lessened according to the height."— 
Mint. Dict.— ^. 



J 



A*^; .."'svi . ., J, a^^^^JM'w^ 



550 



DON JUAN 



[Canto VIII. 



XLV. 
First one or two, then five, six, and a dozen 

Came mounting; quickl}- up, for it was now- 
All neck or nothing", as, like pitch ot" rosin, 

Flame was shower'd forth above, as well 's below, 
So that you scarce could say who best had chosen, 

The gentlemen that were the first to show 
Their martial faces on the parapet, 
Or those who thought it brave to wait as yet. 

XLVI. 

But those who scaled, found out that their advance 
Was favoured by an accident or blunder : 

The Greek and Turkish Cohorn's ignorance 
Had pallisado'd in a way you 'd wonder 

To see in forts of Netherlands or France — 
(Though these to our Gibraltar must knock under)— 

Right inlhe middle of the parapet 

Just named, these palisades were primly set : 

XLVII. 

So that on either side some nine or ten 
Faces were left, whereon you could contrive 

To march ; a great convenience to our men, 
At least to all those who were left alive, 

Who thus could form a line and fight again ; 
And that which farther aided them to strive 

Was, that they could kick down the palisades. 

Which scarcely rose much higher than grass blades. 

XLVI 11. 

Among the first — I will not say the first, 
For such precedence upon such occasions 

Will oftentimes make deadly quarrels burst 
Out between friends as well as allied nations : 

The Briton must be bold who really durst 
Put to such trial John Bull's partial patience, 

As say that Wellington at Waterloo 

Was beaten,— though the Prussians say so too ; — 

XLIX. 

And that if Blucher, Bulow, Gneisenau, 
And God knows who besides in " au " and " ou," 

Had not come up in time to cast an awe 
Into the hearts of those who fought till now 

As tigers combat with an empty craw, 
The Duke of Wellington had ceased to show 

His orders, also to receive his pensions ; 

Which are the heaviest that our history mentions. 



But never mind j — " God save the king ! " and 
kings ! 

For if he don't, I doubt if men will longer — 
I think I hear a little bird, who sings 

The people by and by will be the stronger: 
The veriest jade will wince whose harness wrings 

So much into the raw as quite to wrong her 
Beyond the rules of posting, — and the mob 
At "last fall sick of imitating Job. 

LI. 

At first it grumbles, then it swears, and then, 

Like David, flings smooth pebbles 'gainst a giant j 

At last it takes to weapons such ais men 
Snatch when despair makes human hearts less 
pliant. 

Then comes the " tug of war ; " — 't will come again, 
I rather doubt j and I would fain say " fie on 't,"' 

If I had not perceived that revolution 

Alone can save the earth from hell's pollution. 

LII. 

But to continue : — I say not the first, 
But of the first, our little friend Don Juan, 

Walk'd o'er the walls of Ismail, as if nursed [one 
Amidst such scenes — though this was quite a new 

To him, and I should hope to most. The thirst 
Of glorj-, which so pierces through and through one. 

Pervaded him — although a generous creature, 

As warm in heart as feminine in feature. 



LIII, 

And here he was — who upon woman's breast, 

Even from a child, felt like a child ; howe'er 
The man in all the rest might be confest. 

To him it was Elysium to be there ; 
And he could even withstand that awkward test 

Which Rousseau points out to the dubious fair, 
" Observe your lover when he leaves your arms ; " 
But Juan never left them, while they had charms, 

LIV. 
Unless compel I'd by fate, or wave, or wind. 

Or near relations, who are much the saune. 
But here he was I — where each tie that can bind 

Humanity must yield to steel and flame : 
And he whose verj" body was all mind, 

Flung here by fate or circumstance, which tame 
The loftiest, hurried by the time and place, 
Dash'd on like a spurr'd blood-horse in a race. 

LV. 
So was his blood stirr'd while he found resistance. 

As is the hunters at the five-bar gate. 
Or double post and rail, where the existence 

Of Britain's youth depends upon their weight, 
The lightest being the safest : at a distance 

He hated cruelty, as all men hate 
Blood, until heated — and even then his own 
At times would curdle o'er some heavy groan. 

LVI, 
The General Lascy, who had been hard press'd. 

Seeing arrive an aid so opportune 
As were some hundred youngsters all abreast, 

Who came as if just dropp'd down from the moon, 
To Juan, who was nearest him, address'd 

His thanks, and hopes to take the city soon, 
Not reckoning him to be a '• base Bezonian," i 
(As Pistol calls it) but a young Livonian. 

LVIL 
Juan, to whom he spoke in German, knew 

As much of German as of Sanscrit, and 
In answer made an inclination to 

The general who held him in command ; 
For seeing one with ribands, black and blue, 1 

Stars, medals, and a bloody sword in hand, 
Addressins him in tones which seem'd to thank, 
He recognised an officer of rank. 

Lvin. 

Short speeches pass between two men who speak 
No common language ; and besides, in time 

Of war and taking towns, when many a shriek 
Rings o'er the dialogue, and many a crime 

Is perpetrated ere a word can break 
Upon the ear, and sounds of horror chime 

In like church-bells, with sigh, howl, groan, yell, 
prayer, 

There cannot be much conversation there. 

LIX. 

And therefore all we have related in 

Two long octaves, pass'd in a little minute ; 

But in the same small minute, every sin 
Contrived to get itself comprised within it 

The very cannon, deafen'd by the din, 
Grew dumb, for you might almost hear a linnet, 

As soon as thunder, 'midst the general noise 

Of human nature's agonising voice ! 

LX. 

The town was enter'd. Oh eternity ! — 

" God made the country, and man made the town," 

So Cowper says — and I begin to be 
Of his opinion, when I see cast down 

Rome, Babylon, Tyre, Carthage, Nineveh, 
All walls men know, and many never known j 

And pondering on the present and the past. 

To deem the woods shall be our home at last : — 



1 Pistol's " Bezonian*' is a corruption of bitognoic — a 
needy man — metaphorically (at least) a scoundrel. — E. 



Canto VIIL] 



DON JUAN 



551 



LXI. 

Of all men, saving^ Sylla the man-slayer, 
Who passes for in life and death most lucky, 

Of the sreat names which in our faces stare, 
The General Boon, back-woodsman of Kentucky, 

Was happiest amongst mortals anywhere; 
For killina: nothing but a bear or buck, he 

Enjoy"d the lonely, vigorous, harmless days 

Of his old age in wilds of deepest maze. 

LXII. 

Crime came not near him —she is not the child 
Of solitude; Health shrank not from him — for 

Her home is in the rarely trodden wild. 
Where if men seek her not, and death be more 

Their choice than life, forgive them, as beguiled 
By habit to what their own hearts abhor — 

In cities c^ged. The present case in point I 

Cite is, that Boon lived hunting up to ninety ; 

LX^II. 

And what's still stranger, left behind a name 
For which men vainly decimate the throng. 

Not only famous, but of that good fame, 
Without which glory 's but a tavern song — 

Simple, serene, the antipodes of shame, 
Which hate nor envy e'er could tinge with wrong ; 

An active hermit, even in age the child 

Of Nature, or the Man of Ross run wild. 

LXIV. 

T is true he shrank from men even of his nation, 
When they built up unto his darling trees,— 

He moved some hundred miles off, for a station 
Where there were fewer houses and more ease j 

The inconvenience of civilisation 

Is, that you neither can be pleased nor please ; 

But where he met the individual man, 

He shovv'd himself as kind as mortal can. 

LXV. 

He was not all alone : around him grew 
A sylvan tribe of children of the chase. 

Whose young, unwaken'd world was ever new, 
Nor sword nor sorrow yet had left a trace 

On her unwrinkled brow, nor could you view 
A frown on Nature's or on human face ; — 

The free-born forest found and kept them free, 

And fresh as is a torrent or a tree. 

LXVI. 

And tall, and strong, and swift of foot were they, 
Beyond the dwarfing city's pale abortions. 

Because their thoughts had never been the prey 
Of care or gain: the green woods were their portions; 

No sinking spirits told them they grew grey, 
No fashion made them apes of her distortions ; 

Simple they were, not savage ; and their rifles. 

Though very true, were not yet used for trifles. 

LXVII. 

Motion was in their days, rest in their slumbers, 
And cheerfulness tlie handmaid of their toil ; 

Nor yet too many nor too few their numbers; 
Corruption could not make their hearts her soil ; 

The lust which stings, the splendour which encum- 
bers. 
With the free foresters divide no spoil ; 

Serene, not sullen, were the solitudes 

Of this unsighing people of the woods. 

LXVIII. 

So much for Nature : — by way of variety, 
Now Lack to thy great joys, Civilisation ! 

And the sweet consequence of large society, 
War, pestilence, tlie despot's desolation. 

The kingly scourge, the lust of notoriety, 

The millions slain by soldiers for their ration, 

The scenes like Catherine's boudoir at threescore, 

With Ismail's storm to soften it the more. 



LXIX. 

The town was enter'd : first one column made 
Its sanguinary way good — then another ; 

The reeking bayonet and the flashing blade 
Clash d "gainst the scimitar, and babe and mother 

With distant shrieks were heard Heaven to upbraid: — 
Still closer sulphury clouds began to smother 

The breath of morn and man, vvhere foot by foot 

The madden'd Turks their city still dispute. 

LXX. 

Koutousow, he who after\^^ard beat back 

(With some assistance from the frost and snow) 
Napoleon on his bold and bloody track. 

It happen'd was himself beat back just now : 
He was a jolly fellow, and could crack 

His jest alike in face of friend or foe. 
Though life, and death, and victory were at stake ; 
But here it seem'd his«jokes had ceased to take ; 

LXXI. 
For having thrown himself into a ditch, 

Follow'd in haste by various grenadiers. 
Whose blood the puddle greatly did enrich, 

He climb'd to where the parapet appears ; 
But there his project reach'd its utmost pitch 

('Mongst other deaths the Gsneral Ribaupierre's 
Was much regretted), for the Moslem men 
Threw them all down into the ditch again. 

LXXII. 

And had it not been for some stray troops landing 
They knew not where, being carried by the stream 

To some spot, where they lost their understanding, 
And wander'd up and down as in a dream. 

Until they reach'd," as daybreak \\as expanding, 
That which a portal to' their eyes did seem, — 

The great and gay Koutousow might have lain 

Where three parts of his column yet remain. 

LXXIII. 

And scrambling round the rampart, these same troops. 

After the taking of the " Cavalier," i 
Just as Koutousow's most " forlorn " of " Hopes " 

Took, like chameleons, some slight tinge of fear, 
Open'd the gate call'd " Kilia," to the groups 

Of baffled heroes, who stood shyly near, 
Sliding knee-deep in lately frozen niud. 
Now thaw'd into a marsh of human blood. 

LXXiV. 
The Kozacks, or, if so you please, Cossacques — 

(I don't much pique myself upon orthography. 
So that I do not grossly err in facts. 

Statistics, tactics, politics, and geography) — 
Having been used to serve on horses' backs, 

And no great dilettanti in topography 
Of fortresses, but fighting where it pleases 
Their chiefs to order,— were all cut to pieces. 

LXXV. 
Their column, though the Turkish batteries thunder'd 

Upon them, ne'ertheless had reach'd the rampart. 
And naturally thought they could have plunder'd 

The city, without being farther hamper'd ; 
But as it happens to brave men, they blunder'd — 

The Turks at first pretended to have scamper'd, 
Only to draw them 'twixt two bastion corners. 
From whence they sallied on those Christian scorners. 

LXXV I. 
Then being taken by the tail — a taking 

Fatal to bishops as to soldiers — these 
Cossacques were all cut oft" as day was breaking, 

And found their lives were let at a short lease — 
But perish'd without shivering or shaking. 

Leaving as ladders their heap'd carcasses, 
O'er which Lieutenant-Colonel Yesouskoi 
March'd with the brave battalion of Polouzki: 



1 A 'dfcvalier' is an elevation of earth, situated ordi- 
narily in the gorge of a bastion, bordered with a parapet, 
and cut into more or fewer embrasures, according to its 
capacily. —Milit. Diet. — E. 



-"-"^•'"' 



552 



DON JUAN 



[Canto VIII. 



LXXVII. 

This valiant man kill'd all the Turks he met, 
But could not eat them, bein? in his turn 

Slain by some Mussulmans, who would not yet, 
Without resistance, see their city burn. 

The walls were won, but 't was an even bet 

Which of the armies would have cause to mourn : 

'T was blow for blow, disputing inch by inch, 

For one would not retreat, nor't' other flinch. 

LXXVIII. 

Another column also sutFer'd much : 
And here we may remark with the historian, 

You should but give few cartridges to such 
Troops as are meant to march with greatest glory on: 

When matters must be carried by the touch 
Of the bright bayonet, and they all should hurry on. 

They sometimes, with a hankering for existence. 

Keep merely firing at a foolish distajice. 

LXXIX. 

A junction of the General Meknop's men 

(Without the General, who had fallen some time 

Before, being badly seconded just then) 

Was made at length with those who dared to climb 

The death-disgorging rampart once again ; 
And though the Turk's resistance was sublime. 

They took the bastion, which the Seraskier 

Defended at a price extremely dear. 

LXXX. 

Juan and Johnson, and some volunteers 
Among the foremost, offer'd him good quarter j 

A word which little suits with Seraskiers, 
Or at least suited not this valiant Tartar. 

He died, deserving well his country's tears, 
A savage sort of military martyr. 

An English naval officer, who wish'd 

To make him prisoner, was also dish'd : 

Lxxxr. 

For all the answer to his proposition 
Was from a pistol-shot that laid him dead ; 

On which the rest, without more intermission. 
Began to lay about with steel and lead — 

The pious metals most in requisition 
On such occasions : not a single head 

Was spared;— three thousand Moslems perish'd here. 

And sixteen bayonets pierced the Seraskier. 

LXXXII. 

The city 's taken — only part hy part — 

And Death is drunk with gore : there 's not a street 
Where tights not to the last some desperate heart 

For those for whom it soon shall cease to beat. 
Here War forgot his own destructive art 

In more destrcj ing Nature ; and the heat 
Of carnage, like the Nile's sun-sodden slime, 
Engendef'd monstrous shapes of every crime. 

LXXXIII. 

A Russian officer, in martial tread 

Over a heap of bodies, felt his heel 
Seized fast, as if 't were by the serpent's head 

Whose fangs Eve taught her human seed to feel : 
In vain he kick'd, and swore, and writhed, and bled, 
. And howl'd for help as wolves do for a meal — 
The teeth still kept their gratifying hold, 
As do the subtle snakes described of old. 

LXXXIV. 

A dying Moslemj who had felt the foot 
Of a foe o'er him, snatch'd at it, and bit 

The very tendon which is most acute — 
(That which some ancient Muse or modern wit 

Named after thee, Achilles) and quite through 't 
He made the teeth meet, nor relinquish'd it 

Even with his life — for (but they lie) "t is said 

To the live leg still clung the sever'd head. 



LXXXV. 
However this may be, 't is pretty sure 

The Russian officer for life was lamed, 
For the Turk's teeth stuck faster than a skewer, 

And left him 'midst the invalid and maim'd : 
The regimental surgeon could not cure 

His patient, and perhaps was to be blamed 
More than the head of the inveterate foe, 
Which was cut otF, and scarce even then let go. 

LXXXVI. 

But then the fact 's a fact — and 't is the part 

Of a true poet to escape from fiction 
Whene'er he can ; for there is little art 

In leaving verse more free from the restriction 
Of truth than prose, unless to suit the mart 

For what is sometimes calld poetic diction, 
And that outrageous appetite for lies 
Which Satan angles with for souls, like flies. 

LXXXVII. 

The city 's taken, but not render'd ! — No ! 

There "s not a Moslem that hath yielded sword : 
The blood may ^ish out, as the Danube's flow 

Rolls by the' city wall ; but deed nor word 
Acknowledge aught of dread of death or foe : 

In vain the yell of victory is roar'd 
By the advancing Muscovite — the groan 
Of the last foe is echoed by his own. 

LXXXVIII. 

The bayonet pierces and the sabre cleaves, 
And human lives are lavish'd everywhere, 

As the year closing whirls the scarlet leaves 
When the stripp'd forest bows to the bleak air, 

And groans j and thus the peopled city grieves. 
Shorn of its best and loveliest, and left bare ; 

But still it falls in vast and awful splinters, 

As oaks blown down with all their thousand winters. 

LXXXIX. 

It is an awful topic — but 't is not 

My cue for any time to be terrific : 
For checker'd as is seen our human lot 

With good, and bad, and worse, alike prolific 
Of melancholy merriment, to quote 

Too much of one sort would be soporific ; — 
Without, or with, offence to friends or foes, 
I sketch your world exactly as it goes. 

XC. 

And one good action in the midst of crimes 
Is " quite refreshing," in the affected phrase 

Of these ambrosial, Pharisaic times, 

With all their pretty milk-and-water ways, 

And may serve therefore to bedew these rhymes, 
A little scorch'd at present with the blaze 

Of conquest and its consequences, which 

Make epic poesy so rare and rich. 

XCI. 

Upon a taken bastion, where there lay 

Thousands of slaughter'd men, a yet warm group 
Of murder'd women" who had found their way 

To this vain refuge, made the good heart droop 
And shudder ; — while, as beautiTul as May, 

A female child of ten years tried to stoop 
And hide her little palpitating breast 
Amidst the bodies luU'd in bloody rest. 

xcir. 

Two villanous Cossacques pursued the child 
With flashing eyes and weapons: match'd with them, 

The rudest brute that roams Siberia's wild. 
Has feelings pure and polish 'd as a gem, — 

The bear is civilised, the wolf is mild : 
And whom for this at last must we condemn ? 

Their natures ? or their sovereigns, who employ 

All arts to teach their subjects to destroy ? 



Canto VTIL] 



DON JUAN. 



553 



XCIII, 

Their sabres glitter"d o'er her little head, 
Whence her fair hair rose twining with affright, 

Her hidden face was plunged amidst the dead : 
When Juan caught a glimpse of this sad sight^ 

I shall not say exactly what he said, 
Because it might not solace " ears polite j " 

But what he did, was to lay on their backs, 

The readiest way of reasoning with Cossacques. 

XCIV. 
One's hip he slash'd, and split the other's shoulder, 

And drove them with their brutal yells to seek 
If there might be chirurgeons who could solder 

The wounds they richly merited, and shriek 
Their baffled rage and pain ; while waxing colder 

As he turn'd o'er each pale and gory cheek, 
Don Juan raised his little captive from 
The heap a moment more had made her tomb. 

XCV. 
And she was chill as they, and on her face 

A slender streak of blood announced how near 
Her fate had been to that of all her race ; 

For the same blow which laid her mother here 
Had scarr'd her brow, and left its crimson trace 

As the last link with all she had held dear ', 
But else unhurt, she open d her large eyes, 
And gazed on Juan with a wild surprise. 

XCVI. 

Just at this instant, while their eyes were fix'd 
Upon each other, with dilated glance, 

In Juan's look, pain, pleasure, hope, fear, mix'd 
With joy to save, and dread of some mischance 

Unto his protege ; while hers, transfix'd 
With infant'terrors, glared as from a trance, 

A pure, transparent, pale, yet radiant face, 

Like to a lighted alabaster vase ; — 

XCVII. 

Up came John Johnson (I will not say " Jack,^^ 
For that were vulgar, cold, and common-place 

On great occasions, such as an attack 
On cities, as hath been the present case) : 

Up Johnson came, with hundreds at his back, 
.Exclaiming — " Juan 1 Juau ! On, boy ! brace 

Your arm, and I '11 bet Moscow to a dollar. 

That you and I will win St. George's collar. i 

XCVIII. 

" The Seraskier is knock 'd upon the head. 
But the stone bastion still remains, wherein 

The old Pacha sits among some hundreds dead. 
Smoking his pipe quite calmly 'midst the din 

Of our artillery and his own : 't is said 
Our kill'd, already piled up to the chin. 

Lie round the battery ; but still it batters, 

And grape in volleys, like a vineyard, scatters. 

XCIX. 

" Then up with me ! " — But Juan answer'd, " Look 
Upon this child — I saved her — must not leave 

Her life to chance ; but point me out some nook 
Of safety, where she less may shrink and grieve, 

And I am with you." — Whereon Johnson took 
A glance around — and shrugg'd — and twitch'd his 
sleeve 

And black silk neckcloth— and replied, "You 're right; 

Poor thing ! what 's to be done ? I 'm puzzled quite." 

C. 

Said Juan — " Whatsoever is to be 

Done, I '11 not quit her till she seems secure 

Of present life a good deal more than we.-' — 
Quoth Johnson — " Neither will I quite ensure; 

But at the least you may die gloriously." 
Juan replied — " At least 1 will endure 

Whate'er is lo be borne — but not resign 

This child, who is parentless, and therefore mine." 



1 A Russian military order. 



CL 

Johnson said — " Juan, we 've no time to lose ; 

The ehild's a pretty child — a very pretty — 
I never saw such eyes — but hark ! now choose 

Between your fame and feelings, pride and pity;— 
Hark ! how the roar increases ! — no excuse 

Will serve when there is plunder in a city ; — 
I should be loath to march without you, but. 
By God ! we '11 be too late for the first cut." 

CIL 

But Juan was immoveable ; until 
Johnson, who really loved him in his way, 

Pick'd out amongst his followers with some skill 
Such as he thought the least given up to prey ; 

And swearing if the infant came to ill 

That they should all be shot on the next day ; 

But if she were delivered safe and sound, 

They'should at least have fifty rubles round, 

cin. 

And all allowances besides of plunder 

In fair proportion with their comrades ; — then 

Juan consented to march on through thunder, 
Which thinn'd at every step their ranks of men : 

And yet the rest rush'd eagerly — no wonder. 
For they were heated by the hope of gain, 

A thing which happens everywhere each day — 

No hero trusteth wholly to half-pay. 

CIV. 

And such is victor}', and such is man ! 

At least nine tenths of what we call so ; — Grod 
May have another name for half we scan 

As human beings, or his ways are odd. 
But to our subject : a brave Tartar khan — 

Or " sultan," as the author (to whose nod 
In prose I bend my hum.ble verse) doth call 
This chieftain — somehow would not yield at all : 

CV. 

But flank'd by five brave sons, (such is polygamy, 
That she spawns warriors by the score, where none 

Are prosecuted for that false crime bigamy), 
He never would believe the city won 

While courage clung but to a single twig.— Am I 
Describing Friam's, Peleus', or Jove's son ? 

Neither — but a good, plain, old, temperate man, 

Who fought with his five children in the van. 



CVI. 

To talic him was the point. The truly brave, 
When they behold the brave oppress "d with odds. 

Are touch'd with a desire to shield and save; — 
A mixture of wild beasts and demi-gods 

Are they — now furious as the sweeping wave, 
Now moved with pity : even as sometimes nods 

The rugged tree unto the summer wind, 

Compassion breathes along the savage mind. 

CVI I. 

But he would not be taken, and replied 

To all the propositions of surrender 
By mowing Christians down on every side, 

As obstinate as Swedish Charles at Bender.2 
His five brave boys no less the foe defied ; 

Whereon the Russian pathos grew less tender. 
As being a virtue, like terrestrial patience. 
Apt to vvear out on trifling provocations! 



2 " At Bender, after the fatal battle of Pultawa, Charlea 
gave a proof of that unreasonable obstinacy, which occa- 
Bioned all his misfortunes in Turitey. When advised to 
write to the grand v<iier, according to (he custom of the 
Turks, he 8ald it was beneath his dignity. The same 
obstinacy placed him neccfsarily at variance with all the 
ministers of the Porte."— VOLTAIRli.— E. 



554 



DON JUAN. 



[Canto VIII. 



cvni. 

And spite of Johnson and ot Juan, wlio 
F.xpeuded all their Eastern phraseolo-jy 

In bficsciu; him, for Goii's sake, just to show 
So much less ti^ht as uiis:lit form an apology 

For thcni in siiviuj such a desperate foe — 
He hew'd away, like doctoi-s of theoloijy 

When they dispute with sceptics ; and with curses 

Struck at his friends, as babies beat their nurses. 

CIX. 
Nay, he had wounded, thnusrh but slishtlv, both 

Juan and Johnson ; whereup(Mi they fell. 
The lirst with siifhs. the second with an oath, 

Vpon his auicry sultauship, pell-n>ell. 
And all around were tcrow n exceeding wroth 

At such a pertinacious iulidel. 
And pour'd upon him and his sons like rain, 
Which they resisted like a sandy jdaiu 

ex. 

That drinks and still is dry. At last they perisli'd — 
His second son was leveU'd by a shot ;' 

His third was sabred ; and the fourth, most cherish'd 
Of all the live, on bayonets met his lot ; 

The tifth, who, by a Christian mother nourished, 
Had been neglected, ill-used, and what not. 

Because deform 'd. yet died all s?une and bottom, 

To save a sire who'blush'd that he be^ot him. 

CXI. 

The eldest was a true and tameless Tartar, 

As ficreat a scnner of the Nazarene 
As ever Mahomet pickM out for a niartyr. 

Who only s;iw the black-eyed irirls in green. 
Who make the betls of those who \\ ou't t;ike quarter 

On earth, in Pai-adise; and when once seen. 
Those houris, like all other pretty creatures. 
Do just whate'er they please, by dint of features. 

CXII. 

And what they pleased to do with the young khan 
In heaven f know not, nor pretend to guess ; 

But doubtless they pivfer a tine vouug man 
To tough old heroes, and can do no" less j 

And that 's the cause no doubt why, if we scan 
A held of battles ghastly wilderness. 

For one rough, weather-Leaten, vetenui body, 

You '11 had teu thousand handsome coxcombs bloody. 

CXIII. 

Tour houris also have a natun\l pleasure 
In loppin? otV your lately married men. 

Before the bridalhours have danced their measure, 
And the sad, secoud n'l'^ou gwws dim asrain, 

Or dull repentance Inth had dreary leisure 
To wish him back a bachelor now and then : 

And thus your houri (it may be) disputes 

Of these b"rief blossoms the" immediate fruits. 

CXIV. 

Thus the young khan, with houris in his sia:ht. 
Thought not upon the charms of four voung brides, 

But bravely nish'd on his tirst heavenly nis;ht. 
In short," howe'er aiir better fai'h derides. 

These black-eyed virgins make the Moslems fight, 
As though tliere were one heav, n and none besides— 

Whereas, if all be true we hear of heaven 

And hell, there must at least be six or seven. 

cxv. 

So fully flash'd the phantom on his eves. 
That when the verv lance w.is in lus heart, 

He shouted '' Allah ! "^ and saw Faradise 
With all its veil of mystery drawn apart, 

And bright eternity with :>ut "disguise 
On his soul, like a ceaseless sunrise, dart : — 

With prophets, houris, angels, saints, descrit-d 

In one voluptuous blaxe,— and then ne died : 



CXVI. 

But with a heavenly rapture on his face. 
The goo<^l old khau, who long had ceased to see 

Hourisj or auscht except his tli^rid i-ace 

Who grew like cedars round him gloriously — 

When he l>eheH his latt^st hero scr-ace 
The earth, which he became like a fell'd tree, 

Paused for a moment from the fight, and cast 

A glance on that slain stni, his lifst and last. 

CXVI I. 

The soldiers, who beheld him drop his point, 
Stopp'd as if once more willing to concevle 

Quarter, in case he lade them not ''anniit !" 
As he before had done. He did A^t heed 

Their pause nor signs : his heart was out of joint, 
And shook (till now unsliaken^ like a reed. 

As he look'd down upon his children gime. 

And felt — though done with life — he was alone. 

CXVIII. 

But 't was a transient tremor : — with a spring 
I Upon the Russian steel his breast he tlung. 
As carelessly as hurls the moth her wing 

Against the lisrht wherein she dies: he chnxg 
Closer, that all the dea llier they might wring, 

Unto the bayonets which had pierced his young; 
And thnnvingback a dim look on his sons. 
In one wide wound pour'd forth his soul at once. 

CXIX. 

T is strange enough— the ronsrh, tough soldiers, who 
Spared neither sex nor age In their career 

Of carnage, when this old man was jiiercetl through. 
And lav before them with his children near, 

Touch'd Iby the heroism of him they slew, 
Were melted for a moment ; thouffh no tear 

Flow'd from their bhxxlshot eyes, all red with strife, 

They honour'd such determined scorn of life. 

CXX. 

But the stone bastion still kept up its fire. 
Where the chief pacha cahnly held his post : 

Some twentv times ne made the Russ retire, 
And battled the asstiults of all their host j 

At length he condescendetl to inquire. 
If vet the city's rest were won or lost j 

And being told "the latter, sent a bey 

To answer Ribas' summons to give way. 

CXXI. 

In the mean-timo, cross legg'd, Avith great sang-froid, 
Among the scorching mius he s;it smoking 

Tobacco on a little carpet ; — Tn\v 
Saw nithiuij like the scene around ; — yet looking 

With martial stoicism, nonsjlit seem'd to annoy 
His stern phil'sophy ; but gtMitly strokins: 

His beard, he j)utt"d his pipe's ambrosial gales, 

As if he had three lives, as well as tails. 

CXXII. 

The town was t:iken — \\ b.ether he miglit yield 
Himself or bastion, little matter'd no^v : 

His stubl>orn valour was no future shield. 

Isnjail 's no more ! The crescent's silver bow 

Sunk, and the crimson cniss glared o'er the lield, 
Bvit red with no rrrfd^a' /ignore: the glow 

Of burning streets, like moonlight on the water. 

Was imaged back in blood, the sea of slaughtei". 

cxxnr. 

All that the mind would shrink from of excesses j 

All that the bodv perpetrates of bad ; 
All ttiat we read, hear, drean), of nvan's distresst«s; 

All that the devil would do if run stark mad j 
All that deties the worst which pen expresses; 

All by which hell is peopled, or as sad 
As hell — mere mortals who their nower abuse — 
Was here (as heretofore and since) let loose. 



Canto VIII.J 



DON JUAN. 



555 



CXXIV. 
If here and there some transient trait of pity 

W%s shown, and some more uoble heart broke 
throusch 
Its bloody bond, and saved, perhaps, some pretty 

Child, or an aared helpless man or two — 
What 's this in one annihilated city, 

Where thousand loves, and ties,"aud duties grew? 
Cockneys of London! Muscabinsof Paris! 
Just ponder what a pious pastime war is. 

cxxv. 

Think liow the joys of reading a Gazette 
Are purchased by all a£:ouies and crimes: 

Or if these do not move you, don t fora:et 
Such doom may be your own in after-times. 

Meantime the 1 axes, Castlereaa:!!, and Debt, 
Are hints as e:ood as sermons, or as rhymes. 

Read your own hearts and Ireland's present story, 

Then feed her famine fat with Wellesley s glory. 

CXXVI. 

But still there is unto a patriot nation, 

Which loves so well its country and its king, 
A subject of suLlimest exultation'— 

Rear it, ye Muses, on your bris^htest wing ! 
Howe'er the mighty locust, Desilation, 

Strip your green fields, and to your harvests cling, 
Gaunt famine never shall approach the throne — 
Though Ireland starve, great George weighs tweut)' 
stone. 

CXXVII. 
But let me put an end unto my theme : 

There was an end of Ismail"— hapless town ! 
Far flash'd her burning towei-s o'er Danube's streain, 

And redly ran his blushing waters down. 
The horrid war-whoop and the shriller scream 

Rose still ; but fainter were the thunders grown : 
Of forty thousand who had mann'd the wall. 
Some hundreds breatlied — the rest were silent all. 

CXXVIII. 

In one thins: ne'ertheless 't is fit to praise 
The Russian army upon this occasion, 

A virtue much in fashi:)n now-a-days. 

And therefore worthy of connne'moration : 

The topic 's tender, so shall be my phrase — 
Perhaps the season's chill, and their lonsr station 

In winter's depth, or want of rest and victual. 

Had made tliem chaste; — tliey ravish'd very little. 

CXXIX. 

Much did they slay, mora plunder, and no less 
Might here and there occur some violation 

In the other line ; — but not to such excess 
As when the French, that dissipated nation, 

Take towns by storm : no causes can I s:uess, 
Except cold weather and commiseration j 

But all the ladies, save some twenty score, 

Were almost as nmch virgins as before. 

CXXX. 

Some odd mistakes, too, happen'd in the dark. 
Which show'd a want of lanterns, or of taste — 

Indeed the smoke was such they scarce could mark 
Their friends from foes, — besides such things from 
haste 

Occijr, though rarely, when there is a spark 
Of liffht to save the venerably chaste : 

But six old damsels, each of seventv years, 

Were all deflower'd by dift'erent grenadiers, 

CXXXI. 

But on the whole their continence was great ; 

So that some disappointment there ensued 
To those who had felt the inconvenient state 

Of "sinsrle blessedness," and thought it good 
(Since it was not their fault, but only fate^ 

To bear these crosses) lor each waninsj prude 
To make a Roman sort of Sabine wedding. 
Without the expense and the suspense of bedding. 



CXXXII. 

Some voices of the buxom middle-aged 

Were also heard to wonder in the din 
(Wido\A-s of forty were these birds long caged) 

" Wherefore the ravishing did not begin 1 '' 
But while the thirst for gore and plunder ra^ed, 

There was small leisure for supertluous sin j 
Rut whether they esca]ied or no, lies hid 
In darkness — 1 can only hope they did. 

CXXXIII. 
Suwarrow now was cmqueror — a match 

For Timour or for Zinghis in his trade. 
While mosques and streets, beneath his eves, like 
thatch 

Blazed, and the cannon's roar was scarce allay'd, 
With bloody hands he wrote his first desjiatch ', 

And hereexactlv follows what he said : — 
" Glory to God and to the Empress ! " (Powers 
Eter^nal ! such names mitigkd!) "Ismail 's ours."i 

CXXXIV. 
Methinks these are the most tremendous words, 

Since " Mene, Mene, Tekel,"' and " Upharsin," 
Which hands or pens have ever traced of swords. 

Heaven help me ! I 'm but little of a parson : 
What Daniel read was short-hand of the Lord's, 

Severe, sublime ; the prophet wrote no farce on 
The fate of nations ; — but this Russ so witty 
Could rliyme, like Nero, o'er a burning city. 

CXXXV. 

He wrote this Polar melody, and set it. 

Duly accompanied by shrieks and groans. 
Which few will siui;:, 1 trust, but none forget it — 

For 1 will teach, if possible, the stones 
To rise against earth's tyrants. Never let it 

Be saidihnt we still truckle unto thrones; — 
But ye — our children's children ! think how we 
Show'd what things locrc before the world was free ! 

CXXXVI. 
That hour is not for us, but 't is for you : 

And as, in the ffreat joy of your millennium. 
You hardly will believe such things were true 

As nowoccur, 1 thiuight that I would pen you 'em; 
But may their very memory perish too ! — 

Yet if perchance rememl)er'd, still disdain you 'em 
More tiian you scorn the savages of yore, 
Who painted, their bare limbs, but not with gore. 

cxxxvn. 

And when you hear historians talk of thrones, 

And those that sate upon them, let it be 
As we now gaze upon the mammoths bones. 

And wonder what old world such things could see, 
Or hieroglyphics on Egyptian stones, 

The pleasant riddles bt futurity — 
Guessing at what shall happily be hid, 
As the real purpose of a pyramid. 

CXXXVIII. 
Reader ! I have kept my word, — at least so far 

As the fii-st Canto promised. You have now 
Had sketches of love, tempest, travel, war, — 

All very accurate, you must allow, 
And epic, if plain truth should prove no bar; 

Kor I have drawn much less with a long bow 
Than my forerunners. Carelessly 1 sinj. 
But Pho-bus lends me now and then a string, 

CXXX IX. 

With which T still can harp, and carp, and fiddle. 

What farther hath befallen or may befall 
The hero of this grand poetic riddle, 

1 by and by may tell vou, if at all : 
But how I choose to break ott' in the middle, 

Worn out with battering Ismail's stubborn wall, 
While Juan is sent oft' with the despatch, 
For which all Petersburgh is on the watch. 



1 In the oripinnl Russian — 

" SInva tii'su ' sJHva vnm! 
Krt"|>ost Vznia y ia tain: 
a kind of couplet ; for he was a poet. 






556 



DON JUAN 



[Canto IX. 



CXL. 

This special honour was conferr'd, because 
He had behaved with courage and humanity — 

Which last men like, when they have time to pause 
From their ferocities produced by vanity. 

His little captive gain'd him some applause 
For saving her amidst the wild insanity 

Of carnage,— and I think he was more glad in her 

Safety, than his new order of St. Vladimir. 

CXLI. 

The Moslem orphan went with her protector, 
For she was homeless, houseless, ibelpless j all 

Her friends, like the sad family of Hector, 
Had perish'd in the field or by the wall : 

Her very place of birth was but a spectre 
Of what it had been ; there the Muezzin's call 

To prayer was heard no more ! and Juan wept. 

And made a vow to shield her, which he kept. 



CANTO THE NINTH.* 

Oh, Wellington ! (or " Villainton " — for Fame 
Sounds the heroic syllables both ways ; 

France could not eveii conquer your great name, 
But punn'd it down to this facetious phrase — 

Beating or beaten she will laugh the same,) 
You have obtain'd great pensions and much praise: 

Glory like yours should any dare gainsay, 

Humanity would rise, and thunder " Nay ! "3 

II. 

I dont think that you used Kinnaird quite well 

In Marinet's affair 3 — in fact, 't was shabby, 
And like some other things wont do to tell 

Upon your tomb in Westminster's old abbey. 
Upon the rest 't is not worth while to dwell, 

Such tales being for the tea-hours of some tabby; 
But though your years as man tend fast to zero, 

In fact'your grace is still but a young hero. 
III. 
Tliough Britain owes (and pays you too) so much, 

Yet^Europe doubtless owes you greatly more : 
You have repair'd Legitimacy's cru'ch, 

A prop not quite so certain as before : 
The Spanish, and the French, as well as Dutch, 

Have seen, and felt, how strongly you restore ; 
And Waterloo has made the world your debtor 
(I wish your bards would sing it rather better). 

IV. 
You are " the best of cut-throats : " — do not start ; 

The phrase is Shakspeare's, and not misapplied : — 
War 's a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art. 

Unless her cause by right be sanctified. 
If you have acted 07ice a generous part, 

The world, not the world's masters, will decide. 
And I shall be delighted to learn who. 
Save you and yours, have gain'd by Waterloo ? 



1 Cantos IX., X., and XI. were written at Pisa, and 
published in London, in August, 1823. — E. 

2 ttuery, Ney? — Printer's Devil. 

3 The late Lord Kinnaird was received in Paris, in 
1814, with great civility by the Duke of Wellington, and 
the royal family of France, but he had himself presented 
to Buonaparte during the hundred days, and intrigued on 
with those of that faction, in spite of the Duke's remon- 
strances, until the re-restored government ordered him 
out of the French territory, in 1816. In 1817, he became 
acquainted at Brussels, with one Marinet, an adventurer 
mixed up in a conspiracy to assassin ite the Duke in the 
streets at Paris. This fellow at first promised to discover 
the man who actually shot at his Grace, but, on reaching 
Paris, shuffled and would say nothing; and Lord Kin- 
naird's avowed cause of complaint against the Duke, was, 
that he did not protect this creature from the French 
police, who, not doubting that he had been one of the 
conspirators against his Grace's life, arrested him accord- 
ingly. He was tried along with the actual assassin, and 
both were acquitted by the Parisian jury. — E. 



I am no flatterer — you 've supp'd full of flattery: 
They say you like it too — 't is no great wonder. 

He whose 'whole life has been assault and battery. 
At last may get a little tirei of thunder j 

And swallowing eulogy much more than satire, he 
May like being praised far every lucky blunder, 

Call-d "Saviour of the Nations " — not yet saved, 

And "Europe's Liberator " —still enslaved. 4 

VI. 

I 've done. Now go and dine from off the plate 
Presented by the Prince of the Brazils, 

And send the sentinel before your gate 
A slice or two from your luxurious meals: 

He fought, but has not fed so well of late. 
Some hunger, too, they say the people feels : — 

There is no doubt that you deserve your ration, 

But pray give back a little to the nation. 

VII. 

I don't mean to reflect — a man so great as 
You, my lord duke ! is far above reflection : 

The high Roman fashion, too, of Cincinnatus, 
With moJern history has but small connection: 

Though as an Irishman you love potatoes. 
You need not take them under your direction ; 

And half a million for your Sabine farm 

Is rather dear ! — I 'm sure I mean no harm. 

VI IL 

Great men have always scorn'd great recompenses ; 

Epaminondas saved his Thebes, and died. 
Not leaving even his funeral expenses : 

George Washington had thanks, and nought beside, 
Except the all-cloudless elory (which few men's is) 

To free his country : Pitt too had his pride, 
And as a high-soul'd minister of state is 
Renown'd for ruining Great Britain gratis. 

IX. 

Never had mortal man such opportunity, 

Except Napoleon, or abused it more : 
You might have free! fallen Europe from the unity 

Of tyrants, and been blest from shore to shore : 
And now — what is vour fame ? Shall the Muse tune 
it ye? 

Now — that the rabble's first vain shouts are o'er ? 
Go ! hear it in your famish'd country's cries ! 
Behold the world ! and curse your victories ! 

X. 

As these new cantos touch on warlike feats, 

To you the unflattering Muse deigns to inscribe 
Truths, that you will nof read in the Gazettes, 

But which 't is tmie to teach the hireling tribe 
Who fatten on their country's gore, and debts, 

Must be recited — and without a bribe. 
You did great things : but not being great in mind, 
Have left undone ilaQ greatest — and man k ind. 

XI. 
Death laughs — Go ponder o'er the skeleton 

With which men image out the unknown thing 
That hides the past world, like to a set sun 

Which s'ill elsewhere may rouse a brighter spring — 
Death laughs at all you weep for : — loo'k upon 

This hourly dread of all ! whose threaten'd sting 
Turns life to terror, even though in its sheath : 
Mark ! how its lipless mouth grins without breath ! 

XII. 

Mark ! how it laughs and scorns at all you are ! 

And yet was what \^ou are : from ear to ear 
It laughs not — there' is now no fleshy bar 

So call'd ; the Antic long hath ceased to hear^ 
But still he smiles ; and whether near or far 

He strips from man that mantle (far more dear 
Than even the tailor's), his incarnate skin. 
White, black, or copper — the dead bones will grin. 



4 "Vide Speeches in Parliament, 
■Waterloo. 



after the battle of 



Canto IX.] 



DON JUAN. 



557 



xiir. 

And thus Death laughs, — it is sad merriment, 
But still it is so ; and with such example 

Why should not Life be equally content 
With his superior, in a smile' to trample 

Upon the nothings which are daily spent 
Like bubbles on an ocean much less ample 

Than the eternal deluge, which devours 

Suns as rays — worlds like atoms — years like hours ? 

XIV. 
" To be, or not to be ? that is the question," 

Says Shakspeare, who just now is much in fashion. 
I am neither Alexander nor Hephaestion, 

Nor ever had for abstract fame much passion j 
But would much rather have a sound disestion, 

Than Buonaparte's cancer : — could I dash on 
Through fifty victories to shame or fame. 
Without a stomach — what were a good name? 

XV. 
" Oh dura ilia messorum ! » — " Oh 

Ye rigid guts of reapers ! " I translate 
For the great benefit of those who know 

What indigestion is — that inward fate 
Which makes all Styx throush one small liver flow. 

A peasant's sweat is worth his lord's estate : 
Let this one toil for bread — that rack for rent, 
He who sleeps best may be the most content. 

XVL 

" To be, or not to be ? " — Ere I decide, 
I should be glad to know that which is being ? 

'T is true we speculate both far and wide, 

And deem, because we see, we are all-seeing: 

For my part, I '11 enlist on neither side. 
Until 1 see both sides for once agreeing. 

For me, I sometimes think that life is death, 

Rather than life a mere affair of breath. 

XVIL 

" Que scais-je?" was the motto of Montaigne, 

As also of the first academicians ; 
That all is dubious which man may attain, 

Was one of their most favourite positions. 
There 's no such thing as certainty, that 's plain 

As any of Mortality's conditions; 
So little do we know what we're about in 
This world, I doubt if doubt itself be doubting. 

XVIIL 

It is a pleasant voyage perhaps to float, 

Like Pyrrho, on a sea of speculation ; 
But what if carrying sail capsize the boat? 

Your wise men don't know much of navigation j 
And swimming long in the abyss of thought 

Is apt to tire : a calm and shallow station 
Well nigh the shore, where one stoops down and 

gathers 
Some pretty shell, is best for moderate bathers. 

XIX. 

"But heaven," as Cassio says, " is above all i — 
No more of this, then, let us pray ! " We have 

Souls to save, since Eve's slip and Adam's fall, 
Which tumbled all mankind into the grave. 

Besides fish, beasts, and birds. " The sparrow's fall 
Is special providence," though how it gave 

Offence, we know not ; probably it perch'd 

Upon the tree which Eve so fondly search'd. 

XX. 

Oh ! ye immortal Gods ! what is theogony ? 

Oh ! thou, too mortal man ! what is philanthropy ? 
Oh ! world, which was and is, what is cosmogony ? 

Some people have accused me of misanthropy ', 
And yet 1 know no more than the mahogany 

That forms this desk, of what they mean ; lyhan- 
I comprehend, for without transformation [thropy 
Men become wolves on any slight occasion. 



1 See Othello. 



XXL 

But I, the mildest, meekest of mankind. 
Like Moses, or Melancthon, who have ne'er 

Done any thing exceedingly unkind, — 
And (though I could not now and then forbear 

Following the bent of body or of mind. 
Have always had a tendency to spare, — 

Why do they call me misanthrope ? Because 

They hate me, not I them : — and here we '11 pause. 

XXIL 

'T is time we should proceed with our good poem, — 

For I maintain that it is really good. 
Not only in the body but the proem, 

However little both are understood 
Just now, — but by and by the Truth will show 'em 

Herself in her sublimest attitude : 
And till she doth, I fain must be content 
To share her beauty and her banishment. 

XXIII. 

Our hero (and, I trust, kind reader ! yours — ) 
Was left upon his way to the chief city 

Of the immortal Peter's polish'd boors, 

Who still have shown themselves more brave than 

I know its mighty empire now allures [witty. 

Much flattery — even Voltaire's, and that 's a pity. 

For me, I deem an absolute autocrat 

Not a barbarian, but much worse than that. 

XXIV. 

And I will war, at least in words (and — should 
My chance so happen — deeds) with all who war 

With Thought ; — and of 'I houghfs foes by far most 
Tyrants and sycophants have been and are. [rude, 

I know not who may conquer : if I could 
Have such a prescience, it should be no bar 

To this my plain, sworn, downright detestation 

Of every despotism in every nation. 

XXV. 

It is not that I adulate the people : 
Without -me, there are demagogues enough. 

And infidels, to pull down every steeple, 
And set up in their stead some proper stuff. 

Whether they may sow scepticism to reap hell. 
As is the Christian dogma rather rough, 

I do not know ; — I wish men to be free 

As much from mobs as kings — from you as me. 

XXVL 

The consequence is, being of no party, 
I shall offend all parties : — never mind ! 

My words, at least, are more sincere and hearty 
Than if I sought to sail before the wind. 

He who has nought to gain can have small art : he 
Who neither wishes to be bound or bind. 

May still expatiate freely, as will I, 

Nor give my voice to slavery's jackal cry. 

XXVII. 

That 's an appropriate simile, that jackal ; — 
I 've heard them in the Ephesian ruins howl ^ 

By night, as do that mercenary pack all, 

Power's base purveyors, who for pickings prowl, 

And scent the prey their masters would attack all. 
However, the poor jackals are less foul 

(As being the brave lions' keen providers) 

Tlian human insects, catering for spiders. 

XXVIN. 

Raise but an arm ; 't will bnish their web away. 
And without tMt, their poison and their claws 

Are useless. Mind, good people ! what I say — 
(Or rather peoples) — ^-o on without pause'! 

The web of these tarantulas each day 
Increases, till you shall make common cause: 

None, save the Spanish fly and Attic bee. 

As yet are strongly stinging to be free. 



2 In Greece I never saw or heard these animaln ; but 
among the ruins of Ephesus I have heard them by hun- 
dreds. 



47* 



558 



DOJM JUAJN 



[Canto IX. 



XXIX. 

Don Juan, who had shone in the late slaughter, 
Was left upon his way with the despatch, 

Where blood was talk'd of as we would of water j 
And carcasses that lay as thick as thatch 

O'er silenced cities, merely served to flatter 
Fair Catherine's pastime— ^^'ho look'd on the match 

Between these nations as a main of cocks, 

Wherein she liked her own to stand like rocks. 

XXX. 

And there in a kibitka he roll'd on, 
(A cursed sort of carriage without springs, 

Which on rough roads leaves scarcely a whole bone,) 
Pondering on glory, chivalry, and kings, 

And orders, and on all that he had done — 
And wishing that post-horses had the wings 

Of Pegasus, or at the least post-chaises 

Had feathers, when a traveller on deep ways is. 

XXXI. 

At every jolt — and they were many — still 
He tu'rn'd his eyes upon his little charge, 

As if he wish'd that she should fare less ill 
Than he, in these sad highways left at large 

To ruts, and flints, and lovely Nature's skill, 
Who is no paviour, nor admits a barge 

On hei- canals, where God takes sea and lanoi, 

Fishery and farm, both into his own hand. 

XXXII. 

At least he pays no rent, and has best right 
To be the first of what v,'e used to call 

" Gentlemen farmers " — a race worn out quite. 
Since lately there have been no rents at all. 

And "gentlemen " are in a piteous plight, 
And " farmers '' can't raise Ceres from her fall : 

She fell with Buonaparte —What strange thoughts 

Arise, when we see emperors fall with oats ! 

XXXIII. 

But Juan turn'd his eyes on the sweet child 

Whom he had saved from slaughter— what a trophy! 

Oh ! ye who build up monuments, defiled 

With gore, like Nadir Shah, that costive sophy. 

Who, after leaving Hindostan a wild, 
And scarce to the Mogul a cup of coffee 

To soothe his woes withal, was slain, the sinner ! 

Because he could no more digest his dinner ; — i 

XXXIV. 

Oh ye ! or we ! or he ! or she ! reflect, 

That erne life saved, especially if young 
Or pretty, is a thing to recollect 

Far sweeter than the greenest laurels sprung 
From the manure of human clay, though deck'd 

With all the praises ever said or sung : 
Though hymn'd by every harp, unless withiu 
Your heart joins chorus, Fame is but a din. 

XXXV. 
Oh ! ye ^reat authors luminous, voluminous ! 

Ye tvvjce ten hundred thousand daily scribes ! 
Whose pamphlets, volumes, newspapersj illumine us! 

Whether you 're paid by government m bribes. 
To prove the public debt isnot consuming us — 

Or, roughly treading on the "courtier's kibes" 
With clownish heel, your popular circulation 
Feeds you by printing half the realms starvation j — 

XXXVI. 

Oh, ye great authors ! — " Apropos des bottes,"— 

I have forgotten what I meant to say. 
As sometimes have been greater sages' lots j — 

'T was something calculated to allay 
All wrath in barracks, palaces, or cots : 

Certes it would have been but thrown away, 
And that's one comfort for my lost advice, 
Although no doubt it was beyond all price. 



XXXVII. 

But let it go : — it will one day b^ound 
With other relics of " a former world," 

When this world shall be formxer, underground, 
Thrown topsy-turvy, twisted, crisp'd, and curl'd, 

Baked, fried, or burnt, turnd inside-out, or drown'd. 
Like all the worlds before, which have been hurl'd 

First out of, and then back again to chaos, 

The superstratum which will overlay us.' 

XXXVI II. 

So Cuvier says : — and then shall come again 

Unto the new creation, rising out 
From our old crash, son>8 niyslic, ancient strain 

Of things destroy'd and left in airy doubt 
Like to the notions we now entertain 

Of Titans, giants, fellows of about 
Some hundred feet in height, not to say miles, 
And mammoths, and your winged crocodiles. 

XXXIX. 

Think if then George the Fourth should be dug up ! 

How the new worldlings of the then new East 
Will wonder where such animals could sup ! 

(For they themselves will be but of the least: 
Even worlds miscarrj^, when too oft they pup, 

And every new creation hath decrease'd 
In size, from overworking the material — 
INIen are but maggots of some huge Earth's burial.) 

XL. 

How will — to these young people, just thrust out 
From some fresh Pai-adise, and set to plough, 

And dig, and sweat, and turn themselves about, 
And plant, and reap, and spin, and grind, and sow, 

Till all the arts at length are brought about, 
Especially of war and taxing,— how, 

I say, will these great relics, when they see 'em, 

Look like the monsters of a new museum ? 

XLI. 

But I am apt to grow too metaphysical : 
" The time is out of joint," — and so am I ; 

I quite forget this poem 's merely quizzical, 
And deviate into matters rather dr}% 

I ne'er decide what 1 shall say, and this I call 
Much too poetical : men should know why 

They write, and for wliat end ; but, note or text, 

I never know the word which will come next. 

XLIL 

So on I ramble, now and then narrating, 

Now pondering : — it is time we should narrate. 

I left Don Juan with bis horses baiting — 
Now we '11 get o'er the ground at a great rate. 

I shall not be particular in stating 
H is journey, we 've so many tours of late : 

Suppose him then at Petersburgh ; suppose 

That pleasant capital of painted snows j 

XLIIL 

Suppose him in a handsome uniform ; 

A scarlet coat, black facings, a long plume, 
Waving, like sails new shiver "d in a storm. 

Over a cock'd hat in a crowded room, 
And brilliant breeches, bright as a Cairn Gorme,2 

Of yellow casimere we may presume, 
White stockings drawn uncurdled as new milk 
O'er limbs whose symmetry set otf the silk j 

XLIV. 

Suppose him sword by side, and hat in hand, 
Made up by youth, fame, and an army tailor — 

That great enchanter, at whose rod's command 
Beauty springs forth, and Nature's self turns paler, 



1 He was killed in a conspiracy, after bis temper had 
been exasperated by his extreme costivity to a degree of 
insanity. 



2 A yellow-coloured crystal, denominated from a hill in 
Inverness-shire, where it is found. This has been gen- 
erally called the Scottish topaz: but it now gives place to 
another crystal of a far harder quality, found near Inver- 
cauld.— JAMIESON.— E. 



Canto IX.] 



DON JUAN. 



559 



Seeing; how Art can make her work more grand 

(When she don't pin men's limbs in like a gaoler), — 
Behold him placed as if upon a pillar ! He 
Seems Love turn'd a lieutenant of artillery ! 

XLV. 

His bandage slipp'd down into a cravat ; 

His wings subdued to epaulettes ; his quiver 
Shrunk to a scabbard, with his arrows at 

His side as a small sword, but sharp as ever j 
His bow converted into a cockd hat ; 

But still so like, that Psyche were more clever 
Than some wives (who make blunders no less stupid,) 
If she had not mistaken him for Cupid. 

XLVI. 

The courtiers stared, the ladies whisper'd, and 
The empress smiled : the reigning favourite 

I quite forget which of them was in hand [frown'd — 
Just then ; as they are rather numerous found, 

Who took by turns that difficult command 
Since first her majesty was singly crown'd : 

But they were mostly nervous six-foot fellows, 

All lit to make a Patagonian jealous. 

XLvn. 

Juan was none of these, but slight and slim, 
Blushing and beardless ; and yet neertheless 

There was a something in his turn of limb. 
And still more in his eye, which seem'd to express, 

That though he look'd one of the seraphim. 
There lurk'd a man beneath the spirit's dress. 

Besides, the empress sometimes liked a boy, 

And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi.i 

XLVHI. 

No wonder then that Yermoloff, or Momonoff, 

Or Scherbatoff, or any other off 
Or on. might dread her majesty had not room enough 

Within her bosom (which was not too tough) 
For a new flame ; a thought to cast of gloom enough 

Along the aspect, whether smooth or rough, 
Of him" who, in the language of his station, 
Then held that " high official situation." 

XLIX. 

0, gentle ladies ! should you seek to know 
The import of this diplomatic phrase, 

Bid Ireland's Londonderry's Marquess 2 show 
His parts of speech; and in the strange displays 

Of that odd string of words, all in a row, 
Which none divine, and every one obeys, 

Perhaps you may pick out some" queer no meaning, 

Of that weak wordy harvest the sole gleaning. 



I think I call explain myself without 
That sad inexplicable beast of prey — 

That Sphinx, whose words would ever be a doubt, 
Did not his deeds unriddle them each day — 

That monstrous hieroglyphic — that long spout 
Of blood and water, leaden Castlereagh I 

And here I must an anecdote relate, 

But luckily of no great length or weight. 

1 He was the grande passion of the grande Catherine. 
See her Lives under the head of "Lanskoi." — ["Lanskoi 
was a youth of as fine and interesting a figure as the 
imagination can paint. Of all Cv-therine's favourites, he 
was the man whom she loved the most. His education 
having been neglected, she look the care of his improve- 
ment upon herself. In 1784, he was attacked with a 
fever, and perished in the flower of his age, in the arms 
of her majesty. When he was no more, Catherine gave 
herself up to the most poignant grief, and remained three 
months without going out of her palace at Tzarsko-selo. 
She afterwards raised a superb monument to his memory, 
in the gardens of that imperial seat. Lanskoi's fortune 
was estimated at three million rubles. He bequeathed it 
to the empress, who returned it to the sisters of that 
favourite, reserving only to herself the right of purchas- 
ing the pictures, medals, and library." — TOOKE.~E.] 

2 This was written long before the suicide of that 
person. 



LL 

An English lady ask'd of an Italian, 
What were the actual and official duties 

Of the strange thing, some women set a value on, 
Which hovers oft about some married beauties. 

Called " Cavalier servente?" a Pygmalion 
Whose statues warm (i fear, alas ! too true 'tis) 

Beneath his art. The dame, press'd to disclose them, 

Said — " Lady, I beseech you to suppose them.'' 

LII. 

And thus I supplicate your supposition, 
And mildest, matron-like interpretation, 

Of the imperial favourite's condition. 
'T was a high place, the highest in the nation 

In fact, if nofin rank; and the suspicion 
Of any one's attaining to his station. 

No doubt gave pain, where each new pair of shoulders, 

If rather broad, made stocks rise and their holders. 

LII I. 

Juan, I said, was a most beauteous boy. 
And had retain'd his boyish look beyond 

The usual hirsute seasons which destroy, 

With beards and whiskers, and the like, the fond 

Pansian aspect, which upset old Troy 

And founded Doctors' Commons : — I have conn'd 

The history of divorces, which, though chequer d, 

Calls llion's the first damages on record. 

LIV. 

And Catherine, who loved all things, (save her lord, 
Who was gone to his place,) and pass'd for much, 

Admiring those (by dainty dames abhorr-'d) 
Gigantic gentlemen, yet had a touch 

Of sentiment ; and he she most adored 
Was the lamented Lanskoi, who was such 

A lover as had cost her many a tear. 

And yet but made a middling grenadier. 

LV. 

Oh thou "teterrima causa " of all " belli "3 — 
Thou gate of life and death — thou nondescript ! 

Whence is our exit and our entrance,~well I 
May pause in pondering how all souls are dipt 

In thy perennial fountain : — how man fell, I 
Know not, since knowledge saw her branches stript 

Of her first fruit ; but how he falls and rises, 

SincCy thou hast settled beyond all surmises. 

LVI. 

Some call thee " the worst cause of war," but I 
Maintain thou art the best : for after all 

From thee we come, to thee we go, and why 
To get at thee not batter down a wall, 

Or waste a world ? since no one can deny 
T hou dost replenish worlds both great and small : 

With, or without thee, all things at a stand 

Are, or would be, thou sea of life"s dry land ! 

LVII. 

Catherine, who was the grand epitome 
Of that great cause of war, or peacej or what 

You please (it causes all the things which be. 
So you may lake your choice of this or that) — 

Catherine, I say, was very glad to see 
The handsome herald, on" whose plumage sat 

Victory ; and, pausing as she saw him kneel 

With his despatch, forgot to break the seal. 

LVIII. 

Then recollecting the whole empress, nor 
Forgetting quite the woman (which composed 

At least three parts of this great whole), slie tore 
The letter open with an air which posed 

The court, that watch'd each look her visage wore, 
Until a royal smile at length disclosed 

Fair weather for the day. 'Ihough rather spacious, 

Her face was noble, her eyes fine, mouth gracious. 



3 Hor. Sat. lib. i. eat. iil. 



560 



DON JUAN. 



[Canto IX. 



LIX. 

Great joy was hers, or rather joys : the first 
Was a ta'en city, thirty thousand slain. 

Glory and triumph o'er her aspect burst. 
As an East Indian sunrise on the main. 

These queuch'd a moment her ambition's thirst — 
So Arab deserts drink in summer's rain : 

In vain ! — As fall the dews on quenchless sands, 

Blood only serves to wash Ambition's hands ! 

LX. 

Her next amusement was more fanciful ; 

She smiled at mad Suwarrow's rhymes, who threw 
Into a Russian couplet rather dull 

The whole gazette of thousands whom he slew.i 
Her third was feminine enough to annul 

The shudder which runs naturally through 
Our veins, when things call'd sovereigns think it best 
To kill, and generals turn it into jest. 

LXI. 

The two first feelings ran their course complete. 
And lighted first her eye, and then her mouth : 

The whole court look'd immediately most sweet, 
Like flowers well water'd after a long drouth : — 

But when on the lieutenant at her feet 
Her majesty, who liked to gaze on youth 

Almost as much as on a new despatch. 

Glanced mildly, all the world was on the watch. 

LXII. 

Though somewhat large, exuberant, and truculent 
When W7-oth—vi,'hi\e pleased,she was as fine a figure 

As those who like things rosy, ripe, and succulent. 
Would wish to look on, while they are in vigour. 

She could repay each amatory look you lent 
With interest, and in turn was wont with rigour 

To exact of Cupid's bills the full amount 

At sight, nor would permit you to discount. 

LXIII. 

V/ith her the latter, though at times convenient, 

Was not so necessary ; for they tell 
That she was handsome, and though fierce look''d 
lenient. 

And always used her favourites too well. 
If once beyond her boudoir's precincts in ye went, 

Your <' fortune " Avas in a fair way " to swell 
A man " (as Giles says) 2 • for though she would widow 
Nations, she liked man as an individual. [all 

LXIV. 

What a strange thing is man ! and what a stranger 
Is woman ! What a whirlwiud is her head. 

And what a whirlpool full of depth and danger 
Is all the rest about her ! Whether wed. 

Or wido%y, maid, or mother, she can change her 
Mind like the wind : whatever she has said 

Or done, is light to what she '11 say or do j — 

The oldest thing on record, and yet new ! 

LXV. 

Oh Catherine ! (for of ail interjections. 
To thee both oh ! and ah ! belong of right 

In love and war) how odd are the connections 
Of human thoughts, which jostle in their flight ! 

Just now yoias were cut out in ditferent sections : 
Fiist Ismail's capture caught your fancy quite; 

Next of new knights, the fresh and glorious batch ; 

And thirdly he who brought you the despatch ! 

1 "Suwarrow is as singular for the brevity of his style 
as for the rapidity of his conquests. On the taking Tour- 
tourlfaya, in Bulgaria, he aciually wrote no more to the 
empress than two lines of Russ poetry: 

' Slawo Bopon, Slawo bowam, 
Glory to God, glory to you, 
Tourtourk;iya aviala, ia tam, 
Tourtourkaya is taken, here I am.'"— TOOKE.— E. 

2 "His fortune swells him, it is rank, he 's married." — 
Sir Giles Overreach; MASSINGER'S "New Way to pay 
Old Debts." 



LX\1. 

Shakspeare talks of "the herald Mercury 
New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill ; " 3 

And some such visions cross'd her majesty. 
While her young herald knelt before her still. 

'T is very true the hill seem'd rather high, 
For a lieutenant to climb up ; but skill 

Smoolh'd even the Simplon's steep, and by God's 
blessing 

With youth and health all kisses are "heaven-kissing." 

LXVII. 

Her majesty look'd down, the youth look'd up — 
And so they fell in love ; — she with his face. 

His grace, his God-knows- what : for Cupid's cup 
With the first draught intoxicates apace, 

A quintessential laudanum or " black drop," 
Which makes one drunk at once, without the base 

Expedient of full bumpers ; for the eye 

In love drinks all life's fountains (save tears) dry. 

LXVIII. 

He, on the other hand, if not in love, 
Fell into that no less imperious passion, 

Self-love — which, when some sort of thing above 
Ourselves, a singer, dancer, much in fashion, 

Or duchess, princess, empress, " deigns to prove " ■* 
('T is Pope's phrase) a great longing, though a rash 
one. 

For one especial person out of many, 

Makes us believe ourselves as good as any. 

LXIX. 

Besides, he was of that delighted age 

Which makes all female ages equal — when 

We don't much care with whom we may engage, 
As bold as Daniel in the lions" den. 

So that we can our native sun assuage 

In the next ocean, v/hich may flow just then, 

To make a twilight in, just as Sol's heat is 

Quench'd in the lap of the salt sea, or Thetis. 

LXX. 

And Catherine (we must say thus much for Catherine), 
Though bold and bloody, was the kind of thing 

Whose temporary passion was quite flattering, 
Because each lov&r look'd a sort of king. 

Made up upon an amatory pattern, 
A royal husband in all save the ring — 

Which, being the damn'dest part of matrimony, 

Seem'd taking out the sting to leave the honey. 

LXXI. 

And when you add to this, her womanhood 
In its meridian, her blue eyes 5 or grey — 

(The last, if they have soul, are quite as good. 
Or better, as the best examples say : 

Napoleon's, Mary's, queen of Scotland, should 
Lend to that colour a transcendent rayj 

And Pallas also sanctions the same hue, 

Too wise to look through optics black or blue) — 

LXXIL 

Her sweet smile, and her then majestic figure, 
Her plumpness, her imperial condescension. 

Her preference of a boy to men much bigger 
(Fellows whom Messalina's self would pension), 

Her prime of life, just now in juicy vigour, 
With other extras, which we need not mention. — 

All these, or any one of these, explain 

Enough to make a stripling very vain. 

3 Hamlet, act iii. sc. iv. — E. 

4 " Not Cesar's empress would I deign to prove : 

No ! make me mistress to the man I love." — 

POPE : Eloisa.— E. 

5 " Several persons who lived at the court, affirm that 
Catherine had very blue eyes, and not grey, as M. Rul- 
hieres has stated." — TOOKE.— E. 



Canto IX.] 



DON JUAN. 



561 



LXXIII. 

And that 's enough, for love is vanity, 

Selfish in its beginning as its end, 
Except where -t is a mere insanity, 

A maddening spirit which would strive to blend 
Itself with beauty's frail inanity. 

On which the passion's self seems to depend : 
And hence some heathenish philosophers 
Make love the main-spring of the universe. 

LXXIV. 

Besides Platonic love, besides the love 
Of God, the love of sentiment, the loving 

Of faithful pairs — (I needs must rhyme with dove, 
That good old steam-boat which keeps verses moving 

'Gainst reason — Reason ne'er was hand-and-glove 
With rhyme, but always leant less to improving 

The sound than sense) — besides all these pretences 

To love, there are those things which words name 



LXXV. 

Those movements, those improvements in our bodies 
Which make all bodies anxious to get out 

Of their own sand-pits, to mix with a goddess, 
For such all women are at first no doubt. 

How beautiful that moment ! and how odd is 
That fever which precedes the languid rout 

Of our sensations ! What a curious way 

The whole thing is of clothing souls in clay ! 

LXXVI. 

The noblest kind of love is love Platonical, 
To end or to begin with ; the next grand 

Is that which may be christen'd love canonical, 
Because the clergy take the thing in hand j 

The third sort to be noted in our chronicle 
As flourishing in every Christian land. 

Is, when chaste matrons to their other ties 

Add what may be call'd mairiage in disguise. 

LXXVII. 

Well, we won't analyse — our story must 
Tell for itself ; the sovereign was smitten, 

Juan much flatter'd by her love, or lust ; — 
I cannot stop to alter words once written, 

And the two are so mix'd with human dust, 
That he who names one, both perchance may hit on : 

But in such matters Russia's mighty empress 

Behaved no better than a common sempstress. 

LXXVIII. 

The whole court melted into one wide whisper, 
And all lips were applied unto all ears ! 

The elder ladies' wrinkles curl'd much crisper 
As they beheld ; the younger cast some leers 

On one another, and each lovely lisper 
Smiled as she talk'd the matter o'er ; but tears 

Of rivalship rose in each clouded eye 

Of all the standing army who stood by. 

LXXIX. 

All the ambassadors of all the powers 

Inquired, Who was this very new young, man, 

Who promised to be great in some few hours ? 
Which is full soon (though life is but a span). 

Already they beheld the silver showers 
Of rubles rain, as fast as specie can, 

Upon his cabinet, besides the presents 

Oi several ribands, and some thousand peasants. * 

LXXX. 

Catherine was generous,— all such ladies are : 
Love, that great opener of the heart and all 

The ways that lead there, be they near or far, 
Above, below, by turnpikes great or small, — 

1 A Russian estate is always valued by the number of 
the slaves upon it. 



Love — (though she had a cursed taste for war. 

And was not the best wife,!^ unless we call 
Such Clytemnestra, though perhaps 't'is better 
That one should die, than two drag on the fetter) — 

LXXXI. 

Love had made Catherine make each lover's fortune. 
Unlike our own half-chaste Elizabeth, 

Whose avarice all disbursements did importune. 
If history, the grand liar, ever saith 

The truth ; and though grief her old age might shorten, 
Because she put a favourite to death. 

Her vile, ambiguous method of flirtation, 

And stinginess, disgrace her sex and station. 

LXXXII. 

But when the levee rose, and all was bustle 
In the dissolving circle, all the nations' 

Ambassadors began as 't were to hustle 
Round the young man with their congratulations. 

Also the softer silks were heard to rustle 
Of gentle dames, among whose recreations 

It is to speculate on handsome faces, 

Especially when such lead to high places. 

LXXXIIL 
Juan, who found himself, he knew not how, 

A general object of attention, made 
His answers with a very graceful bow, 

As if born for the ministerial trade. 
Though modest, on his unembarrass'd brow 

Nature had written " gentleman." He said 
Little, but to the purpose ; and his manner 
Flung hovering graces o'er him like a banner. 

LXXXIV. 

An order from her majesty consign'd 

Our young lieutenant to the genial care 
Of those in oflSce: all the world iook'd kind, 

(As it will look sometimes with the first stare, 
Which youth would not act ill to keep in mind,) 

As also did Miss Protasoff then there. 
Named from her mystic office " I'Eprouveuse," 
A term inexplicable to the Muse. 

LXXXV. 
With her then, as in humble duty bound, 

Juan retired, — and so will I, until 
My Pegasus shall tire of touching ground. 

We have just lit on a " heaven-kissing hill," 
So lofty that 1 feel my brain turn roundj 

And all my fancies whirling like a mill j 
Which is a signal to my nerves and brain. 
To take a quiet ride in some green lane. 



CANTO THE TENTH. 



When Newton saw an apple fall, he found 
In that slight startle from his contemplation — 

'T is said (for I '11 not answer above ground 
For any sage's creed or calculation) — 

A mode of proving that the earth turn'd round 
In a most natural whirl, called "gravitation;" 

And this is the sole mortal who could grapple, 

Since Adam, with a fall, or with an apple. 

II. 

Man fell with apples, and with apples rose, 
If this be true ; for we must deem the mode 

In which Sir Isaac Newton could disclose 
Through the then unpaved stars the turnpike road, 

A thing to counterbalance human woes : 
For ever since immoi-tal man hath glow'd 

With all kinds of mechanics, and full soon 

Steam-engines will conduct him to the moon. 



2 Peter the Third died in July, 1762, just one week 
after his deposition. Although it is probable that the 
hand of violence shortened his days, there Beems no good 
reason for charging Catherine with so atrocious an 
act. — E. 



36 



562 



DON JUAN 



[Canto X. 



III. 

And wherefore this exordium ? — Why, just now, 
In taking up this paltry sheet of paper, 

My bosom underwent a glorious glow, 
And my internal spirit cut a caper : 

And though so much inferior, as I know. 
To those who, by the dint of glass and vapour, 

Discover stars, and sail in the wind's eye, 

I wish to do as much by poesy. 

IV, 

In the wind's eye I have sail'd, and sail ; but for 
The stars, I own my telescope is dim ; 

But at the least I have shunn'd the common shore. 
And leaving land far out of sight, would skim 

The ocean of eternity : the roar 
Of breakers has not daunted my slight, trim. 

But still sea-worthy skiff; and she may float 

Where ships have founder'd, as doth many a boat. 

V.' 

We left our hero, Juan, in the bloom 
Of favouritism, but not yet in the blush;—' 

And far be it from my Muses to presume 
(For I have more than one Muse at a push) 

To follow him beyond the drawing-room: 
It is enough that Fortune found him flush 

Of youth, and vigour, beauty, and those things 

Which for an instant clip enjoyment's wings. 

VI. 

But soon they grow again and leave their nest. 

« Oh ! " saith the Psalmist, " that I had a dove's 
Pinions to flee away, and be at rest ! " 

And who that recollects young years and loves,— 
Though hoary now, and with a withering breast, 

And palsied fancy, which no longer roves 
Beyond its dimm'd eye's sphere, — but would much 

rather 
Sigh like his son, than cough like his grandfather ? 

VII. 

But sighs subside, and tears (even widows') shrink. 
Like Arno in the summer, to a shallow. 

So narrow as to shame their wintry brink. 

Which threatens inundations deep and yellow ! 

Such difference doth a few months make. You 'd think 
Grief a rich field which never would lie fallow ; 

No more it doth, its ploughs but change their boys. 

Who furrow some new soil to sow for joys. 

VIII. 

But coughs will come when sighs depart — and now 
And then before sighs cease ; for oft the one 

Will bring the other, ere the lake-like brow 
Is ruffled by a wrinkle, or the sun 

Of life reach'd ten o'clock : and while a glow, 
Hectic and brief as summer's day nigh done, 

O'erspreads the cheek which seems too pure for clay. 

Thousands blaze, love, hope, die,— how happy they !— 

IX. 

But Juan was not meant to die so soon. 

We left him in the focus of such glory 
As may be won by favour of the moon 

Or ladies' fancies — rafher transitory 
Perhaps ; but who would scorn the month of June, 

Because December, with his breath so hoary, 
Must come ? Much rather should he court the ray. 
To hoard up warmth against a wintry day. 

X. 

Besides, he had some qualities which fix 
Middle-aged ladies even more than young: 

The former know what's what; while new-fledged 
chicks 
Know little more of love than what is sung 

In rhymes, or dreamt (for fancy will play tricks) 
In visions of those skies from whence Love sprung. 

Some reckon women by their suns or years, 

J rather think the moon should date the dears. 



XI. 

And why ? because she's changeable and chaste. 

I know no other reason, whatsoe'er 
Suspicious people, who find fault in haste, 

May choose to tax me with ; which is not fair, 
Nor flattering to " their temper or their taste," 

As my friend Jeffrey writes with such an air : 
However, I forgive him, and I trust 
He will forgive himself; — if not, I must. 

XIL 

Old enemies who have become new friends 
Should so continue — 't is a point of honour ; 

And 1 know nothing which could make amends 
For a return to hatred : I would shun her 

Like garlic, howsoever she extends 

Her hundred arms and legs, and fain outrun her. 

Old flames, new wives, become our bitterest foes — 

Converted foes should scorn to join with those. 

XIIL 

This were the worst desertion : — renegadoes, 

Even shuffling Southey, that incarnate lie, 
Would scarcely join again the " reformadoes," 1 

Whom he forsook to^'fill the laureate's sty : 
And honest men from Iceland to Barbadoes, 

Whether in Caiedon or Italy, 
Should not veer round with every breath, nor seize 
To pain, the moment when you cease to please. 

XIV. 
The lawyer and the critic but behold 

The baser sides of literature and life, 
And nought remains unseen, but much untold, 

By those who scour those double vales of strife. 
While common men grow ignorantly old, 

1 he lawyer's brief is like the surgeon's knife, 
Dissecting the w hole inside of a question. 
And with it all the process of digestion. 

XV. 

A legal broom 's a moral chimney-sweeper. 
And that "s the reason he himself 's so dirty; 

The endless soot ^ bestou s a tint far deeper 
Than can be hid by altering his shirt; he 

Retains the sable stains of the dark creeper. 
At least some twenty-nine do out of thirty. 

In all their habits ; — not so you, I own ; 

As Cassar wore his robe, you wear your gown. 

XVL 

And all our little feuds, at least all mine, 
Dear Jeffrey, once my most redoubted foe 

(As far as rhyme and criticism combine 
To make such puppets of us things below), 

Are over : Here's a health to " Auld Lang Syne !" 
I do not know you, and may never know 

Tour face — but you have acted on the whole 

Most nobly, and I own it from my soul. 

XVIL 

And when I use the phrase of " Auld Lang Syne ! " 
'T is not address'd to you — the more 's the pity 

For me, for I would rather take my wine 

With you, than aught (save Scott) in your proud 
city. 

But someliGw, — it may seem a schoolboy's whine, 
And yet I seek not to be grand nor witty, 

But I am half a Scot by birth, and bred 

A whole one, and my heart flies to my head, — 

XVIIL 

As " Auld Lang Syne " brings Scotland, one and all, 
Scotch plaids, Scotch snoods, the blue hills, and clear 
streams, 

The Dee, the Don, Balgounie's brig's black wall,^ 
All my boy feelings, all my gentler dreams 

1 " Reformers," or rather " Reformed." The Baron 
Bradwardine, in Waverley, is authority for the word, 

2 Query, »tti< ?— Printer's Devil. 

3 The brig of Don, near the "auld toun" of Aberdeen, 



Canto X.] 



DON JUAN, 



563 



Of what I then dreamt^ clothed in their own pall, 

Like Banquo's offspring : — floatins; past me seems 
My childhood in this childishness of mine : 
I care not — 't is a glimpse of " Auld Lang Syne." 

XIX. 

And though, as you remember, in a fit 
Of wrath and rhyme, when juvenile and curly, 

I rail'd at Scots to show my wrath and wit. 
Which must be own'd was sensitive and surly, 

Yet 't is in vain such sallies to permit, 

They cannot quench young feelings fresh and early : 

I '■^ scotched not kill'd" the Scotchman in my blood. 

And love the land of " mountain and of flood." 

XX. 

Don Juan, who was real, or ideal, — 

For both ar? much the same, since what men think 
Exists when the once thinkers are less real 

Than what they thought, for mind can never sink, 
And 'gainst the body makes a strong appeal ; 

And yet 't is very puzzling on the brink 
Of what is called eternity, to stare. 
And know no more of what is here, than there ; — 

XXL 

Don Juan grew a very polish'd Russian — 
How we won't mention, why we need not say : 

Few youthful minds can stand the strong concussion 
Of any slight temptation in their way ; 

But /its just now were spread as is a cushion 
Smooth'd for a monarch's seat of honour : gay 

Damsels, and dances, revels, ready money, 

Made ice seem paradise, and winter sunny. 

XXIL 

The favour of the empress was agreeable ; 

And though the duty wax"d a little hard. 
Young people at his time of life should be able 

To come oft" handsomely in that regard. 
He was now growing up like a green tree, able 

For love, war, or ambition, which reward 
Their luckier votaries, till old age's tedium 
Make some prefer the circulating medium. 

XXIIL 

About this time, as might have been anticipated. 
Seduced by youth and dangerous examples, 

Don Juan grew, 1 fear, a little dissipated; 
Which is a sad thing, and not only tramples 

On our fresh feelings, but — as being participated 
With all kinds of incorrigible samples 

Of frail humanity — must make us selfish. 

And shut our souls up in us like a shell-fish. 

XXIV. 

This we pass over. We will also pass 
The usual progress of intrigues between 

Unequal matches, such as are, alas ! 
A young lieutenant's with a not old queen, 

But one who is not so youthful as she was 
In all the royalty of sweet seventeen. 

Sovereigns may sway materials, but not matter, 

And wrinkles, the d d democrats, won't flatter. 

XXV. 

And death, the sovereign's sovereign, though the great 
Gracchus of all mortality, who levels. 

With his Agi-arian laws,i the high estate 
Of him who feasts, and fights, and roars, and revels, 



with it8 one arch, and its black deep salmon Ktream below, 
is ill my memory as yesti^day. I slill remember, though 
perliaps I may misquote, the awful proverb which made 
me pause to cross it, and yet lean over it with a childish 
delight, being an only son, at least by the mother's side. 
The saying as recollected by me was this, but I have 
never heard or seen it since I was nine years of age ; — 
"Brig of Balgounie, black 's your xt>a\ 

Wi' a wife's ae son, and a mear's ae foal, 

Doun ye shall fu' ! " 
1 Tiberius Grncchus, being tribune of the people, de- 



To one small grass-grown patch (which must await 

Corruption for its crop) with the poor devils 
Who never had a foot of land till now, — 
Death's a reformer, all men must allow. 

XXVL 

He lived (not Death, but Juan) in a hurry 
Of waste, and haste, and glare, and gloss, and glitter, 

In this gay clime of bear-skins black and furry — 
Which (though I hate to say a thing that 's bitter) 

Peep out sometimes, when things are in a fluriy. 
Through all the " purple and fine linen," fitter 

For Babylon's than Russia's royal harlot — 

And neutralise her outward show of scarlet. 

XXVIL 

And this same state we won't describe : we would 
Perhaps from hearsay, or from recollection ; 

But getting nigh grim Dante's " obscure wood," 2 
That horrid equinox, that hateful section 

Of human years, that half-way house, that rude 
Hut, whence wise travellers drive with circum- 
spection 

Life's sad post-horses o'er the dreary frontier 

Of age, and looking back to youth, give one tear ; — 

XXV in. 

I won't describe, — that is, if I can help 
Description ; and I won't reflect, — that is, 

If I can stave off thought, which — as a whelp 
Clings to its teat — sticks to me through the abyss 

Of this^odd labyrinth ; or as the kelp 
Holds by the rock ; or as a lover's kiss 

Drains its first draught of lips : — but, as I said, 

I won't philosophise, and will be read. 

XXIX. 

Juan, instead of courting courts, was courted, — 
A thing which happens rarely : this he owed 

Much to his youth, and much to his reported 
Valour ; much also to the blood he show'd, 

Like a race-horse ; much to each dress he sported. 
Which set the beauty oft" in which he glow'd. 

As purple clouds befringe the sun; but most 

He owed to an old woman and his post. 

XXX. 

He wrote to Spain : — and all his near relations, 
Perceiving he was in a handsome way 

Of getting on himself, and finding stations 
For cousins also, answered the same day. 

Several prepared themselves for emigrations; 
And, eating ices, were o'erheard to say. 

That with the addition of a slight pelisse, 

Madrid's and Moscow's climes were of a piece. 

XXXI. 

His mother, Donna Inez, finding, too. 

That in the lieu of drawing on his banker, 

Where his assets were waxing rather few. 
He had brought his spending to a handsome an- 
chor, — 

Replied, " that she was glad to see him through 
Those pleasures after which wild youth will hanker; 

As the sole sign of man's being in his senses 

Is, learning to reduce his past expenses. 

XXXII. 

" She also recommended him to God, 
And no less to God's Son, as well as Mother, 

Warn'd him against Greek worship, which looks odd 
In Catholic eyes; but told him, too, to smother 

Outward dislike, which don't look well abroad ; 
Infnrni'd him that he had a little brother 

Born in a second wedlock ; and above 

All, praised the empress's maternal love. 



manded in their name the execution of the Agrarian law ; 
by which all persons possessing above a certain number 
of acres were to be deprived of the surplus for the beuelit 
of the poor citizens. 
2 "Mi retrovai perun selvaoscura."— /n/«rno, Canto I. 



564 



DON JUAN. 



[Canto X. 



XXXIII. 

" She could not too much five her approbation 
Unto an empress, who preferr'd youn^ men 

Whose a^e, and what was better still, whose nation 
And climate, stopped all scandal (now and then) : — 

At home it mis^ht have given her some vexation ; 
But where thermometers sink down to ten, 

Or five, or one, or zero, she could never 

Believe that virtue thaw'd before tlie river." 

XXXIV. 

Oh for a forty-parson poioer i to chant 
Thy praise, Hypocrisy ! Oh for a hymn 

Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt, 
Not practise ! Oh for trump of cherubim ! 

Or the ear-trumpet of my good old aunt, 
Who, though her spectacles at last grew dim, 

Drew quiet consolation through its hint, 

When she no more could read the pious print. 

XXXV. 

She was no hypocrite at least, poor soul, 
But went to heaven in as sincere a way 

As any body on the elected roll. 

Which portions out upon the judgment day 

Heaven's freeholds, in a'sort of doomsday scroll, 
Such as the conqueror William did repay 

His knights with, lotting others' properties 

Into some sixty thousand new knights' fees. 

XXXVI. 

I can't complain, whose ancestors are there, 
Erneis, Radulphus — eight-and-forty manors 

(If that my memory doth not greatly err) 
Were their reward for following Billy's banners ; 2 

And though I can't help thinking 't was scarce fair 
To strip the Saxons of their hydes,^ like tanners ; 

Yet as they founded churches with the produce. 

You '11 deem, no doubt, they put it to a good use. 

XXXVII. 

The gentle Juan flourish'd, though at times 
He felt like other plants called sensitive, 

Which shrink from touch, as monarchs do from 
rhymes. 
Save such as Southey can afford to give. 

Perhaps he long'd in bitter frosts for climes 
In which the Neva's ice would cease to live 

Before May-day : perhaps, despite his duty. 

In royalty's vast arms he sigh'd for beauty : 

XXXVIII. 

Perhaps — but, sans perhaps, we need not seek 
For causes young or old : the canker-worm 

Will feed upon the fairest, freshest cheek. 
As well as further drain the wither'd form : 

Care, like a housekeeper, brings every week 
His bills in, and however we may storm, 

They must be paid : though six daj's smoothly run. 

The seventh will bring blue devils or a dun. 

XXXIX. 

I don't know how it was, but he grew sick : 
The empress was alarm'd, and her physician 

(The same who phj-sick'd Peter) found the tick 
Of his fierce pulse betoken a condition 

Which augur'd of the dead, however quick 
Itself, and show'd a feverish disposition ; 

At which the whole court was extremely troubled, 

The sovereign shock'd, and all his medicines doubled. 



1 A metaphor taken from the "forty-horse power" of a 
Bteam-engine. That mad wag, the Reverend Sydney 
Smith, sitting by a brother clergyman at dinner, observed 
afterwards, that his dull neighbour had a "twelve-parson 
power" of conversation. 

2 See Collins's Peerage, vol. vii. p. 71. — E. 

8 " Hyde." — I believe a hydeof land to be a legitimate 
word, and, as such, subject to the tax of a quibble. 



1 XL. 

Low were the whispers, manifold the rumours, 

Some said he had been poison'd by Potemkin j 
Others talk'd learnedly of certain tumours. 

Exhaustion, or disorders of the same kin ; 
Some said 't was a concoction of the humours. 

Which with the blood too readily will claim kin ; 
Others again were ready to maintain, 
" 'T was only the fatigue of last campaign." 

XLL 

But here is one prescription out of many : 
"Sodae sulphat. gvj. 3fs. Mannae optim. 

Aq. fervent, f.jifs. jij. tinct. Sennae [him) 

Haustus " (And here the surgeon came and cupp'd 

"R. Pulv. Com. gr. iij. Ipecacuanhje" 
(With more beside if Juan had not stopp'd 'em). 

" Bolus Potassae Sulphuret. sumendus, 

Et haustus ter in die capiendus." 

XLII. 

This is the way physicians mend or end us, 
Secundum artem : but although we sneer 

In health — when ill, we call them to attend us, 
Without the least propensity to jeer : 

While that "hiatus maxime deflendus" 
To be fill'd up by spade or mattocks near, 

Instead of gliding graciously down Lethe, 

We tease mild Baillie, or soft Abernethy.4 

XLin. 

Juan demurr'd at this first notice to 

Quit; and though death had threaten'd an ejection, 
His youth and constitution bore him through. 

And sent the doctors in a new direction. 
But still his state was delicate : the hue 

Of health but flickered with a faint reflection 
Along his wasted cheek, and seem'd to gravel 
The faculty — who said that he must travel. 

XLIV. 

The climate was too cold, they saidj for him, 
Meridian-born, to bloom in. This opinion 

Made the chaste Catherine look a little grim, 
Who did not like at first to lose her minion : 

But when she saw his dazzling eye wax dim, 
And drooping like an eagle's with dipt pinion, 

She then resolved to send hirn on a mission, 

But in a style becoming his condition. 

XLV. 

There was just then a kind of a discussion, 

A sort of treaty or negotiation 
Between the British cabinet and Russian, 

Maintain'd with all the due prevarication 
With which great states such things are apt to push on j 

Something about the Baltic's navigation, 
Hides, traiif-oil, tallow, and the rights of Thetis, 
Which Britons deem their " uti possidetis." 

XLVL 

So Catherine, who had a handsome way 
Of fitting out her favourites, conferred 

This secret charge on Juan, to display 
At once her royal splendour, and reward 

His services. He kiss'd hands the next day, 
Received instructions how to play his card, 

Was laden with all kinds of gifts and honours. 

Which show'd what great discernment was the donor's. 

XLVII. 

But she was lucky, and luck 's all. Your queens 
Are generally prosperous in reigning; 

Which puzzles us to know what Fortune means. 
But to continue : though her years were waning, 

Her climacteric teased her like her teens; 
And though her dignity brook'd no complaining, 

So much did Juan's setting off distress her. 

She could not find at first a fit successor. 



4 Both Dr. Baillie and John Abernethy, the great sur- 
geon, were remarkable (or plainness of speech.— E. 



Canto X.] 



DON JUAN 



565 



XLVIII. 

But time, the comforter, will come at last 
And four-and-twenty hours, and twice that number 

Of candidates requesting to be placed. 
Made Catherine taste next night a quiet slumber : — 

Not that she meant to fix again in haste. 
Nor did she find the quantity encumber, 

But always choosing with deliberation. 

Kept the place open for their emulation. 

XLIX. 

While this high post of honour 's in abeyance, 
For one or two days, reader, we request 

You '11 mount with our young hero the conveyance 
Which wafted him from Petersburgh : the best 

Barouche, which had the glory to display once 
The fair czarina's autocratic crest. 

When, a new Iphigene, she went to Tauris, 

Was given to her favourite,! and now bore his. 

L. 

A bull-dog, and a bullfinch, and an ermine, 
All private favourites of Don Juan ; — for 

(Let deeper sages the true cause determine) 
He had a kind of inclination, or 

Weakness, for what most people deem mere vermin. 
Live animals : an old maid of threescore 

For cats and birds more penchant ne'er display'd, 

Although he was not old, nor even a maid j — 

LL 

The animals aforesaid occupied 

1 heir station : there were valets, secretaries, 
In other vehicles ; but at his side 

Sat little Leila, who survived the parries 
He made 'gainst Cossacque sabres, in the wide 

Slaughter of Ismail. Though my wild Muse varies 
Her note, she don't forget the infant girl 
Whom he preserved, a pure and living pearl. 

LIL 

Poor little thing ! She was as fair as docile, 
And with that gentle, serious character. 

As rare in living beings as a fossil 

Man, 'midst thy mouldy mammoths, "grand 

111 fitted was her ignorance to jostle [Cuvier ! " 

With this o'erwhelming world, where all must err : 

But she was yet but ten years old, and therefore 

Was tranquil, though she knew not why or wherefore. 

LIH. 

Don Juan loved her, and she loved him, as 
Nor brother, father, sister, daughter love. 

I cannot tell exactly what it was ; 
He was not yet quite old enough to prove 

Parental feelings, and the other class, 

Calld brotherly affection, could not move 

His bosom, — for he never had a sister : 

Ah ! if he had, how much he would have miss'd her ! 

LIV. 

And still less was it sensual ; for besides 
That he was not an ancient debauchee, 

(Who like sour fruit, to stir their veins' sj 
As acids rouse a dormant alkali,) 

Although Ct will happen as our planet guides) 
His youth was not the chastest that might be, 

There was the purest Platonism at bottom 

Of all his feelings — only he forgot 'em. 

LV. 

Just now there was no peril of temptation ; 

He loved the infant orphan he had saved. 
As patriots (now and then) may love a nation ; 

His pride, too, felt that she was not enslaved 
Owing to him ; — as also her salvation 

Through his means and the church's might be paved. 
But one tiling's odd, which here must be inserted. 
The little Turk refused to be converted. 



salt tides, 



1 The empress went to the Crimea, accompanied by the 
emperor Joseph, in the year — I forget which. 



48 



LVL 

'T was strange enough she should retain the impression 
Through such a scene of change, and dread, and 
slaughter ; 

But though three bishops told her the transgression, 
She show'd a great dislike to holy water: 

She also had no passion for confession ; 
Perhaps she had nothing to confess : — no matter 

Whate'er the cause, the church made little of it — 

She still held out that Mahomet was a prophet. 

LVII. 

In fact, the only Christian she could bear 
Was Juan ; whom she seem'd to have selected 

In place of what her home and friends once were. 
He naturally loved what he protected : 

And thus they form'd a rather curious pair, 
A guardian green in years, a ward connected 

In neither clime, time, blood, with her defender ; 

And yet this want of ties made theirs more tender. 

Lvin. 

They journey 'd on through Poland and through War- 
saw, ' 

Famous for mines of salt and yokes of iron : 
Through Courland also, which that famous farce saw 

Which gave her dukes the graceless name of 
"Biron."3 
'T is the same landscape which the modern Mars saw. 

Who march'd to Moscow, led by Fame, the siren I 
To lose by one month's frost some twenty years 
Of conquest, and his guard of grenadiers. 

LIX. 

Let this not seem an anti-climax : — "Oh ! 

My guard ! my old guard ! " 3 exclaim'd that god of 
clay. 
Think of the Thunderer's falling down below 

Carotid-arterj'-cutting Castlereagh ! 
Alas ! that glory should be chill'd by snow ! 

But should we wish to warm us on our way 
Through Poland, there is Kosciusko's name 
Might scatter fire through ice, like Hecla's flame. 

LX. 

From Poland they came on through Prussia Proper, 
And Konigsberg the capital, whose vaunt. 

Besides some veins of iron, lead, or copper, 
Has lately been the great Professor Kant.* 

Juan, who cared not a tobacco-stopper 
About philosophy, pursued his jaunt 

To Germany, whose somewhat tardy millions 

Have princes who spur more than their postilions. 

LXI. 

And thence through Berlin, Dresden, and the like, 
Until he reach'd the castellated Rhine : — 

Ye glorious Gothic scenes ! how much ye strike 
All phantasies, not even excepting mine j 

A grey wall, a green ruin, rusty pike. 
Make my soul pass the equinoctial line 

Between the present and past worlds, and hover 

Upon their airy confine, half-seas-over. 

LXIL 

But Juan posted on through Manheim, Bonn, 
Which Drachenfels frowns over like a spectre 

Of the good feudal times for ever gone. 
On which I have not time just now to lecture. 



2 In the Empress Anne's time, Biren, her favourite, as- 
sumed the name and arms of the "Birons " of France, 
which families are yet extant with that of England. 
There are sUll the daughters of Courland of that name; 
one of them I remember seeing in England, in the blessed 
year of the Allies, (lbl4) — the Duchess of S. — to whom 
the English Duchess of Somerset presented me as a name- 

ke. 

3 Napoleon's exclamation at the Elvsee Bourbon, June 
the 23d, 1815.— E. 

4 Immanuel Kant, the celebrated founder of a new 
philosophical sect, was born at Konigeberg. He died io 
lt*04.— E. 



m 



^ 



566 



DON JUAN. 



[Canto X. 



From thence he was di-awn onwards to Cologne, 

A city which presents to the inspector 
Eleven thousand maidenheads of bone, 
The greatest number flesh hath ever known.i 

LXIII. 

From thence to Holland's Hague and Helvoetsluys, 
That water-land of Dutchmen and of ditches, 

Where juniper expresses its best juice, 
The poor man's sparkling substitute for riches. 

Senates and sages have condemn'd its use — 
But to deny the mob a cordial, which is 

Too often all the clothing, meat, or fuel. 

Good government has left them, seems but cruel. 

LXIV. 

Here he embark'd, and with a flowing sail 
Went bounding for the island of the free, 

Towards which the impatient wind blew half a gale ; 
High dash'd the spray, the bows dipp"d in the sea : 

And sea-sick passengers turn'd somewhat pale ; 
But Juan, season'd, as he well might be. 

By former voyages, stood to watch the skiffs 

Which pass'd", or catch the first glimpse of the cliffs. 

LXV. 

At length they rose, like a white wall along 
The blue sea's border ; and Don Juan felt — 

What even young strangers feel a little strong 
At the first sight of Albion's chalky belt — 

A kind of pride that he should be among 
Those haughty shopkeepers, who sternly dealt 

Their goods and edicts out from pole to pole. 

And made the very billows pay them toll. 

LXVI. 

I 've no great cause to love that spot of earth. 
Which holds what might have been the noblest 
nation ; 

But though I owe it little but my birth, 
I feel a mix'd regret and veneration 

For its decaying fame and former worth. 
Seven years (the usual term of transportation) 

Of absence lay one's old resentments level. 

When a man's country 's going to the devil. 

LXVII. 

Alas ! could she but fully, truly, know 

How her great name is now throughout abhorr'd ; 
How eager all the earth is for the blow 

Which shall lay bare her bosom to the sword ; 
How all the nations deem her their worst foe. 

That worse than worst of foes, the once adored 
False friend, who held out freedom to mankind. 
And now would chain them, to the very mind j — 

LXVIII. 

Would she be proud, or boast herself the free, 
Who is but first of slaves ? The nations are 

In prison, — but the gaoler, what is he ? 
No less a victim to the bolt and bar. 

Is the poor privilege to turn the key 
Upon the captive, freedom ? He 's as far 

From the enjoyment of the earth and air 

Who watches o'er the chain, as they who wear. 

LXIX. 

Don Juan now saw Albion's earliest beauties. 
Thy cliffs, dear Dover! harbour, and hotel ; 

Thy custom-house, with all its delicate duties; 
Thy waiters running mucks at every bell ; 

Thy packets, all whose passengers are booties 
To those who upon land or water dwell ; 

And last, not least, to strangers uninstructed. 

Thy long, long bills, whence nothing is deducted. 

1 St. Ursula and her eleven thousand virgins were still 
extant in 1816, and may be eo yet, as much as ever. 



LXX. 

Juan, though careless, young, and magnifique. 
And rich in rubles, diamonds, cash, and credit, 

Who did not limit much his bills per week, 
Yet stared at this a little, though he paid it, — 

(His Maggior Duomo, a smart, subtle Greek, 

Before him summ'd the awful scroll and read it :) 

But doubtless as the air, though seldom sunny, 

Is free, the respiration 's worth the money. 

LXXI. 

On with the horses ! Off to Canterbury ! 

Tramp, tramp o'er pebble, and splash, splash through 
puddle J 
Hurrah ! how swiftly speeds the post so merry ! 

Not like slow Germany, wherein they muddle 
Along the road, as if they went to bury 

Their fare ; and also pause besides, to fuddle. 
With " schnapps " — sad dogs! whom "Hundsfot," 

or "Verflucter," 
Affect no more than lightning a conductor. 

LXXII. 

Now there is nothing gives a man such spirits. 
Leavening his blood as cayenne doth a curry, 

As going at full speed — no matter where its 
Direction be, so 'tis but in a hurry. 

And merely for the sake of its own'merits ; 
For the less cause there is for all this flurry, 

The greater is the pleasure in arriving, 

At the great end of travel — which is driving. 

LXXIII. 

They saw at Canterbury the cathedral ; 

Black Edward's helm,2 and Becket's bloody stone,3 
Were pointed out as usual by the bedral. 

In the same quaint, uninterested tone : — 
There 's glory again for you, gentle reader ! All 

Ends in a rusty casque and dubious bone, 
Half-solved into those sodas or magnesias. 
Which form that bitter draught, the human species. 

LXXIV. 

The effect on Juan was of course sublime : 
He breathed a thousand Cressys, as he saw 

That casque, which never stoop'd except to Time. 
Even the bold Churchman's tomb excited awe, 

Who died in the then great attempt to climb 
O'er kings, who now at least must talk of law 

Before they butcher. Little Leila gazed, 

And ask'd why such a structure had been raised : 

LXXV. 

And being told it was " God's house," she said 
He was well lodged, but only wonder'd how 

He suffer'd Infidels in his homestead. 
The cruel Nazarenes, who had laid low 

His holy temples in the lands which bred 
The "trne Helievers ; — and her infant brow 

Was bent with grief that Mahomet should resign 

A mosque so noble, flung like pearls to swine. 

LXXVL 

On ! on ! through meadows, managed like a garden, 
A paradise of hops and high production ; 

For, after years of travel by a bard in 
Countries of greater heat, but lesser suction,' 

A green field isa sis:ht which makes him pardon 
The absence of that more sublime construction! 

Which mixes up vines, olives, precipices, 

Glaciers, volcanoes, oranges, and ices. 



2 On the tomb of the prince lies a whole-length brass 
figure of him, his armour with a hood of mail, and a skull 
cap enriched with a coronet, which has been once studded 
with jewels, but only the collets now remain.— E. 

3 Becket was assassinated in the cathedral, in 1171. — E. 



Canto X.] 



DON JUAN. 



567 



LXXVII. 

And when I think upon a pot of beer 

Rut I won't weep ! — and so drive on, jiostilions ! 

As the smart boys spurr'd fast in their career, 
Juan admired' these hisihways of free millions; 

A cviunfry in all senses the nicist dear 
To foreiirner or native, save some silly ones, 

Who "kick against the pricks "Just at "this juncture, 

And for tlieir pains get only a fresh puncture. 

LXXVHI. 

What a delifljhtful thins^ 's a turnpike road ! 

So smooth, so level, such a mode of shaving 
The earth, as scarce the eascle in the broad 

Air can accomplish, with his wide win^ waving. 
Had such been cut in Phaeton's time, the god 

Had told his son to satisfy his ci-aving 
With the York mail ; — but onward as we roll, 
" Surgit ajuari aliquid "— the toll ! 

LXXIX. 
Alas ! how deeply painful is all payment ! [purses. 

Take lives, take wives, take aiight except men's 
As Machiavel shows those in purple raiment, 

Such is the shortest way to general curses. 
They hate a munlcrer much less than a claimant 

On that sweet ore which every body nurses. — 
Kill a man's family, and he may brook it, 
But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket : 

LXXX. 
So said the Florentine : ve monarchs, hearken 

To your instructor. Juan now was borne, 
Just as the day be^an to wane and darken. 

O'er the high hill, which looks with pride or scorn 
Toward the great city. —Ye who have a spark in 

Your veins of Cockney spirit, smile or moQru 
According as you take things well or ill ; 
Bold Britons, we ai-e now on Shooter's Hill ! 

LXXXI. 

The sun went do^^■n, the smoke rose up, as from 

A half-umpiench'd volcano, o'er a space 
Which well beseem 'd the " Devil's drawing-room," 

As some have qualilied that wondrous place : 
But Juan felt, though not approachins: home. 

As one who, though he were not of the race, 
Revered the sul. of those true sons the mother. 
Who butcher'd half the earth, and bullied t' other.* 

LXXXII. 
A mightv' mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, 

Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye 
Could reach, with here and there a "sail just skipping 

In sight, then lost amidst the forestry 
Of masts; a wilderness of steeples jie^ping 

On tiptoe through their sea-coal tanopy j 
A huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap crow n 
On a fool's head — and there is London Town ! 

LXXXII r. 

But Juan saw not this : each wreath of smoke 

Appear'd to him but as the magic vapour 
Of some aichymic furnace, fromV hence broke 

The weallli of worlds la wealth' of tax and paper): 
The gloomy clouds, which o'er it as a yoke 

Are bow'd, anl put the sun out like a taper, 
Were nothins but tLe natural atmosphere, 
Extremely wholesome, though but rarely clear. 

LXXXIV. 
He paused — and so will I ; as doth a crew 

Before they give their broadside. By and by, 
My gentle countrymen, we will renew 

Our old aci]uaintance ; and at least I '11 try 
To tell you tniths yoi* will not take as true, 

Because they are" so : —a male Mi's. Frv.'* 
With a soft besom will I sweep your halls. 
And brush a web or two from oti your walls. 



1 Indio; America.— E. 

2 The Quaker lady, whose benevolent exertions have 
effected ei) great a change in the condition of the female 
priiionert in Mewgate. — E. 



LXXXV, 

Oh Mrs. Fry ! Why go to Newgate ? Why 

Preach to poor rogues ? And wherefore not begin 

With Carlton, or w^ith other houses ? Try 
Your hand at harden'd and imperial sin. 

To mend the people 's an absurdity, 
A jargon, a mere philanthropic din. 

Unless you make their betters better : — Fy ! 

I thought you had more religion, Mrs. Fry. 

LXXXVL 

Teach them the decencies of good threescore ; 

Cure them of tours, hussar and highlaitd dresses ; 
Tell them that youth once gone returns no more, 

That hired hu7zas redeem no lands distresses ; 
Tell them Sir William Curtis 3 is a bore, 

Too dull even for the dullest of excesses. 
The witless Falstalf of a hoarv Hal, 
A fool whose bells have ceased to ring at all. 

LXXXVH. 

Tell them, though it may be perhaps too late 
On life's worn confine," jaded, bloated, sated, 

To set up vain pretences of being great, 
'T is not so to be good j and be it stated, 

The worthiest kings have ever loved least state; 
And tell them— ^But you won't, and 1 have prated 

Just now enouiih ; but by and by I '11 prattle • 

Like Roland s horn in Rohcesvalles' battle. 



CANTO THE ELEVENTH. 
L 

When Bishop Berkeley said " there was no matter," 
And proved it — 't was no matter what he said : 

They say his system 't is in vain to batter, 
'loo subtle for the airiest human head ; 

And yet who can believe it ? I would shatter 
Gladly all matters down to stone or lead, 

Or adamant, to tind the world a spirit, 

And wear uiy head, denying that 1 wear it. 

n. 

What a sublime discovery t was to make the 

Uiiivei-se universal egotism, 
That all 's ideal — all ourselves ; I '11 stake the 

World (be it what vou will) that that 's no schism : 
Oh Doubt ! — if thou be'st Doubt, for which some take 
thee, 

But vv hich I doubt extremely — thou sole prism 
Of the Truth's rays, spoil not my draught of snirit ! 
Heaven's bi-audy, "though our brain can hardly bear it. 

HL 

For ever and anon comes Indigestion, 
(Not the most '• dainty Ariel,"') and perplexes 

Our soarings with another sort of question : 
And thaf which after all my spirit vexes. 

Is, that I find no spot where man can rest eye on, 
Without confusion of the sorts and sexes. 

Of beinirs, stars, and this unriddlai wonder. 

The world, which at the woi-st 's a glorious blunder — 

IV. 

If it be chance ; or if it be according 
To the old text, still better : — lest it should 

Turn out so, we '11 say nothing 'gainst the woixling, 
As several people think such hazards rude. 

They 're right ; our days :ue too brief for attbrding 
Space to dispute what no one ever could 

Decide, and ci'ot/ bcdi/ one day will 

Know very clearly — or at le;ist lie still. 



3 Thia worthy alderman died in 1829.— E. 



568 



DON JUAN 



[Canto XI. 



And therefore will I leave off metaphysical 
Discussion, which is neither here noV there : 

If I agree that what is, is ; then this I call 
Being quite perspicuous and extremely fair ; 

The truth is, I 've grown lately rather phthisical : 
I don't know what the reason is — the air 

Perhaps ; but as I suflfer from the shocks 

Of illness, I grow much more orthodox. 

VI. 

The first attack at once proved the Divinity 
(But that I never doubted, nor the Devil) j 

The next, the Virgin's mystical virginity j 
The third, the usual Origin of Evil ; 

The fourth at once established the whole Trinity 
On so uncontrovertible a level, 

That I devoutly wish'd the three were four, 

On purpose to believe so much the more. 

VII. 

To our theme. — The man who has stood on the 
Acropolis, 

And look'd down over Attica ; or he 
Who has sail'd where picturesque Constantinople is, 

Or seen Timbuctoo, or hath taken tea 
In small-eyed China's crockery-ware metropolis, 

Or sat ainidst the bricks of Nineveh, 
May not think much of London's first appearance — 
But ask him what he thinks of it a year hence ? 

VIII. 

Don Juan had got out on Shooter's Hill ; 

Sunset the time, the place the same declivity 
Which looks along that vale of good and ill 

Where London streets ferment in full activity ; 
While every thing around was calm and still, 

Except the creak of wheels, which on their pivot he 
Heard, — and that bee-like, bubbling, busy hum 
Of cities, that boil over with their scum : — 

IX. 

I say, Don Juan, wrapt in contemplation, 
Walk'd on behind his carriage, o'er the summit, 

And lost in wonder of so great a nation. 
Gave way to 't, since he could not overcome it. 

" And here," he cried, " is Freedom's chosen station; 
Here peals the people's voice, nor can entomb it 

Racks, prisons, inquisitions ; resurrection 

Awaits it, each new meeting or election. 

X. 

" Here are chaste wives, pure lives ; here people pay 
But what they please ; and if that things be dear, 

'T is only that they love to throw away 
Their cash, to show how much they have a year. 

Here laws are all inviolate; none lay 
Traps for the traveller ; every highway 's clear : 

Here — " he was interrupted by a knife, 

With, — "Damn your eyes! your money or your 
life ! " — 

XL 

These freebom sounds proceeded from four pads 
In ambush laid, who had perceived him loiter 

Behind his carriage ; and, like handy lads, 
Had seized the lucky hour to reconnoitre, 

In which the heedless gentleman who gads 
Upon the road, unless he prove a fighter, 

May find himself within that isle of riches 

Exposed to lose his life as well as breeches. 

XII. 

Juan, who did not understand a word 

Of English, save their shibboleth, " God damn ! " 
And even that he had so rarely heard. 

He sometimes thought 't was only their <' Salam," 
Or " God be with you ! " — and 't is not absurd 

To think so : for half English as I am 
(To my misfortune) never can I say 
I heard them wish "God with you," save that way ; — 



XIII. 

Juan yet quickly understood their gesture. 

And being somewhat choleric and sudden, 
Drew forth a pocket-pistol from his vesture, 

And fired it into one assailant's pudding — 
Who fell, as rolls an ox o'er in his pasture, 

And roar'd out, as he writhed his native mud in, 
Unto his nearest follower or henchman, 
" Oh Jack ! I 'm floor 'd by that 'ere bloody French- 
man ! " 

XIV. 
On which Jack and his train set off at speed, 

And Juan's suite, late scatter 'd at a distance, 
Came up. all marvelling at such a deed, 

And offering, as usual", late assistance. 
Juan, w^ho savv the moon's late minion bleed 

As if his veins would pour out his existence, 
Stood calling out for bandages and lint, 
And wish'd he had been less hasty with his flint 

XV. 

" Perhaps," thought he, " it is the country's wont 
To welcome foreigners in this way : now 

I recollect some innkeepers who don't 
Differ, except in robbing with a»bow, 

In lieu of a bare blade and brazen front. 
But what is to be done ? I can't allow 

The fellow to lie groaning on the road : 

So take him up j 1 '11 help you with the load." 

XVI. 

But ere they could perform this pious duty, 

The dying man cried, " Hold ! I 've got my gruel ! 

Oh ! for a glass of max ! i We 've miss'd our booty ; 
Let me die where I am ! " And as the fuel 

Of life shrunk in his heart, and thick and sooty 
The drops fell from his death-wound, and he ^rew ill 

His breath, — he from his swelling throat untied 

A kerchief, crying, " Give Sal that ! " — and died. 

XVIL 
The cravat stain'd with bloody drops fell down 

Before Don Juan's feet : he could not tell 
Exactly why it was before him thrown, 

Nor what the meaning of the man's farewell. 
Poor Tom was once a kiddy 2 upon town, 

A thorough varmint, and a real swell, 3 
Full flash,* all fancy, until fairly diddled. 
His pockets first and then his body riddled, 

XVIII. 

Don Juan, having done the best he could 

In all the circumstances of the case. 
As soon as " Crowuer's quest" 5 allow'd, pursued 

His travels to the capital apace ; — 
Esteeming it a little hard he should 

In twelve hours' time, and very little space, 
Have been obliged to slay a freebom native 
In self-defence : this made him meditative. 

XIX. 

He from the world had cut off a great man. 
Who in his time had made heroic bustle. 

Who in a row like Tom could lead the van, 
Booze in the ken, 6 or at the spellken i hustle ? 



1 Gin, or Hollands.— E. 

2 A thief of the lower order, who. when he is breeched 
by a course of successful depredaiion, dresses in the ex- 
treme of vulgar gentility, and affects a knowingne.ss in 
his air and conversation, which renders him in reality an 
object of ridicule. — E. 

3 Any well-dressed person is emphatically called a swell, 
or real swell. — E. 

4 A fellow who affects any particular habit, as swear- 
ing, dressing in a particular manner, faking snuff, <kc. 
merely to be noticed, is said to do it out o( flash. — E. 

b "Id Clown. But is this law? 

1st Clown. Ay marry is 'tjcrowner's quest law." — 
HAMLET.— E. 
6 A house that harbours thieves is called a ken, 7 The 
play-house. — E. 



Canto XL] 



DON JUAN. 



569 



Who queer a flat? i Who (spite of Bow-street's ban) 

On the high toby -spice ^ so flash the muzzle ? 
Who on a lark,3 with black-eyed Sal (his blowing),* 
So prime, so swell, 8 so nutty,e and so knowing? i 

XX. 
But Tom 's no more — and so no more of Tom. 

Heroes must die; and by God's blessing 'tis 
Not long before the most of them go home. 

Hail ! Thamis, hail ! Upon thy verge it is 
That Juan's chariot, rolling like a drum 

In thunder, holds the way it can't well miss, 
Through Kennington and all the other "tons," 
Which make us wish ourselves in town at once ; — 

XXI. 
Through Groves, so call'd as being void of trees, 

(Like Zwcws from no light) ; through prospects named 
Mount Pleasant, as containing nought to please, 

Nor much to climb; through little boxes framed 
Of bricks, to let the dust in at your ease. 

With " To be let," upon their doors proclaim'd ; 
Through "Rows" most modestly call'd "Paradise," 
Which Eve might quit without much sacrifice; — 

xxn. 

Through coaches, drays, choked turnpikes, and a whirl 

Of wheels, and roar of voices, and confusion ; 
Here taverns wooing to a pint of purl, 

There mails fast flying otf like a delusion ; 
There barbers' blocks with periwigs in curl 

In windows ; here the lamp-lighter's infusion 
Slowly distill'd into the glimmering glass 
(For in those days we had not got to gas — ) ; 8 

XXIII. 
Through this, and much, and more, is the approach 

Of travellers to mighty Babylon : 
Whether they come by horse, or chaise, or coach. 

With slight exceptions, all the ways seem one. 
I could say more, but do not choose to encroach 

Upon the Guide-book's privilege. The sun 
Had set some time, and night was on the ridge 
Of twilight, as the party cross 'd the bridge. 

XXIV. 
That 's rather fine, the gentle sound of Thamis — 

Who vindicates a moment, too, his stream — 
Though hardly heard through multifarious "dam- 
me's." 

The lamps of Westminster's more regular gleam, 
The breadth of pavement, and yon shrine where 

A spectral resident — whose pallid beam [fame is 
In shape of moonshine hovers o'er the pile — 
Make this a sacred part of Albion's isle. 



1 To puzzle or confound a gull, or silly fellow. 2 Rob- 
bery on horseback. 3 Fun or sport of any kind. 4 A 
pickpocket's trull. 5 So gentlemanly. See Slang Dic- 
tionary. — E. 

6 To be nuts upon, is to be very much pleased or grati- 
fied with any thing: thus, a person who conceives a 
strong inclination for aftother of the opposite sex is said 
to be quite nutty upon him or her.— Slang Die— E. 

7 The advance of science and of language has rendered 
it unnecessary to translate the above good and true Eng- 
lish, spoken in its original purity by the select mobility 
and their patrons. The following is a stanza of a song, 
which was very popular, at least in my early days : — 

On the high toby-spice flash the muzzle, 

In spite of each gallows old scout; 
If you at the spellken can't hustle. 

You '11 be hobbled in making a Clout. 
Then your Blowing will wax gallows haughty, 

When she hears of your scaly mistake, 
She '11 surely turn snitch for the forty ~ 
That her Jack may be regular weight." 
If there be any gemman so ignorant as to require a tra- 
duction, I refer him to rny old friend and corporeal pastor 
and master, John Jackson. Esq., Professor of Pugilism; 
who, I trust, still retains the strength and symmetry of 
his model of a form, together with his good humour, and 
athletic as well as mental accomplishments. 

8 The streets of London were first regularly lighted 
with gas in iai'2.— E. 



48* 



XXV. 

The Druids' groves are gone — so much the better : 
Stone-Henge is not— but what the devil is it? — 

But Bedlam still exists with its sage fetter, 
That madmen may not bite you on a visit ; 

The Bench too seats or suits full many a debtor ; 
The Mansion House too (though some people quiz it) 

To me appears a stiff yet grand erection ; 

But then the Abbey -s worth the whole collection. 

XXVI. 

The line of lights, too, up to Charing Cross, 
Pall Mali, and so forth, have a coruscation 

Like gold as in compaxison to dross, 
Match'd with the Continent's illumination, 

Whose cities Night by no means deigns to gloss. 
The French were not yet a lamp-lighting nation, 

And when they grew so— on their new-found lantern, 

Instead of wicks, they made a wicked man turn. 

XXVII. 

A row of gentlemen along the streets 

Suspended, may illuminate mankind, 
As also bonfires made of country-seats ; 

But the old way is best for the purblind t 
The other looks like phosphorus on sheets, 

A sort of ignis fatuus to the mind. 
Which, though 't is certain to perplex and frighten, 
Must burn more mildly ere it can enlighten. 

XXVIII. 

But London 's so well lit, that if Diogenes 
Could recommence to hunt his honest man^ 

And found him not amidst the various progenies 
Of this enormous city's spreading spawn, 

'T were not for want of lamps to aid his dodging his 
Yet undiscovered treasure. What / can, 

I 've done to find the same throughout life's journey, 

But see the world is only one attorney. 

XXIX. 

Over the stones still rattling, up Pall Mall, 
Through crowds and carriages, but waxing thinner 

As thunder'd knockers broke the long-seal'd spell 
Of doors 'gainst duns, and to an early dinner 

Admitted a small party as night fell, — 
Don Juan, our young diplomatic sinner, 

Pursued his path, and drove past some hotels, 

St. James's Palace and St. James's " Hells." » 



XXX. 

They reach'd the hotel : forth stream'd from the front 
door 

A tide of well-clad waiters, and around 
The mob stood, and as usual several score 

Of those pedestrian Paphians who abound 
In decent London when the daylight 's o'er ; 

Commodious but immoral, they are found 
Useful, like Malthus, in promoting marriage. — 
But Juan now is stepping from his carriage 

XXXI. 

Into one of the sweetest of hotels. 
Especially for foreigners — and mostly 

For those whom favour or whom fortune swells. 
And cannot find a bill's small items costly. 

There many an envoy either dwelt or dwells 
(The den of many a diplomatic lost lie), 

Until to some conspicuous square they pass, 

And blazon o'er the door their names in brass. 



9 " Hells," gaming-houses. What their number may 
now be, in this life, I know not. Before I was of age I 
knew them pretty accurately, both "gold " and silver." 
I was once nearly called out by an acquaintance, because 
when he asked me where I thought that his soul would 
be found hereafter, I answered, " In Silver Hell." 



^^ 



I ' Mir^iii rfi'a^iiiMmimmmsiM 



570 



DON JUAJN. 



[Canto XL 



XXXII. 

Juan; whose was a delicate commission, 
Private, thoug:h publicly important, bore 

No title to point out with due precision 
The exact atfair on which he was sent o'er. 

'T was merely known, that on a secret mission 
A foreigner of rank had graced our shore, 

Young, handsome, and accompli^h'd, who was said 

(In whispers) to have turn'd his sovereign's head. 

XXXIII. 

Some rumour also of some strange adventures 
Had gone before him, and his wars and loves; 

And as romantic heads are pretty painters, 
And, above all, an Englishwoman's roves 

Into the excursive, breaking the indentures 
Of sober reason, wheresoe'er it moves, 

He found himself extremely in the fashion, 

Which serves our thinking people for a passion. 

XXXIV. 

I don't mean that they are passionless, but quite 
The contrary ; but then t is in the head ', 

Yet as the consequences are as bright 
As if they acted with the heart^instead, 

What after all can signify the site 
Of ladies' lucubrations ? So they lead 

In safety to the place for which you start, 

What matters if the road be head or heart ? 

XXXV. 

Juan presented >n the proper place. 
To proper placemen, every Russ credential ; 

And was received with all the due grimace, 
By those who govern in the mood potential. 

Who, seeing a handsome stripling with smooth face. 
Thought (what in state atiairs is most essential) 

That they as easily might do the youngster. 

As hawks may pounce upon a woodland songster. 

XXXVI. 

They err'd, as aged men will do ; but by 
And by we'll talk of that; and if we don't, 

'T will be because our notion is not high 
Of politicians and their double front. 

Who live by lies, yet dare not boldly lie : — 
Now what I love in women is, they won't 

Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it 

So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it. 

XXXVII. 

And, after all, what is a lie ? 'T is but 

The truth in masquerade ; and I defy 
Historians, heroes, lawyers, priests, to put 

A fact without some leaven of a lie. 
The very shadow of true Truth would shut 

Up annals, revelations, poesy, 
And prophecy — except it should be dated 
Some years before the incidents related. 

XXXVIII. 

Praised be all liars and all lies ! Who now 

Can tax my mild Muse with misanthropv? 
She rings the world's " Te Deum," and her brow 

Blushes for those who will not : — but to sigh 
Is idle ; let us like most othei's bow, 

Kiss hands, feet, any part of majesty. 
After the good example of "Green Erin," 
Whose shamrock now seems rather worse for wear- 
ing. 

XXXIX. 
Don Juan was presented, and his dress 

And mien excited general admiration — 
I don't know which was more admired or less: 

One monstrous diamond drew much observation, 
Which Catherine in a moment of " ivresse" 

(In love or brandy's fervent fermentation) 
Bestovv'd upon him, as the public learn'd ; 
And, to say truth, it had been fairly earn'd. 



XL. 

Besides the ministers and underlings, 
Who must be courteous to the accredited 

Diplomatists of rather wavering kings, 
Until their royal riddle's fully read. 

The very clerks, — those somewhat dirty springs 
Of office, or the house of ofF.ce, fed 

By foul corruption into streams, — even they 

Were hardly rude enough to earn their pay: 

XLI. 

And insolence no doubt is what they are 
Employ'd for, since it is their daily labour, 

In the dear offices of peace or war j 
And should you doubt, pray ask of your next neigh- 
bour. 

When for a passport,, or some other bar 
To freedom, he applied (a grief and a bore), 

If he found not this spawn of taxborn riches, 

Like lap-dogs, the least civil sons of b s. 

XLII. 

But Juan was received with much " empressement :" — 
These phrases of refinement 1 niust borrow 

From our next neighbours' land, where, like a chess- 
man. 
There is a move set down for joy or sorrow 

Not only in mere talking, but the press. Man 
In islands is, it seems, downright and thorough, 

More than on continents — as if the sea 

(See Billingsgate) made even the tongue more free. 

XLIIL 

And yet the British " Damme "'s rather Attic j 

Your continental oaths are but incontinent, 
And turn on things which no aristocratic 

Spirit would name, and therefore even I won't anenti 
This subject quote ; as it wouli be schismatic 

In politesse, and have a sound affronting in 't : — 
But " Damme " 's quite ethereal, though too daring — 
Platonic blasphemy, the soul of swearing. 

XLIV. 
For downright rudeness, ye may stay at home ; 

For true or false politeness (and scarce that 
Noio) you may cross the blue deep and white foam — 

The first the emblem (rarely though) of what 
You leave behind, the next of' much you come 

To meet. However, 't is no time to chat 
On general topics: poems must confine 
Themselves to unity, like this of mine. 

XLV. 
In the fi^reat world, — which, being interpreted, 

Meaneth the west or worst end of a city, 
And about twice two thousand people bred 

By no means to be very wise or witty, 
But to sit up while others lie in bed, 

And look down on the universe with pity, — 
Juan, as an inveterate patrician. 
Was well received by personsVtf condition. 

XLVI. 
He was a bachelor, which is a matter 

Of import both to virgin and to bride, 
The formers hymeneal hopes to flatter; 

And (should she not hold fast by love or pride) 
'T is also of some moment to the latter : 

A rib 's a thorn in a wed gallant's side. 
Requires decorum, and is apt to double 
The horrid sin— and what 's still worse, the trouble. 

XLVII. 

But Juan was a bachelor — of arts. 

And parts, and hearts : he danced and sung, and had 
An air as sentimental as Mozart's 

Softest of melodies ; and could be sad 



l"Anent"wa8 a Scotch phrase meaning "eonceru- 
ing " — "with regard to:" it has been made English by 
the Scotch novels; and. as the Frenchman said, "If it be 
not, ought to be English." 



Canto XI.] 



DON JUAN. 



571 



Or cheerful, without any "flaws or starts," 

Just at the proper time : and thousjii a lad, 
Had seen the world — which is a curious sight, 
And very much unlike what people write. 

XLVIII. 

Fair virgins blush'd upon him ; wedded dames . 

Bloom'd also in less transitory hues : 
For both commodities dwell by the Thames, 

The paintins: and the painted ; youth, ceruse, 
Against his heart preferred their usual claims, 

Such as no gentleman can quite refuse ; 
Daughters admired his dress, and pious mothers 
Inquired his income, and if he had brothers. 

XLIX. 
The milliners who furnish "drapery Misses"! 

Throughout the season, upon speculation 
Of payment ere the honey-moon's last kisses 

Have waned into a crescent's coruscation, 
Thought such an opportunity as this is, 

Of a rich foreigner's initiation, 
Not to be overiook'd y- and gave such credit. 
That future bridegrooms swore, and sigh'd, and paid it. 



The Blues, that tender tribe, who sigh o'er sonnets, 
And with the pages of the last Review 

Line the interior of their heads or bonnets. 
Advanced in all their azure's highest hue : 

They talk'd bad French or Spanish, and upon its 
Late authors asked him for a hint or, two ; 

And which was softest, Russian or Castilian? 

And whether in his travels he saw llion ? 

LL 

Juan, who was a little superficial. 
And not in literature a great Drawcansir, 

Examined by this learned and especial 
Jury of matrons, scarce knew what to answer: 

His duties warlike, loving or official. 
His steady application as a dancer, 

Had kept him from the brink of Hippocrene, 

Which now he found was blue instead of green. 

LH. 

However, he replied at hazard, with 
A modest confidence and calm assurance, 

Which lent his learned lucubrations pith. 
And pass'd for arguments of good endurance. 

That prodigy. Miss Araminta Smith 
(VVho at sixteen translated " Hercules Furens" 

Into as furious English), with her best look, 

Set down his sayings in her common-place book. 

LIIL 

Juan knew several languages — as well 

He might— and brought them up with skill, in time 
To save his fame with each accomplish'd belle, 

WIk) still regretted that he did not rhyme. 
There wanted but this requisite to swell 

His qualities (with them) into sublime : 
Lady Fitz-Frisky, and Miss Masvia Mannish, 
Both long'd extremely to be sung in Spanish. 



1 "Drapery Misses." — This term is probably any 
thing now but a mystery. It was, however, almost so to 
me when I first relnrned fiom the Kaut in 1811-1812. 
It means a pretty, a high-born, a fashionable young female, 
well instructed by her friends, and furnished by her mil- 
liner with a wardrobe upon credit, to be repaid, when 
married, by the husband. The riddle was first read to 
me by a young and pretty heiress, on my praising the 
" drapery " of the " untuchered "but " pretty virginities " 
(like Mrs. Anne I'age) of the then day, which has now 
been some years yesterday ; she assured me that the 
thing was common in London; and as her own thousands, 
and blooming looks, and rich simplicity of array, put any 
suspicion in her own case out of the question, I confess I 
gave some credit to the allegation. If necessary, authori- 
ties might be cited; in which ease I could quote both 
"drapery" and the wearers. Let us hope, however, that 
it id now obsolete. 



LIV. 

However, he did pretty well, and was 

Admitted as an aspirant to all 
The coteries, and, as in Banquo's glass. 

At great assemblies or in parties small, 
He saw ten thousand living authors pass. 

That being about their average numeral j 
Also the eighty "greatest living poets," 
As every paltry magazine can show it 's. 

LV. 

In twice five years the "greatest living poet," 
Like to the champion in the fisty ring. 

Is called on to support his claim, or show it, 
Although 't is an imaginary thing. 

Even I — albeit 1 'm sure 1 did not know it. 
Nor sought of foolscap subjects to be king, — 

Was reckon 'd a considerable time. 

The grand Napoleon of the realms of rhyme. 

LVI. 

But Juan was my Moscow, and Faliero 

My Leipsic, and my Mont Saint Jean seems Cain : 
" La Belle Alliance " of dunces down at zero, 

Now that the Lion's fall'n, may rise again : 
But I will fall at least as fell my hero ; 

Nor reign at all, or as a monarch reign; 
Or to some lonely isle of gaolers go. 
With turncoat Southey for my turnkey Lowe. 

LVII. 

Sir Walter reign'd before me ; Moore and Campbell 
Before and after; but now grown more holy. 

The Muses upon Sion's hill must ramble 
With poets almost clergymen, or wholly; 

And Pegasus hath a psalmodic amble 
Beneath the very Reverend Rowley Powley, 

Who shoes the glorious animal with stilts, 

A modern Ancient Pistol — by the hilts ! 

LVIIL 

Still he excels that artificial hard 

Labourer in the same vineyard, though the vine 
Yields him but vinegar for his reward, — 

That neutralised dull Dnrus of the Nine ; 
That swarthy Spcrus, neither man nor bard ; 

That ox of verse, who ■ploughs for every line : — 
Cambyses' roaring Romans beat at least 
The howling Hebrews of Cybele's priest. — 

LIX. 

Then there 's my gentle Euphues ; who, they say 
Sets up for being a sort of moral me ; 2 

He '11 find it rather difficult some day 
To turn out both, or either, it may be. 

Some persons think that Coleridge hath the sway; 
And Wordsworth has supporters, two or three; 

And that deep-mouth'd Boeotian " Savage Landor " 3 

Has taken for a swan rogue Southey's gander. 

LX. 

John Keats, who was killed off by one critique, 
Just as he really promised something great. 

If not intelligible, without Greek 
Contrived to talk about the Gods of late, 

Much as they might have been supposed to speak. 
Poor fellow ! His was an untoward fate ; 

'T is strange the mind, that very fiery particle,* 

Should letltself be snuft''d out by an article. 

2 Some Reviewer had bestowed the title of " a Moral 
Byron" on Mr. Bryan Procter, author of 'Dramatic 
Sketches,' &c. .kc. all published under the name of 
' Barry Cornwall.'-- B. 

3 Walter Savage Lander, author of " Imaginary Con- 
versations," <Stc. &c.— E. 

4 " Divinae particulum aurae." 



572 



DON JUAN 



[Canto XI. 



LXI. 

The list grows Ion? of live and dead pretenders 
To that which none will srain — or none will know 

The conqueror at least ; who, ere Time renders 
His last award, will have the lon^ grass grow 

Above his burnt-out brain, and sapless cinders. 
If I might augur, I should rate but low 

Their chances ;— they 're too numerous, like the thirty 

Mock tyrants, when Rome's anuals waxd but dirty. 

LXII. 

This is the literary lowtr empire. 

Where the praetorian bands take up the matter ; — 
A " dreadful trade,'" like his who " gathers samphire," 

The insolent soldiery to soothe ani flatter. 
With the same feelings as you 'd coax a vampire. 

Now, were I once at home, and in good satire, 
I'd try conclusions with those Janizaries, 
And show them what an intellectual war is. 

LXIII. 

I think I know a trick or two, would turn 
Their flanks; — but it is hardly worth my while, 

With such small gear to give myself concern : 
Indeed I 've not the necessary' bile; 

My natural temper 's really aught but stern. 
And even my Muse's worst reproof's a smile; 

And then she drops a brief and modest curtsy. 

And glides away, assured she never hurts ye. 

LXIV. 

My Juan, whom I left in deadly peril 
Amongst live poets and blue ladies, past 

With some small profit through that field so sterile, 
Being tired in time, and neither least nor last, 

Left it before he had been treated very ill ; 
And henceforth found himself more gaily class'd 

Amongst the higher spirits of the day. 

The sun's true son, no vapour, but a ray. 

LXV. 

His moms he pass'd in business — which dissected, 

Was like all business, a laborious nothing 
That leads to lassitude, the most infected 

And Centaur Nessus garb of mortal clothing,! 
And on our sofas makes'us lie dejected, 

And talk in tender horrors of our loathing 
All kinds of toil, save for our country's good — 
Which grows no better, though 't is time it should. 

LXVI. 
His afternoons he pass'd in visits, luncheons, 

Lounging, and boxing; and the twilight hour 
In riding round those vegetable puncheons [flower 

Call'd "Parks," where there is neither fruit nor 
Enough to gratify a bee's slight munchings; 

But after all it is the only " bower," 
(In Moore's phrase) where the fashionable fair 
Can form a slight acquaintance with fresh air. 

LXVIL 

Then dress, then dinner, then awakes the world ! 

Then glare the lamps, then whirl the wheels, then 
roar 
Through street and square fast flashing chariots hurl'd 

Like harness'd meteors ; then along the floor 
Chalk mimics painting; then festoons are twirl'd; 

Then roll the brazen thunders of the door, 
Which opens to the thousand happy few 
An earthly Paradise of " Or Molu." 

Lxvin. 

There stands the noble hostess, nor shall sink 

With the three-thousandth curtsy; there the waltz. 

The only dance which teaches girls to think, 
Makes one in love even with its very faults. 

Saloon, room, hall, o'erflow beyond their brink, 
And long the latest of arrivals halts, 

'Midst royal dukes and dames condenm'd to climb, 

And gain an inch of staircase at a time. 



1 " Illita Nesseo tibi texta veneno."— -OVID. Epiat. ix. 



LXIX. 

Thrice happy he who, after a survey 
Of the good company, can win a comer, 

A door that 's in or boudoir out of the way, 
Where he may fix himself like small "Jack 

And let the Babel round run as it may, [Horner," 
And look on as a mourner, or a scomer, 

Or an approver, or a mere spectator, 

Yawning a little as the night grows later. 

LXX. 

But this won't do, save by and by ; and he 
Who, like Don Juan, takes an active share, 

Must steer with care through all that glittering sea 
Of gems and plumes and'pearls and silks, to where 

He deems it is his proper place to be ; 
Dissolving in the waltz to some soft air, 

Or proudlier prancing with mercurial skill, 

Where Science marshals forth her own qujulrille. 

Lxxr. 

Or, if he dance not, but hath higher views 
Upon an heiress or his neighbour's bride, 

Let him take care that that which he pursues 
Is not at once too palpably descried. 

Full many an ea^er gentleman oft rues 

His haste : impatience is a blundering guide, 

Amongst a people famous for reflection, 

Who like to play the fool with circumspection. 

LXXII. 

But, if you can contrive, get next at supper ; 

Or if forestalled, get opposite and ogle : — 
Oh, ye ambrosial moments ! always upper 

In mind, a sort of sentimental bogle,^ 
Which sits for ever upon memory's crupper, 

The ghost of vanish'd pleasures once in vogue I 111 
Can tender souls relate the rise and fall 
Of hopes and fears which shake a single ball. 

LXXIII. 

But these precautionary hints can touch 
Only the common run, who must pursue. 

And watch, and ward ; whose plans a word too much 
Or little overturns; and not the few 

Or many (for the number 's sometimes such) 
Whom a good mien, especially if new. 

Or fame, or name, for wit, war,'sense, or nonsense, 

Permits whate'er they please, or did not long since. 

LXXIV. 

Our hero, as a hero, young and handsome. 
Noble, rich, celebrated, and a stranger. 

Like other slaves of course must pay his ransom, 
Before he can escape from so much danger 

As will environ a conspicuous man. Some 
Talk about poetry, and " rack and manger," 

And ugliness, disease, as toil and trouble ; — 

I wish they knew the life of a young noble. 

LXXV. 

They are j^oung, but know not youth — it is antici- 
pated ; 

Handsome but wasted, rich without a sou ; 
Their vigour in a thousand arms is dissipated ; 

Their cash comes from, their wealth goes to a Jew ; 
Both senates see their nightly votes participated 

Between the tyrant's and the tribunes' crew ; 
And having voted, dined, drunk, gamed, and whored. 
The family vault receives another lord. 

LXXVI. 

" Where is the world ? " cries Young, at eighty — 3 
" Where 

The world in which a man was born ? " Alas ! 
Where is the world of eight years past ? ^Twas there — 

I look for it — 't is gone, a globe of glass ! 



2 Scotch for goblin. 

3 Young WBH more than eighty years old. when he pub- 
lished his poem, entitled, "Resignation," Sec. — E. 



-r'^f*^ 



dfii^i^fettCL&SGBttirfft 



lii tih ^rtfi Tnra 



J 



Canto XL] 



DON JUAN. 



573 



Crack'd, shiver'd, vanish'd, scarcely gazed on, ere 

A silent change dissolves the glittering mass. 
Str.tesmen, chiefs, orators, queens, patriots, kings, 
And dandies, all are gone on the wind's wings. 

Lxxvir. 

Where is Napoleon the Grand ? God knows : 
Where little Castlereagh ? The devil can tell : 

Where Grattan, Curran, Sheridan, all those 
Who bound the bar or senate in their spell ? 

Where is the unhappy Queen, with all her woes? 
And where the Daughter, whom the Isles loved 
well ? 

Where are those martyr'd saints the Five per Cents ? 

And where — oh, where the devil are the Rents? 

LXXVIII. 

Where's Brummel? Dish'd. Where's Long Pole 
Wellesley? Diddled. 
Where 's Whitbread ? Romilly ? Where 's George 
the Third ? 
Where is his will ? i (That 's not so soon unriddled.) 
And where is "Fum" the Fourth, our "royal 
bird? "a 
Gone down, it seems, to Scotland to be fiddled 

Unto by Sawney's violin, we have heard : 
" Caw me, caw thee " — for six months hath been 

hatching 
This scene of royal itch and loyal scratching. 

LXXIX. 

Where is Lord This ? And where my Lady That ? 

The Honourable Mistresses and Misses? 
Some laid aside like an old Opera hat. 

Married, unmarried, and remarried : (this is 
An evolution oft performed of late.) 

Where are the Dublin shouts— and London hisses? 
Where are the Grenvilles? Turned as usual. Where 
My friends the Whigs ? Exactly where they were. 

LXXX. 

Where are the Lady Carolines and Franceses? 

Divorced or doing thereanent. Ye annals 
So brilliant, where the list of routs and dances is, — 

Thou. Morning Post, sole record of the panels 
Broken in carriages, and all the phantasies 

Of fashion,— say what streams now fill those chan- 
nels ? 
Some die, some fly, some languish on the Continent, 
Because the times have hardly left them one tenant. 

LXXXL 

Some who once set their caps at cautious dukes 
Haye taken up at length with younger brothers : 

Some heiresses have bit at sharpers' hooks : 
Some maids have been made wives, some merely 
mothers ; 

Others have lost their fresh and fairy looks : 
In short, the list of alterations bothers. 

There -s little strange in this, but something strange is 

The unusual quickness of these common changes. 

LXXXIL 

Talk not of seventy years as age ; in seven 
I have seen more changes, down from monarchs to 

The humblest individual under heaven. 
Than might suffice a moderate century through. 

I knew that nought was lasting, but now even 
Change grows too changeable, without being new : 

Nought 's permanent among the human race, 

Except the Whigs not getting into place. 



1 The old story of the will of George I., said to have 
been destroyed by George II. No such calumny was ever 
beard of aa to George III. — £. 

2 See Moore's "Fum and Hum, the Two Birds qT 
Royalty." appended to his "Fudge Family." — E. 



Lxxxin. 

I have seen Napoleon, who seem'd quite a Jupiter, 

Shrink to a Saturn. I have seen a Duke 
(No matter which) turn politician stupider, 

if that can well be, than his wooden look. 
But it is time that I should hoist my " blue Peter," 

And sail for a new theme: — I have seen — and 
To see it — the king hiss'd, and then carest j [shook 
But don't pretend to settle which was best. 

LXXXIV. 
I have seen the Landholders without a rap — 

I have seen Joanna Southcote — I have seen 
The House of Commons turn'd to a tax-trap — 

I have seen that sad affair of the late Queen — 
I have seen crowns worn instead of a fool's cap — 

1 have seen a Congress 3 doing all that 's mean — 
I have seen some nations like o erioaded asses, 
Kick off their burthens— meaning the high classes. 

LXXXV. 

I have seen small poets, and great prosers, and 
Interminable — not eternal — speakers — 

I have seen the funds at war with house and land — 
1 have seen the country gentlemen turn squeakers — 

I have seen the people ridden o'er like sand 
By slaves on horseback — I have seen malt liquors 

Exchanged for "thin potations " by John Bull — 

I have seen John half detect himself a fool. — 

Lxxxvr. 

But " carpe diem," Juan, " carpe, carpe ! " 

To-morrow sees another race as gay 
And transient, and devour'd by the same harpy. 

" Life 's a poor player,"— then '• play out the play, 
Ye villains ! " and above all keep a sharp eye 

Much less on what you do than what you say : 
Be hypocritical, be cautious, be 
Not what you seem, but always what you see. 

LXXXVIL 

But how shall I relate in other cantos 

Of what befel our hero in the land. 
Which 't is the common cry and lie to vaunt as 

A moral country ? But I hold my hand — 
For I disdain to write an Atalantis ; 4 

But 't is as well at once to understand 
You are not a moral people, and you know it. 
Without the aid of too sincere a poet. 

LXXXVIIL 

What Juan saw and underwent shall be 
My topic, with of course the due restriction 

Which is required by proper courtesy ; 
And recollect the work is only fiction, 

And that I sing of neither mine nor me. 
Though every scribe, in some slight turn of diction, 

Will hint allusions never meant. Ne'er doubt 

This — when I speak, 1 don't hinty but speak out. 

LXXXIX. 

Whether he married with the third or fourth 
Offspring of some sage husband-hunting countess, 

Or whether with some virgin of more worth 
(I mean in Fortune's matrimonial bounties) 

He took to regularly peopling Earth, 
Of which your lawful awful wedlock fount is, — 

Or whether he was taken in for damages. 

For being too excursive in his homages, — 

, XC. 

Is yet within the unread events of time. 

Thus far, go forth, thou lay, which I will back 
Against the same given quantity of rhyme, 

For being as much the subject of attack 
As ever yet was any work sublime. 

By those who love to say that white is black. 
So much the better ! — I may stand alone. 
But would not change my free thoughts for a throne. 



3 The Congress at Verona, in 1822.— E. 

4 See the " New Atalantis, or Memoirs and Manners of 
several Persons of Ciualily,"~a work in which the au- 
thoret<8, Mrs. Manley, makes very free with many dis- 
tinguished characters of her day.— E. 



574 



DON JUAN. 



[Canto XII. 



CANTO THE TWELFTH. i 
I. 

Of all the barbarous middle ages, that 
Which is most barbarous is the middle age 

Of man : it is — I really scarce know what ; 
But when we hover between fool and sage, 

And don"t know justly what we would be at — 
A period something like a printed page, 

Black letter upon foolscap, while our hair 

Grows grizzled, and we are not what we were ; — 

n. 

Too old for youth, — too young, at thirty-five. 
To herd w'ithboys, or hoard with good threescore, — 

I wonder people should be left alive ; 
But since they are, that epoch is a bore : 

Love lingers still, although 't were late to wive; 
And as for other love, the illusion 's o'er j 

And money, that most pure imagination, 

Gleams only through the dawu of its creation. 

HL 

Gold ! Why call we misers miserable ? 

Theirs is the pleasure that can never pall ; 
Theirs is the best bower anchor, the chain cable 

Which holds fast other pleasures great and small. 
Ye who but see the saving man at table, 

And scorn his temperate board, as none at all, 
And wonder how the wealthy can be sparing. 
Know not what visions spring from each cheese-paring. 

IV. 

Love or lust makes man sick, and wine much sicker j 
Ambition rends, and gaming gains a loss ; 

But making money, slowly first, then quicker, 
And adding still a little through each cross 

(Which will come over things),"beats love or liquor, 
The gamester's counter, or the statesman's dross. 

Gold ! I still prefer thee unto paper. 

Which makes bank credit like a bark of vapour. 



Who hold the balance of the world ? Who reign 
O'er congress, whether royalist or liberal ? 

Who rouse the shirtless patriots of Spain? 2 
(That make old Europe's iournals squeak and gib- 
ber all.) 

Who keep the world, both old and new, in pain 
Or pleasure ? Who make politics run glibber all ? 

The snade of Buonaparte's noble daring? — 

Jew Rothschild, and his fellow-Christian, Baring. 

\L 

Those, and the truly liberal Lafitte, 
Are the true lords of Europe. Every loan 

Is not a merely speculative hit, 
But seats a nation or upsets a throne. 

Republics also get involved a bit j 
Colombia's stock hath holders not unknown 

On 'Change ; and even thy silver soil, Peru, 

Must get itself discounted by a Jew. 

VH. 

Why call the miser miserable ? as 

I said before : the frugal life is his 
Which in a saint or cynic ever was 

The theme of praise : a hermit would not miss 
Canonization for the self-same cause, 

And wherefore blame gaunt wealth's austerities ? 
Because, you '11 say, nought calls for such a trial ; — 
Then there 's more merit in his self-denial. 

VHL 

He is your only poet ; — passion, pure 
And sparkling on from heap to heap, displays, 

Possessed, the ore, of which mere hopes allure 
Nations athwart the deep : the golden rays 



1 Cantoa XII. XIII. and XIV. appeared in London, in 
November, ie23.— B. 

2 The Descamisados. 



Flash up in ingots from the mine obscure : 

On him the diamond pours its brilliant olaze; 
While the mild emerald's beam shades down the dies 
Of other stones, to soothe the miser's eyes. 

IX. 

The lands on either side are his : the ship 
From Ceylon, Inde, or far Cathay,3 unloads 

For him the fragrant produce of each trip ; 
Beneath his cars of Ceres groan the roads. 

And the vine blushes like Aurora's lip ; 
His very cellars might be kings' abodes j 

While he, despising every sensual call. 

Commands — the intellectual lord of all. 

X. 

Perhaps he hath great projects in his mind, 

To build a college, or to found a race, 
A hospital, a church, — and leave behind 

Some dome surmounted by his meagre face : 
Perhaps he fain would liberate mankind 

Even with the very ore which makes them base; 
Perhaps he would be wealthiest of his nation. 
Or revel in the joys of calculation. 

XL 

But whether all, or each, Of none of these 
May be the hoarder's principle of action, 

The fool will call such mania a disease : — 

What is his own Y Go — look at each transaction, 

Wars, revels, loves — do these bring men more ease 
Than the mere plodding through each "vulgar 
fraction?" 

Or do they benefit mankind ? Lean miser ! 

Let spendthrifts' heirs inquire of yours— who 's wiser ? 

XIL 

How beauteous are rouleaus ! how charming chests 
Containing ingots, bags of dollars, coins 

(Not of old victors, all whose heads and crests 
Weigh not the thin ore where their visage shines, 

But) of fine unclipt gold, where dully rests" 
Some likeness, which the glittering cirque confines, 

Of modern, reigning, sterling, stupid stamp : — 

Yes ! ready money is Aladdin's lamp. 

XIIL 

* ' Love rules the camp, the court, the grove," — " for 
love 

Is heaven, and heaven is love :"— so sings the bard ; 
Which it were rather difficult to prove 

(A thing with poetry in general hard). 
Perhaps there may be something in "the grove," 

At least it rhymes to " love : " but I m prepared 
To doubt (no less than landlords of their rental) 
If " courts " and " camps " be quite so sentimental. 

XIV. 

But if Love don't, Cash does, and Cash alone : 
Cash rules the grove, aud fells it too beside ; 

Without cash, camps were thin, and courts were none ; 
Without cash, Malthus tells you— '' take no brides." 

So Cash rules Love the ruler, ori his own 
High ground, as virgin Cynthia sways the tides : 

And as for " Heaven being Love," w hy not say honey 

Is wax ? Heaven is not Love, 't is Matrimony. 

XV. 

Is not all love prohibited whatever, 
Excepting marriage ? which is love, no doubt, 

After a sort ; but somehow people never 
With the same thought the two words have helped 
outj 

Love may exist with marriage, and should ever. 
And marriage also may exist without ; 

But love sails hSins is both a sin and shame, 

And ought to go by quite another name. 



Canto XII.] 



DON JUAN. 



575 



XVI. 



Now if the "court," and "camp," and "grove," be 
■ ■ • ■ [not 



Recruited all with constant married men, 
Who never coveted their neii^hbour's lot, 

I say that line 's a lapsus of the pen ; — 
Strange too in my "buon camerado" Scott, 

So celebrated for his morals, when 
My Jeffrey held him up as an example 
To me ; — of which these morals are a sample. 

XVII. 

Well, if I don't succeed, I have succeeded, 
And that 's enough ; succeeded in my youth, 

The only time when much success is needed : 
And my success produced what I, in sooth. 

Cared most about ; it need not now be pleaded — 
Whate'er it was, "t was mine ; I 've paid, in truth. 

Of late, the penalty of such success, 

But have not learn'd to wish it any less. 

XVIII. 

That suit in Chancer}',— which some persons plead 
In an appeal to the unborn, whom they 

In the faith of their procreative creed, 
Baptize posterity, or future clay, — 

To me seems but a dubious kind of reed 
To lean on for support in any way ; 

Since odds are that posterity will know 

No more of them, than they of her, I trow. 

XIX. 

Why, I 'm posterity — and so are you ; 

And whom do we remember? Not a hundred. 
Were every memory written down all tri^e, [der'd ; 

The tenth or twentieth name would be but blun- 
Even Plutarch's Lives have but pick'd out a few. 

And 'gainst those few your.annalists have thunder'd ; 
And Mitford i in the nineteenth century 
Gives, with Greek truth, the good old Greek the lie. 

XX. 

Good people all, of every degree. 
Ye gentle readers and ungentle writers, 

In this twelfth Canto 't is my wish to be 
As serious as if I had for mditers 

Malthus and Wilberforce : — the last set free 
The Negroes, and is worth a million fighters, 

While Wellington has but enslaved the Whites, 

And Malthus does the thing 'gainst which he writes. 

XXI. 

I 'm serious — so are all men upon paper ; 

And why should I not form my speculation, 
And hold up to the sun my little taper ? 

Mankind just now seem wrapt in meditation 
On constitutions and steam-boats of vapour; 

Whife sages write against all procreation, 
Unless a man can calculate his means 
Of feeding brats the moment his wife weans, 

XXII. 

That 's noble ! That 's romantic ! For my part, 
1 think that " Philo-genitiveness" is — 

(Now here 's a word quite after my own heart. 
Though there 's a shorter a good deal than this. 

If that politeness set it not apart ; 
But I 'm resolved to say nought that 's amiss) — 

I say, methinks that "Philo-genitiveness " 2 

Might meet from men a little more forgiveness. 



1 See MitforcJ's Greece. " Graecia Verax." His great 
pleasure ennsists in praising tyrants, abusing Plutarch, 
spelling oddly, and writing quaintly ; and wh:it is strange, 
after all his is the best modern history of Greece in any 
language, and he is perhaps the best of all modern histori- 
ans whatsoever. Having named his sins, it is but fair to 
stale his virtues — learning, labour, research, wrath, and 
partiality. 1 call the latter virtues in a writer, because 
they make him write in earnest. f. 

2 Philo-progenitiveness. Spurzheim and Gall discover 
the organ of this name in a bump behind the ears, and 
say it is remarkably developed in the bull.— K. 



XXIII. 

And now to business. — my gentle Juan ! 

'I'hou art in London — in that pleasant place, 
Where every kind of mischief's daily brewing, 

Which can await warm youth in its wild race. 
'T is true, that thy career is not a new one ; ^ 

Thou art no novice in the headlong chase 
Of early life ; but this is a new land. 
Which foreigners can never understand. 

XXIV. 

What with a small diversity of climate, 

Of hot or cold, mercurial or sedate, 
I could send forth my mandate like a primate 

Upon the rest of Europe's social state ; 
But thou art the most difficult to rhyme at. 

Great Britain, which the Muse may penetrate. 
All countries have their " Lions," but in thee 
There is but one superb menagerie, 

XXV. 

But I am sick of politics. Begin, 

"Paulo Majora." Juan, undecided 
Amongst the paths of being " taken in," 

Above the ice had like a skater glided : 
When tired of play, he flirted without sin 

With some of those fair creatures who have prided 
Themselves on innocent tantalisation, 
And hate all vice except its reputation. 

XXVI. 

But these are few, and in the end they make 
Some devilish escapade or stir, which shows 

That even the purest people may mistake 
Their way through virtue's primrose paths of snows ; 

And then men stare, as if a new ass spake 
To Balaam, and from tongue to ear overflows 

Quicksilver small talk, ending (if you note it) 

With the kind world's amen — " Who would have 
thought it ? " 

XXVII. 
The little Leila, with her orient eyes, 

And taciturn Asiatic disposition, 
(Which saw all western things with small surprise, 

To the surprise of people of condition, 
Who think that novelties are butterflies 

To be pursued as food for inanition,) 
Her charming figure and romantic history 
Became a kind of fashionable mystery. 

XXVI n. 

The women much divided — as is usual 
Amongst the sex in little things or great. 

Think not, fair creatures, that I mean to abuse you all — 
I have always liked you better than I state : 

Since I 've gro'wn rnoral, still I must accuse you all 
Of being apt to talk at a great rate ; 

And now there was a general sensation 

Amongst you, about Leila's education. 

XXIX. 

In one point only were you settled — and 
You had reason ; 't was that a young child of grace. 

As beautiful as her own native land. 
And far away, the last bud of her race, 

Hovve'er our friend Don Juan might command 
Himself for five, four, three, or two years' space, 

Would be much better taught beneath the eye 

Of peeresses whose follies had run dry. 

XXX. 

So first there was a generous emulation, 
And then there was a general competition, 

To undertake the orphan's education. 
As Juan was a person of condition. 

It had been an aftVont on this occasion 
To talk of a subscription or petition ; 

But sixteen dowagers, ten unwed she sages. 

Whose tale belongs to " Hallam's Middle Ages," 



576 



DON JUAN 



[Canto XII. 



xxxr. 

And one or two sad, separate wives, without 

A fruit to bloom upon their withering bough — 
Begg'd to bring uf the little girl, and " ow^," — 

For that 's the phrase that settles all things now, 
Meaning a virgin's first blush at a rout, 

And all her points as thorough-bred to show : 
And I assure you, that like virgin honey- 
Tastes their first season (mostly if they have money). 

xxxir. 

How all the needy honourable misters, 
Each out-at-elbow peer, or desperate dandy, 

The watchful mothers, and the careful sisters, 
(Who, by the by, when clever, are more handy 

At making matches, where " 't is gold that glisters," 
Than their he relatives,) like flies o'er candy 

Buzz round " the Fortune " with their busy battery, 

To turn her head with waltzing and with flattery ! 

XXXIII. 

Each aunt, each cousin, hath her speculation ; 

Nay, married dames will now and then discover 
Such pure disinterestedness of passion, 

I 've known them court an heiress for their lover. 
"Tantaene ! " Such the virtues of high station, 

Even in the hopeful Isle, whose outlet 's " Dover ! " 
While the poor rich wretch, object of these cares, 
Has cause to wish her sire had had male heirs. 

XXXIV. 

Some are soon bagg'd, and some reject three dozen. 

'T is fine to see them scattering refusals 
And wild dismay o'er every angry cousin 

(Friends of the party), who begin accusals 
Such as— "Unless Miss (Blank) meant to have chosen 

Poor Frederick, why did she accord perusals 
To his billets? Why waltz with him ? Why, I pray. 
Look yes last night, and yet say no to-day ? 

XXXV. 

" Why ?— Why ?— Besides, Fred really was attacWd ; 

'T was not her fortune — he has enough without : 
The time will come she '11 wish that she had snatch'd 

So good an opportunity, no doubt : — 
But the old Marchioness some plan had hatch'd. 

As I 'II tell Aurea at to-morrow's rout : 
And after all poor Frederick may do better — 
Pray did you see her answer to his letter ?" 

XXXVI. 

Smart uniforms and sparkling coronets 
Are spurn'd in turn, until her turn arrives, 

After male loss of time, and hearts, and bets 
Upon the sweepstakes for substantial wives j 

And when at last the pretty creature gets 
Some gentleman, who fights, or writes, or drives, 

It soothes the awkward squad of the rejected 

To find how very badly she selected. 

XXXVII. 

For sometimes they accept some long pursuer, 

Worn out with importunity ; or fall 
(But here perhaps the instances are fewer) 

To the lot of him who scarce pursued at all. 
A hazy %vidower turn'd of forty 's sure i 

(If 't is not vain examples to recall) 
To draw a high prize : now, howe'er he got her, I 
See nought more strange in this than t'other lottery. 

XXXVIII. 
I, for my part — (one " modern instance " more, 

" True, 't is a pity — pity 't is, 't is true ") 
Was chosen from out an amatory score. 

Albeit my years were less discreet than fewj 
But though I also had reform'd before 

Those became one who soon were to be two, 
I '11 not gainsay the generous public's voice. 
That the young lady made a monstrous choice. 

1 This line may puzzle the commentators more than the 
present generation. 



XXXIX. 

Oh, pardon my digression — or at least 
Peruse ! 'T is always with a moral end 

That I dissert, like grace before a feast : 
For like an aged aunt, or tiresome friend, 

A rigid guardian, or a zealous priest. 
My Muse by exhortation means to mend 

All people, at all times, and in most places, 

Which puts my Pegasus to these grave paces. 

XL. 

But now I 'm going to be immoral ; now 
I mean to show things really as they are, 

Not as they ought to be: for 1 avow, 
That till we see what 's what in fact, we 're far 

From much improvement with that virtuous plough 
Which skims the surface, leaving scarce a scar 

Upon the black loam long manured by Vice, 

Only to keep its corn at the old price, 

XLI. 

But first of little Leila we '11 dispose ; 

For like a day-dawn she was young and pure, 
Or like the old comparison of snows. 

Which are more pure than pleasant to be sure. 
Like many people every body knows, 

Don Juan was delighted to secure 
A goodly guardian for his infant charge. 
Who might not profit much by being at large. 

XLII, 

Besides, he had found out he was no tutor 
(I wish that others would find out the same) ; 

And rather wish'd in such things to stand neuter, 
For silly wards will bring their guardians blame : 

So when he saw each ancient dame a suitor 
To make his little wild Asiatic tame. 

Consulting " the Society for Vice 

Suppression," Lady Pinchbeck was his choice. 

XLIIL 

Olden she was — but had been very youn» ; 

Virtuous she was — and had been, I believe ; 
Although the world has.such an evil tongue 

That but my chaster ear will not receive 

An echo of a syllable that 's wrong : 

In fact, there 's nothing makes me so much grieve. 
As that abominable tittle-tattle, 
Which is the cud eschew'd by human cattle. 

XLIV. 
Moreover I 've remark'd (and I was once 

A slight observer in a modest way). 
And so may every one except a dunce. 

That ladies in their youth a little gay, 
Besides their knowledge of the world, and sense 

Of the sad consequence of going astray, 
Are wiser in their warnings 'gainst the woe 
Which the mere passionless can never know. 

XLV. 

While the harsh prude indemnifies her virtue 
By railing at the unknown and envied passion. 

Seeking farless to save you than to hurt you. 
Or, what 's still worse^ to put you out of fashion, — 

The kinder veteran with calm Avords will court you, 
Entreating you to pause before you dash on ; 

Expounding and illustrating the riddle 

Of epic Love's beginning, end, and middle. 

XLVI. 

Now whether it be thus, or that they are stricter, 
As better knowing why they should be so, 

I think you '11 find from many a family picture, 
That 'daughters of such mothers as may know 

The world by experience rather than by lecture. 
Turn out much better for the Smithfield Show 

Of vestals brought into the marriage mart, 

Than those bred up by prudes without a heart. 



Canto XII.] 



DON JUAN. 



577 



XLVII. 

I said that Lady Pinchbeck had been talk'd about — 
As who has not, if female, young, and pretty ? 

But now no more the ghost of Scandal stalk'd about ; 
She merely was deem'd amiable and witty. 

And several of her best bon-mots were hawk'd about : 
Then she was given to charity and pity, 

And pass"d (at least the latter years of life) 

For being a most exemplary wife. 

XLVIII. 

High in high circles, gentle in her own, 
She was the mild reprover of the young, 

Whenever— which means every day— they 'd shown 
An awkward inclination to go wrong. 

The quantity of good she did 's unknown, 
Or at the least would lengthen out my song: 

In brief, the little orphan o1f the East 

Had raised an interest in her, which increased. 

XLIX. 

Juan, too, was a sort of favourite with her, 
Because she thought him a good heart at bottom, 

A little spoil'd, but not so altogether j 
Which was a wonder, if you think who got him. 

And how he had been toss'd, he scarce knew whither : 
Though this might ruin others, it did not him, 

At least entirely — for he had seen too many 

Changes in youth, to be surprised at any. 

L. 

And these vicissitudes tell best in youth j 

For when they happen at a riper age, 
People are apt to blame the Fates, forsooth, 

And wonder Providence is not more sage. 
Adversity is the first path to truth : 

He who hath proved war, storm, or woman's rage, 
Whether his winters be eighteen or eighty, 
Hath won the experience which is deem'd so weighty. 

LI. 

How far it profits is another matter.— 

Our hero gladly saw his little charge 
Safe with a lady, whose last grown-up daughter 

Being long married, and thus set at large. 
Had left all the accomplishments she taught her 

To be transmitted, like the Lord Mayor's barge, 
To the next comer; or — as it will tell 
More Muse-like — like to Cytherea's shell. 

Lir. 

I call such things transmission ; for there is 
A floating balance of accomplishment, 

Which forms a pedigree from Miss to Miss, 
According as their minds or backs are bent. 

Some waltz ; some draw ; some fathom the abyss 
Of metaphysics ; others are content 

With music J the most moderate shine as witsj 

While others have a genius turn'd for fits. 

LIIL 

But whether fits, or wits, or harpsichords, 

Theology, fine arts, or finer stays. 
May be the baits for gentlemen or lords 

With regular descent, in these our days. 
The last year to the new transfers its hoards ; 

New vestals claim men's eyes with the same praise 
Of " elegant" et extern, in fresh batches — 
AJl matchless creatures, and yet bent on matches. 

LIV. 

But now I will begin my poem. 'Tis 
Perhaps a little strange, if not quite new. 

That from the first of Cantos up to this 
I 've not begun what we have to go through. 

These first twelve books are merely flourishes, 
Preludios, trying just a string or two 

Upon my lyre, or making the pegs sure j 

And when so, you shall have the overture. 



LV. 

My Muses do not care a pinch of rosin 
About what 's call'd success, or not succeeding: 

Such thoughts are quite below the strain they have 
chosen ; 
'T is a "great moral lesson " they are reading. 

I thought, at setting off', about two dozen 
Cantos would do ; but at Apollo's pleading, 

If that my Pegasus should not be founder'd, 

I think to canter gently through a hundred. 

LVI. 

Don Juan saw that microcosm on stilts. 
Yclept the Great World ; for it is the least, 

Although the highest : I'ut as swords have hilts 
By which their power of mischief is increased, 

When man in battle or in quarrel tilts, 
Thus the low world, north, south, or west, or east. 

Must still obey the high — which is their handle. 

Their moon, their sun, their gas, their farthing candle. 

LVII. 

He had many friends who had many wives, and was 
Well look'd upon by both, to that extent 

Of friendship which you may accept or pass. 
It does not good, nor harm : being merely meant 

To keep the wheels going of the higher class. 
And draw them nightly when a ticket 's sent ; 

And what with masquerades, and fetes, and balls. 

For the first season such a life scarce palls. 

LVIIL 

A young unmarried man, with a good name 
And fortune, has an awkward part to play j 

For good society is but a game, 
"The royal game of Goose," as I may«ay, 

Where every body has some separate aim. 
An end to answer, or a plan to lay — 

The single ladies wishing to be double, 

The married ones to save the virgins trouble. 

LIX. 

I don't mean this as general, but particular 
Examples may be found of such pursuits: 

Though several also keep their perpendicular 
Like poplars, with good principles for roots ; 

Yet many have a method more reticular — 
" Fishers for men," like sirens with soft lutes: 

For talk six times with the same single lady, 

And you may get the wedding dresses ready. 

LX. 

Perhaps you '11 have a letter from the mother. 
To say her daughter's feelings are trepann'd ; 

Perhaps you '11 have a visit from the brother, , 
All strut, and stays, and whiskers, to demand 

What "your intentions are ? " — One way or other 
It seems the virs:in's heart expects your hand : 

And between pity' for her case and yours. 

You '11 add to Matrimony's list of cures. 

LXI. 

I 've known a dozen weddings made even thus. 

And some of them high names : I have also known 
Young men who — though they hated to discuss 

Pretensions which they never dream'd to have 
shown — 
Yet neither frighten'd by a female fuss, 

Nor by mustachios moved, were let alone. 
And lived, as did the broken-hearted fair, 
In happier plight than if they form'd a pair. 

LXIL 

There 's also nightly, to the uninitiated, 
A peril — not indeed like love or marriage, 

But not the less for this to be depreciated : 
It is — I meant and mean not to disparage 

The show of virtue even in the vitiated — 
It adds an outward grace unto their carriage — 

But to denounce the aniphibious sort of harlot, 

" Couleur de rose," who 's neither white nor scarlet. 



49 



37 



578 



DON JUAN. 



[Canto XII. 



LXIII. 

Such is your cold coquette, who cant say " No," 
And won t say " Yes," and keeps you on and oflf-ing 

On a lee-shore, till it begins to blow — 
Then sees your heart wreck'd, with an inward 
scoffing,' 

This works a world of sentimental woe, 
And sends new Werters yearly to their coffin; 

But yet is merely innocent flirtation, 

Not quite adultery, but adulteration. 

LXIV. 

"Ye gods, I grow a talker ! " Let us prate. 

The next of perils, though I place it sternest, 
Is when, without regard to " church or state," 

A wife makes or takes love in upright earnest. 
Abroad, such things decide few women's fate — 

(Such, early traveller ! is the truth thou learnest) — 
But in old England, when a young bride errs. 
Poor thing ! Eve's was a trifling case to hers. 

LXV. 

For 't is a low, newspaper, humdrum, lawsuit 
Country, where a young couple of the same ages 

Can't form a friendship, but the world o"era\ves it. 
Then there's the vulgar trick of those d— d 
damages ! 

A verdict —"grievous foe to those who cause it ! — 
Forms a sad climax to romantic homages ; 

Besides those soothing speeches of the pleaders, 

And evidences which regale all readers. 

LXVI. 

But they who blunder thus are raw beginners ; 

A little genial sprinkling of hypocrisy 
Has saved "the fame of thousand'splendld sinners, 

The loveliest oligarchs of our gynocracy; 
You may see such at all the balls and dinners, 

Among the proudest of our aristocracy, 
So gentle, charming, charitable, chaste — 
And all by having tact as well as taste. 

LXVII. 

Juan, who did not stand in the predicament 
Of a mere novice, had one safeguard more ; 

For he was sick no, 'twas not the word Jtcfe I 

meant — 
But he had seen so much good love before, 

That he was not in heart so very weak ; — I meant 
But thus much, and no sneer against the shore 

Of white clitt's, white necks, blue eyes, bluer stockings. 

Tithes, taxes, duns, and doors with double knockings. 

LXVI 1 1. 

But coming young from lands and scenes romantic, 
Where lives, not lawsuits, must be risk'd for Pas- 
sion, 

And Passion's self must have a spice of frantic, 
Into a countr}' where 't is half a fashion, 

Seem'd to him half commercial, half pedantic, 
Howe'er he might esteem this moral nation : 

Besides (alas I his taste — forgive and pity !) 

At first he did not think the women pretty. 

LXIX. 

I say at first — for he found out at last, 
But hy degrees, that they were fairer far 

Than the more glowing dames whose lot is cast 
Beneath the influence of the eastern star. 

A further proof we should not judge in haste ; 
Yet inexperience could not be his bar 

To taste : — the truth is, if men would confess, 

That novelties j3Zeaye less than they imj^7'ess. 

LXX. 

Though travell'd, I have never had the luck to 
Trace up those shutfling negroes, Nile or Niger, 

To that impracticable place Timbuctoo, 
Where Geography finds no one to oblige her 



With such a chart as may be safely stuck to — 

For Europe ploughs in Afric lite "bos piger j" 
But if I had been at Timbuctoo, there 
No doubt 1 should be told that black is fair.i 

LXXL 

It is. I will not swear that black is white ; 

But I suspect in fact that white is black. 
And the whole matter rests upon eye-sight. 

Ask a blind man, the best judge. You '1! attack 
Perhaps this new position — but 1 'm right; 

Or if I 'm wrong, I '11 not be ta'en aback : — 
He hath no morn nor night, but all is dark 
Within ; and what seest thou ? A dubious spark. 

LXXII. 

But I 'm relapsing into metaphysics. 

That labyrinth, whose clue is of the same 

Construction as your cures for hectic phthisics, 
Those bright moths fluttering round a dying flame ; 

And this reflection brings me to plain physics. 
And to the beauties of a foreign dame, 

Compared with those of our pure pearls of price, 

Those polar summers, all sun, and some ice. 

Lxxin. 

Or say they are like virtuous mermaids, whose 
Beginnings are fair faces, ends mere fishes ; — 

Not that there 's not a quantity of those 
Who have a due respect for their own wishes. 

Like Russians rushing from hot baths to snows ^ 
Are they, at bottom virtuous even when vicious j 

They warm into a scrajie, but keep of course, 

As a reserve, a plunge into remorse. 

LXXIV. 

But this has nonght to do with their outsides. 

I said that Juan did not think them pretty 
At the first blush ; for a fair Briton hides 

Half her attractions — probably from pity — 
And rather calmly into the heart glides, 

Than storms it as a foe would take a city ; 
But once there (if you doubt this, prithee try) 
She keeps it for you like a true aily. 

LXXV. 

She cannot step as does an Arab barb, 
Or Andalusian girl from mass returning, 

Nor wear as gracefully as Gauls her garb. 
Nor in her eye Ausonia's glance is burning; 

Her voice, though sweet, is not so fit to warb- 
le those bravuras (which I still am learning 

To like, though I have been seven yeare in Italy, 

And have, or had, an ear that served me prettily) ;- 

LXXVI. 

She cannot do these things, nor one or two 
Others, in that oft-hand and dasliing style 

Which takes so much — to give the devil his due ; 
Nor is she quite so ready with her smile, 

Nor settles all things in one interview, 
(A thing approved as saving time and toil); — 

But though the soil may give you time and trouble, 

Well cultivated, it w ill fender double. 

LXXVII. 

And if in fact she takes to a " grande passion," 

It is a very serious thing indeed : 
Nine times in ten 't is but caprice or fashion, 

Coquetry, or a wish to take the lead, 
The pride 'of a mere child with a new sash on, 

Or wish to make a rival's bosom bleed : 
But the tenth instance will be a tornado. 
For there 's no saying what they will or may do. 

1 Major Denham says, that when he tirst saw European 
women after his travels in Africa, they appeared lo him to 
have unnatural sickly countenances. ~E. 

2 The Russians, as is well known, run out from their 
hot baths to plunge into the >>va; a pleasant practical 
antithesis, which it seems does them no harm. 



Canto XII.] 



DON JUAN, 



579 



LXXVIII. 

The reason 's obvious ; if there 's an eclat, 
They lose their caste at once, as do the Farias ; 

And when the delicacies of the law 
Have fiU'd their papers with their comments vari- 
ous, 

Society, that china without flaw, 
(The hypocrite !) will banish them like Marius, 

To sit amidst the ruins of their guilt : 

For Fame 's a Carthage not so soon rebuilt. 

LXXIX. 

Perhaps this is as it should be ; — it is 
A comment on the Gospel's " Sin no more, 

And be thy sins forgiven : " — but upon this 
I leave the saints to settle their own score. 

Abroad, though doubtless they do much amiss, 
An erring woman finds an opener door 

For her return to Virtue — as they call 

That lady, who should be at home to all. 

LXXX. 

For me, I leave the matter where I find it, 
Knowing that such uneasy virtue leads 

People some ten times less in fact to mind it, 
And care but for discoveries and not deeds. 

And as for chastity, you '11 never bind it 
By all the laws the strictest lawyer pleads, 

But aggravate the crime you have not prevented. 

By rendering desperate those who had else repented. 

LXXXI. 

But Juan was no casuist, nor had ponder'd 

Upon the moral lessons of mankind : 
Besides, he had not seen of several hundred 

A lady altogether to his mind, 
A little " blase " ~ 't is not to be wonder'd 

At, that his heart had got a tougher rind : 
And though not vainer from his past success, 
No doubt his sensibilities were less. 

LXXXII. 

He also had been busy seeing sights — 
The Parliament and all the ether houses; 

Had sat beneath the gallery at nights, 

To hear debates whose thunder roused (not rouses) 

The world to gaze upon those northern lights 
Which flash'd as far as where the musk-bull brow- 
ses; 1 

He had also stood at times behind the throne — 

But Grey 2 was not arrived, and Chatham gone.3 

Lxxxni. 

He saw, however, at the closing session. 
That noble sight, when ixally free the nation, 

A king in constitutional possession 
Of such a throne as is the proudest station. 

Though despots know it not — till the progression 
Of freedom shall complete their education. 

'T is not mere splendour makes the show august 

To eye or heart — it is the people's trust. 

LXXXIV. 

There, too, he saw (whate'er he may be now) 
A Prince, the prince of princes at the time, 

With fascination in his very bow. 
And full of promise, as the spring of prime. 

Though royalty was written on his brow. 
He had then the grace, too rare in every clime, 

Of being, without alloy of fop or beau, 

A finished gentleman from top to toe. 

1 For a description and print of this inhabitant of the 
polar region and native country of the Aurora Borealis, 
see Parry's Voy.ige in search of a North-west Passage. 

2 Charles, second Earl Grey, succeeded to the peerage in 
1£07.-E. 

3 William Pitt, first Earl of Chatham, died in May, 
1778, after having been carried home from Ihe House of 
Lords, where he had fainted away at the close of a re- 
markable speech on the American war.— E. 



LXXXV. 

And Juan was received, as hath been said, 

Into the best society ; and there 
Occurr'd what often happens, I 'm afraid, 

However disciplined and debonnaire : — 
The talent and good humour he display'd. 

Besides the mark'd distinction of his air, 
Exposed him, as was natural, to temptation, 
Even though himself avoided the occasion. 

LXXXVI. 

But what, and where, with whom, and when, and 
why. 

Is not to be put hastily together; 
And as my object is morality 

(Whatever people say), Idon't know whether 
I '11 leave a single reader's eyelid dry, 

But harrow up his feelings till they wither, 
And hew out a huge monument of pathos. 
As Philip's son proposed to do with Athos.* 

LXXXVII. 

Here the twelfth Canto of our introduction 
Ends. When the body of the book's begun. 

You "11 find it of a different construction 

From what some people say 't will be when done : 

The plan at present 's simply in concoction. 
I can't oblige you, reader, to read on ; 

That 's your affair, not mine : a real spirit 

Should neither court neglect, nor dread to bear it. 

LXXXVIII. 

And if my thunderbolt not always rattles. 
Remember, reader ! you have had before 

The worst of tempests and the best of battles. 
That e'er were brew'd from elements or gore. 

Besides the most sublime of— Heaven knows what 
else : 
An usurer could scarce expect much more — 

But my best canto, save one on astronomy, 

Will turn upon "political economy." 

LXXXI X. 

That is your present theme for popularity : 
Now that the public hedge hath scarce a stake. 

It grows an act of patriotic charity, 
To show the people the best way to break. 

My plan (but 1, if but for singularity. 
Reserve it) will be very sure to take. 

Meantime, read all the national-debt sinkers. 

And tell me what you think of our great thinkers. 



CANTO THE THIRTEENTH. 

I. 

I now mean to be serious ; — it is time. 
Since laughter now-a-days is deem'd too serious, 

A jest at Vice by Virtue 's call'd a crime. 
And critically held as deleterious : 

Besides, the sad 's a source of the sublime, 
Although when long a little apt to weary us ; 

And therefore shall my lay soar high and solemn. 

As an old temple dwindled to a column. 

II. 

The I^dy Adeline Amundeville 

('T is an old Norman name, and to be found 
In pedigrees, by those who wander still 

Along the last fields of that Gothic ground) 
Was high-born, wealthy by her father's will, 

And beauteous, even where beauties most abound. 
In Britain — which of course true patriots find 
The goodliest soil of body and of mind. 



4 A sculptor projected to hew Mount Athos into a statue 
of Alexander, with a city in one hand, and. I believe, a 
river in his pocket, with various other similar devices. 
But Alexander's pone, and Athos remains, I trust ere 
long to look over a nation of freemen. 



580 



DON JUAJN. 



[Canto XIU. 



III. 

I '11 not gainsay them ; it is not my cue ; 

I '11 leave them to their taste, no doubt the best : 
An eye 's an eye, and whether black or blue, 

Is no great matter, so 't is in request, 
'T is nonsense to dispute about a hue — 

The kindest may be taken as a test. 
The fair sex should be always fair ; and no man. 
Till thirty, should perceive there 's a plain woman. 

IV. 

And after that serene and somewhat dull 
Epochj that awkward corner turn'd for days 

More quiet, when our moon -s no more at full, 
We may presume to criticise or praise j 

Because inditFerence begins to lull 
Our passions, and we walk in wisdom's ways; 

Also because the figure and the face 

Hint, that 't is time to give the younger place. 

V. 

I know that some would fain postpone this era, 

Reluctant as all placemen to resign 
Their post ; but theirs is merely a chimera, 

For they have pass"d life's equinoctial line : 
But then they have their claret and Madeira 

To irrigate the dryness of decline ; 
And county meetings, and the parliament. 
And debt, and what not, for their solace sent. 

VI. 

And is there not religion, and reform, 

Peace, war, the taxes, and what's called the 
The struggle to be pilots in a storm ? [" Nation ? " 

The landed and the monied speculation ? 
The joys of mutual hate to keep them warm, 

Instead of love, that mere hallucination ? 
Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure ; 
Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure. 

VII. 

Rough Johnson, the great moralist, professed. 
Right honestly, " he liked an honest hater ! "— i 

The only truth that yet has been contest 
Within these latest thousand years or later. 

Perhaps the fine old fellow spoke in jest : — 
For my part, I am but a mere spectator. 

And gaze where'er the palace or the hovel is, 

Much in the mode of Goethe's Mephistopheles j 2 

VIII. 

But neither love nor hate in much excess ; 

Though 't was not once so. If I sneer sometimes, 
It is because I cannot well do less. 

And now and then it also suits my rhymes. 
I should be very willing to redress 

Men's wrongs, and rather check than punish crimes, 
Had not Cervantes, in that too true tale 
Of Quixote, shown how all such efforts fail. 

IX. 

Of all tales 't is the saddest — and more sad, 
Because it makes us smile : his hero 's right, 

And still pursues the right ; — to curb the bad 
His only object, and 'gainst odds to fight 

His guerdon : 't is his virtue makes him mad ! 
But his adventures form a sorry sight ; — 

A sorrier still is the great moral taught 

By that real epic unto all who have thought. 

X. 

Redressing injury, revenging wrong. 
To aid the damsel and destroy the caitiff; 

Opposing singly the united strong. 

From foreign yoke to free the helpless native : — 

Alas ! must noblest views, like an old song. 
Be for mere fancy's sport a theme creative, 

A jest, a riddlcj Fame through thick and thin sought ! 

And Socrates himself but Wisdom's Quixote? 



1 " Sir, I love a good hater."— See BOSWELL'S John- 
3on. 

2 Mephistopheles is the name of the Devil in Goethe's 
Faaat.— E. 



XI. 

Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away ; 

A single laugh demolish'd the right arm 
Of his own country ; — seldom since that day 

Has Spain had heroes. While Romance could charm, 
The world gave ground before her bright array; 

And therefore have his volumes done such harm, 
That all their glory, as a composition. 
Was dearly purchased by his land's perdition. 

XII. 

I 'm "at my old lunes" — digression, and forget 

The Lady Adeline Amundeville; 
The fair most fatal Juan ever met, 

Although she was not evil nor meant ill ; 
But Destiny and Passion spread the net 

(Fate is a good excuse for our own will). 
And caught them; — what do they iwt catch, me- 

thinks ? 
But I 'm not CEdipus, and life 's a Sphinx. 

XIII. 

I tell the tale as it is told, nor dare 
To venture a solution : " Davus sum ! " 

And now I will proceed upon the pair. 
Sweet Adeline, amidst the gay world's hum. 

Was the Queen-Bee, the glass of all that 's fair ; 
Whose charms made all men speak, and women 
dumb. 

The last 's a miracle, and such was reckon'd, 

And since that time there has not been a second. 

XIV. 

Chaste was she, to detraction's desperation, 
And wedded unto one she had loved well — 

A man known in the councils of the nation, 
Cool, and quite English, imperturbable. 

Though apt to act with fire upon cccasion, 
Proud of himself and her : the world could tell 

Nought against either, and both seem'd secure — 

She in her virtue, he in his hauteur. 

XV. 

It chanced some diplomatical relations. 
Arising out of business, often brought 

Himself and Juan in their mutual stations 
Into close contact. 1 hough reserved, nor caught 

By specious seeming, Juan's^outh, and patience, 
And talent, on his haughty spirit wrought. 

And form'd a basis of est'eeni, which ends 

In making men what courtesy calls friends. 

XVI. 
And thus Lord Henry, who was cautious as 

Reserve and pride could make him, and full slow 
In judging men — when once his judgment was 

Determined, right or wrong, on friend or foe, 
Had all the pertinacity pride has. 

Which knows no ebb to its imperious flow, 
And loves or hates, disdaining to be guided, 
Because its own good pleasure hath decided. 

XVII. 

His friendships, therefore, and no less aversions. 
Though oft well founded, which confirmed but more 

His prepossessions, like the laws of Persians 
And Medes, would ne'er revoke what went before. 

His feelings had not those strange fits, like tertians. 
Of common likings, which make some deplore 

What they should laugh at — the mere ague still 

Of men's regard, the fever or the chill. 

XVIII. 

" 'T is not in mortals to command success : 
But do you more, Sempronius — donH deserve it," 

And take my word, you won't have any less. 
Be wary, watch the time, and always serve it ; 

Give gently way, when there 's too great a press; 
And for your conscience, only learn to nerve it. 

For, like a racer, or a boxer training, 

■T will make, if proved, vast efforts without paining. 



t^agm^tt 



,JLk 



Canto XIII.] 



DON JUAN. 



581 



XIX. 

Lord Henry also liked to be superior, 
As most men do, the little or the great j 

The very lowest find out an inferior, 
At least they think so, to exert their state 

Upon : for there are very few things wearier 
Than solitary Pride's oppressive weight, 

Which mortals generously would divide, 

By bidding others carry while they ride. 

XX. 

In birth, in rank, in fortune likewise equal, 

O'er Juan he could no distinction claim j 
In years he had the advantage of time's sequel ; 

And, as he thought, in country much the same — 
Because bold Britons have a tongue and free quill, 

At which all modern nations vainly aim; 
And the Lord Henry was a great debater. 
So that few members kept the house up later. 

XXI. 
These were advantages: and then he thought — 

It was his foible, but by no means sinister — 
That few or none more than himself had caught 

Court mysteries, having been himself a minister : 
He liked to teach that which he had been taught. 

And greatly shone whenever there had been a stir; 
And reconciled all qualities which grace man, 
Always a patriot, and sometimes a placeman. 

XXII. 

He liked the gentle Spaniard for his gravity ; 

He almost honour'd him for his docility. 
Because, though young, he acquiesced with suavity, 

Or contradicted but with proud humility. 
He knew the world, and would not see depravity 

In faults which sometimes show the soil's fertility, 
If that the weeds o'erlive not the first crop — 
For then they are very difficult to stop. 

XXIII. 

And then he talk'd with him about Madrid, 

Constantinople, and such distant places j 
Where people always did as they were bid, 

Or did what they should not with foreign graces. 
Of coursers also spake they : Henry rid 

Well, like most Englishmen, and loved the races j 
And Juan, like a true-born Andalusian, 
Could back a horse, as despots ride a Russian. 

XXIV. 
And thus acquaintance grew, at noble routs. 

And diplomatic dinners, or at other — 
For Juan stood well both with Ins and Outs, 

As in freemasonry a higher brother. 
Upon his talent Henry had no doubts ; 

His manner show'd him sprung from a high mother; 
And all men like to show their hospitality 
To him whose breeding matches with his quality. 

XXV. 
At Blank-Blank Square; — for we will break no 
squares, 

By naming streets : since men are so censorious, 
And apt to sow an author's wheat with tares, 

Reaping allusions private and inglorious, 
Where none were dreamt of, unto love's affairs. 

Which were, or are, or are to be notorious. 
That therefore do 1 previously declare, 
Lord Henry's mansion was in Blank-Blank Square. 

XXVI. 
Also there bin i another pious reason 

For making squares and streets anonymous; 
Which is, that there is scarce a single season 

Which doth not shake some very splendid house 
With some slight heart-quake of domestic treason — 

A topic scandal doth delight to rouse: 
Such I might stumble over "unawares, 
Unless 1 knew the very chastest squares. 



1 " With every thing that pretty bin, 

My lady sweet, arise." ~ SHAKSPEARE. 



xxvn. 

'T is true, I might have chosen Piccadilly, 
A place where peccadillos are unknown; 

But 1 have motives, whether wise or silly. 
For letting that pure sanctuary alone. 

Therefore I name not square, street, place, until I 
Find one where nothing naughty can be shown, 

A vestal shrine of innocence of heart : 

Such are but I have lost the London Chart. 

XXVIII. 

At Henry's mansion then, in Blank-Blank Square, 
Was Juan a recherche, welcome guest. 

As many other noble scions were ; 
And some who had but talent for their crest ; 

Or wealth, which is a passport everywhere ; 
Or even mere fashion, which indeed 's the best 

Recommendation ; and to be well drest 

Will very often supersede the rest. 

XXIX. 

And since " there 's safety in a multitude 

Of counsellors," as Solomon has said, 
Or some one for him, in some sage, grave mood ; — 

Indeed we see the daily proof display'd 
In senates, at the bar, in wordy feud, 

Where'er collective wisdom can parade. 
Which is the only cause that we can guess 
Of Britain's present wealth and happmess ; — 

XXX. 

But as "there 's safety " grafted in the number 
" Of counsellors " fur men, — thus for the sex 

A large acquaintance lets not Virtue slumber ; 
Or should it shake, the choice will more perplex— 

Variety itself will more encumber. 

'Midst many rocks we guard more against wrecks ; 

And thus with women : liovvsoe'er it shocks some's 

Self-love, there 's safety in a crowd of coxcombs. 

XXXL 

But Adeline had not the least occasion 

For such a shield, which leaves but little merit 

To virtue proper, or good education. 
Her chief resource was in her own high spirit. 

Which judged mankind at their due estimation; 
And for coquetry, she disdain'd to wear it : 

Secure of admiration, its impression 

Was faint, as of an every -day possession. 

xxxn. 

To all she was polite Avithout parade ; 

To some she show'd attention of that kind 
Which flatters, but is flattery convey'd 

In such a sort as cannot leave behind 
A trace unworthy either wife or maid ; — 

A gentle, genial courtesy of mind. 
To those who were, or pass'd for meritorious. 
Just to console sad glory for being glorious ; 

XXXIIL 

Which is in all respects, save now and then, 
A dull and desolate appendage. Gaze 

Upon the shades of those distinguish 'd men, _ 
Who were or are the puppet-shows of praise, 

The praise of persecution. Gaze again 
On the most favour'd ; and amidst the blaze 

Of sunset halos o'er the laurel-brow'd, 

What can ye recognise ? — a gilded cloud. 

XXXIV. 

There also was of course in Adeline 
That calm patrician polish in the address. 

Which ne'er can pass the eauinoctial line 
Of any thing which nature would express; 

Just as a mandarin finds nothing fine,— 
At least his manner suffers not to guess, 

That any thing he views can greatly please. 

Perhaps we have borrow'd this from the Chinese — 



49* 



582 



DON JUAN. 



[Canto XIII. 



XXXV. 

Perhaps from Horace: his "iVtZ admirarV 
Was what he call'd the " Art of Happiness ; 

An art on which the artists greatly vary, 
And have not yet attain'd^o much success. 

However, 't is expedient to be wary : 
Indifference certes don't produce distress ; 

And rash enthusiasm in good society 

Were nothing but a moral inebriety. 

xxxvr. 

But Adeline was not indifferent : for 
{Now for a common-place !) beneath the snow, 

As a volcano holds the lava more 

Within — et cxtera. Shall I go on ? — No I 

I hate to hunt down a tired metaphor, 
So let the often-used volcano go. 

Poor thing ! How frequently, by me and others, 

It hath been stirr'd up till its smoke quite smothers ! 

XXXVII. 
I '11 have another figure in a trice : — 

What say you to a bottle of champagne ? 
Frozen into a very vinous ice, 

Which leaves few drops of that immortal rain, 
Yet in the very centre, past all price, 

About a liquid glassful will remain ; 
And this is stronger than the strongest grape 
Could e'er express in its expanded shape : 

XXXVIII. 

'T is the whole spirit brought to a quintessence j 
And thus the chilliest aspects may concentre 

A hidden nectar under a cold presence. 
And such are many — though I only meant her 

From whom I now deduce these moral lessons, 
On which the Muse has always sought to enter. 

And your cold people are beyond all price, 

When once you have broken their confounded ice. 

XXXIX. 

But after all they are a North- VVest Passage 

Unto the glowing India of the soul ; 
And as the good ships sent upon that message 

Have not exactly ascertain'd the Pole 
(Though Parry's efforts look a lucky presage), 

Thus gentlemen may run upon a shoal j 
For if the Pole 's not open, but all frost 
(A chance still), 't is a voyage or vessel lost. 

XL. 

And young beginners may as well commence 
With quiet cruising o'er the ocean woman ; 

While those who are not beginners should have sense 
Enough to make for port, ere time shall summon 

With his grey signal-flas:; and the past tense, 
The dreary " Fuimus " of all things human, 

Must be declined, while life's thin thread 's spun out 

Between the gaping heir and gnawing gout. 

XLI. 

But heaven must be diverted ; its diversion 
Is sometimes truculent — but never mind : 

The world upon the whole is worth the assertion 
(If but for comfort) that all things are kind : 

And that same devilish doctrine of the Persian, 
Of the two principles, but leaves behind 

As many doubts as any other doctrine 

Has ever puzzled Faith withal, or yoked her in. 

XLII. 

The English winter — ending in July, 
To recommence in August — now was done. 

'T is the postilion's paradise : wheels fly ; 
On roads, east, south, north, west, there is a run. 

But for post-horses who finds svmpathy ? 
Man's pity 's for himself, or for his son, 

Always premising that said son at college 

Has not contracted nmch more debt than knowledge. 



XLII I. 

The London winter 's ended in July — 

Sometimes a little later. I don't err 
In this : whatever other blunders lie 

Upon my shoulders, here 1 must aver 
My Muse a glass of weatherology ; 

For parliament is our barometer : 
Let radicals its other acts attack, 
Its sessions form our only almanack. 

XLIV. 

When its quicksilver 's down at zero, — lo ! 

Coach, chariot, luggage, baggage, equipage ! 
Wheels whirl from Carlton palace to Soho, 

An! happiest they who horses can ens3.ge ; 
The turnpikes glow with dust ; and Rotten Row 

Sleeps from fhe chivalry of this bright age ; 
And tradesmen, with long bills and longer faces. 
Sigh — as the postboys fasten on the traces. 

XLV. 

They and their bills, " Arcadians both," i are left 
To the Greek kalends of another session. 

Alas ! to them of ready cash bereft. 

What hope remains ? Of hopt the full possession, 

Or generous draft, conceded as a gift, 
At a long date — till they can get a fresh one — 

Hawk'd about at a discount, small or large; 

Also the solace of an overcharge. 

XLVI. 

But these are trifles. Downward flies my lord, 
Nodding beside my lady in his carriage. 

Away ! away ! " Fresh horses ! " are the word. 
And changed as quickly as hearts after marriage; 

The obsequious landlord hath the change restored ; 
The postboys have no reason to disparage 

Their fee; but ere the water'd wheels may hiss hence, 

The ostler pleads too for a reminiscence. 

XLVII. 

'T is granted ; and the valet mounts the dickey — 
That gentleman of lords and gentlemen ; 

Also my lady's gentlewoman, tricky, 

Trick 'd out, but modest more than poet's pen 

Can paint,— " Cosi viaggino i Ricchr ! " 
(Excuse a foreign slipslop now and then. 

If but to show I 've travell'd ; and what 's travel. 

Unless it teaches one to quote and cavil ?) 

XLVIII, 

The London winter and the country summer 
Were well-nigh over. 'T is perhaps a pity, 

When nature wears the gown that doth become her, 
To lose those best months in a sweaty city, 

And wait until the nightingale grows dumber, 
Listening debates not very wise or witty. 

Ere patriots their true countnj can remember ; — 

But there 's no shooting (save grouse) till September. 

XLIX. 

I 've done with my tirade. The world was gone ; 

The twice two thousand, for whom earth was made, 
Were vanish'd to be what they call alone — 

That is, with thirty servants for parade, 
As many guests, or more ; before whom groan 

As many covers, duly, daily laid. 
Let none accuse old England's hospitality — 
Its quantity is but condensed to quality. 

L. 

Lord Henry and the Lady Adeline 
Departed like the rest of their compeers, 

The peerage, to a mansion very fine ; 
The Gothic Babel of a thousand years. 

None than themselves could boast a longer line. 
Where time through heroes and through beauties 

And oaks as olden as their pedigree [steers ; 

Told of their sires, a tomb in every tree. 



1 "Arcades ambo.' 



^ ..^.^.f.^.'r^f 



Canto XIII.] 



DON JUAN. 



583 



LI. 

A paragraph in every paper told 
Of their departure : such is modern fame : 

'T is pity that it takes no farther hold 
Than an advertisement, or much the same ; 

When, ere the ink be dry, the sound grows cold. 
The Morning Post was foremost to proclaim — 

" Departure, for his country-seat, to-day, 

Lord H. Amundeville and Lady A. 

LIL 

"We understand the splendid host intends 

To entertain, this autumn, a select 
And numerous party of his noble friends ; 

'Midst whom we have heard, from sources quite 
correct. 
The Duke of D the shooting season spends, 

With many more by rank and fashion deck'd j 
Also a foreigner of high condition. 
The envoy of the secret Russian mission." 

LIIL 

And thus we see — who doubts the Morning Post ? 

(Whose articles are like the " Thirty-nine," 
Which those most swear to who believe them most) — 

Our gay Russ Spaniard was ordain'd to shine, 
Deck'd by the rays reflected from his host, 

With those who, Pope says, "greatly daring 
dine." — 
'T is odd, but true, — last war the News abounded 
More with these dinners than the kilPd or wounded ;— 

LIV. 

As thus : " On Thursday there was a grand dinner ; 

Present, Lords A. B. C." — Earls, dukes, by name 
Announced with no less pomp than victory's winner : 

Then underneath, and in the very same 
Column: date, "Falmouth. There has lately been 
here 

The Slap-dash regiment, so well known to fame; 
Whose loss in the late action we regret : 
The vacancies are tiU'd up — see Gazette." 

LV. 

To Norman Abbey whirled the noble pair, — 

An old, old monastery once, and now 
Still older mansion,— of a rich and rare 

Mix'd Gothic, such as artists all allow 
Few specimens yet left us can compare 

Withal : i it lies perhaps a little low, 
Because the monks preferr'd a hill behind, 
To shelter their devotion from the wind. 

LVL 

It stood embosom'd in a happy valley, 

Crown'd by high woodlands, where the Druid oak 
Stood, like Caractacus, in act to rally 

His host, with broad arms 'gainst the thunder- 
stroke, 
And from beneath his boughs were seen to sally 

The dappled foresters — as day awoke, 
The branching stag swept down with all his herd, 
To quaft" a brook which murmur 'd like a bird.^i 

LVIL 

Before the mansion lay a lucid Lake, 
Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed 

By a river, which its soften'd way did take 
In currents through the calmer water spread 



1 "The front of Newstead Abbey has a most noble and 
majestic appearance ; being built in the form of the west 
end of a cathedral, adorned with rich carvings and lofty 
pinnacles." — Art, Newstead, in Beauties of England, vol. 
xii.— E. 

2 " The beautiful park of Newstead, which once was 
richly ornamented with two thousand seven hundred head 
of deer, and numberless tine spreading oaks, is now di- 
vided and subdivided into farms." — THOROTON'S Not- 
tinghamshire. — E. 



Around: the wildfowl nestled in the brake 
And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed : 
The woods sloped downwards to its brink, and stood 
With their green faces fix'd upon the flood. 

LVIII. 

Its outlet dash'd into a deep cascade, 
Sparkling with foam, until again subsiding, 

Its shriller echoes — like an infant made 
Quiet — sank into softer ripples, gliding 

Into a rivulet ; and thus allay'd. 
Pursued its course, now gleaming, and now hiding 

Its windings through the woods ; now clear, now blue, 

According as the skies their shadows threw. 

LIX. 

A glorious remnant of the Gothic pile 

(While yet the church was Rome's) stood half apart 
In a grand arch, which once screen'd many an aisle. 

These last had disappear'd — a loss to art : 
The first yet frown'd superbly o'er the soil. 

And kindled feelings in the roughest heart, 
Which mourn'd the power of time's or tempest's 
In gazing on that venerable arch. [march, 

LX. 

Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle, 

Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in stone j 
But these had fallen, not when the friars fell. 

But in the war which struck Charles from his 
When each house was a fortalice — as tell [throne, 

The annals of full many a line undone, — 
The gallant cavaliers, who fought in vain 
For those who knew not to resign or reign.3 

LXI. 

But in a higher niche, alone, but crown'd, 
The Virgin-Mother of the God-born Child,* 

With her Son in her blessed arms, look'd round, 
Spared by some chance when all beside was spoil'd j 

She made the earth below seem holy ground. 
This may be superstition, weak or wild. 

But even the faintest relics of a shrine 

Of any worship wake some thoughts divine. 

LXIL 

A mighty window, hollow in the centre. 
Shorn of its glass of thousand colourings, 

Through which the deepen'd glories once could enter. 
Streaming from off the sun like seraph's wings, 

Now yawns all desolate : now loud, now fainter. 
The gale sweeps through its fretwork, and oft sings 

The owl his anthem, where the silenced choir 

Lie with their hallelujahs quench'd like fire. 

LXIIL 

But in the noontide of the moon, and when 
The wind is winged from one point of heaven, 

There moans a strange unearthly sound, which then 
Is musical — a dying accent driven 

Through the huge arch, which soars and sinks again. 
Some deem it but the distant echo given 

Back to the niglit wind by the waterfall. 

And harmonised by the old choral wall : 

LXIV. 

Others, that some original shape, or form 
Shaped by decay perchance, hath given the power 

(Though less than that of Memnon's statue, warm 
In Esrypfs rays, to harp at a fix'd hour) 

To this grey ruin, with a voice to charm. 
Sad, but serene, it sweeps o'er tree or tower ; 

The cause I know not, nor can solve : but such 

The fact:— I 've heard it,— once perhaps too much.s 



3 See Miscellanies, ante, p. 9. — E. 

4 " In the bow-window of the Hall, there are yet the 
arms of Newstede Priory, viz. England, with a chief 
azure, in the middle whereof is the Virgin Mary with 
Babe or."- THOROTON.— E. 

6 '• Next to the apartment called King Edward the 



584 



DON JUAN. 



[Canto XIII. 



LXV. 

Amidst the court a Gothic fountain play'd, 
Symmetrical, but deck'd with carvings quaint — 

Strange faces, like to men in masquerade, 
And here perhaps a monster, there a saint : 

The spring gush'd through grim mouths of granite 
made. 
And sparkled into basins, where it spent 

Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles. 

Like man's vain glory, and his vainer troubles. 

LXVI. 

The mansion's self was vast and venerable, 
With more of the monastic than has been 

Elsewhere preserved : the cloisters still were stable, 
The cells, too, and refectory, 1 ween : 

An exquisite small chapel had been able, 
Still unimpaired, to decorate the scene ; 

The rest had been reform'd, replaced, or sunk, 

And spoke more of the baron than the monk. 

LXVII. 
Huge halls, long galleries, spacious chambers, joined 

By no quite lawful marriage of the arts. 
Might shock a connoisseur ; but when combined, 

Form'd a whole which, irregular in parts, 
Yet left a grand impression onlhe mind. 

At least of those whose eyes are in their hearts : 
We gaze upon a giant for his stature. 
Nor judge at first if all be true to nature. 

LXVII r. 

steel barons, molten the next generation 
To silken rows of gay and garter'd earls, 

Glanced from the walls' in goodly preservation : 
And Lady Marys blooming into girls. 

With fair long locks, had also kept their station : 
And countesses mature in robes and pearls : 

Also some beauties of Sir Peter Lely, 

Whose drapery hints we may admire them freely. 

LXIX. 

Judges in very formidable ermine 

Were there, with brows that did not much invite 
The accused to think their lordships would determine 

His cause by leaning much from might to right : 
Bishops, who had notleft a single sermon : 

Attorneys-general, awful to the sight, 
As hinting more (unless our judgments warp us) 
Of the "Star Chamber" than of "Habeas Corpus." 

LXX. 

Generals, some all in armour, of the old 
And iron time, ere lead had ta'en the lead : 

Others in wigs of Marlborough's martial fold, 
Huger than twelve of our degenerate breed : 

Lordlings, with staves of white or keys of gold : 
Nimrods, whose canvass scarce contain'd the steed j 

And here and there some stern high patriot stood, 

Who could not get the place for which he sued. 

LXXL 

But ever and anon, to soothe your vision, 
Fatigued with these hereditary glories, 

There rose a Carlo Dolce or a 1 itian. 
Or wilder group of savage Salvatore's : l 

Here danced Albano's boys, and here the sea shone 
In Vernet's ocean lights ; and there the stories 

Of martyrs awed, as Spagnoletto tainted 

His brush with all the blood of all the sainted. 

LXXH. 

Here sweetly spread a landscape of Lorraine ; 

There Rembrandt made bis darkness equal light, 
Or gloomy Caravaggio's gloomier stain 

Bronzed o'er some lean and stoic anchorite : — 



Third's room, on account of that monarch having slept 
there, is the sounding gallery, — so called from a very re- 
markable echo which it possesses." — Art. A'ewstead, in 
Beauties of England, vol. xii. — E. 
1 Salvator Rosa. 



But, lo ! a Teniers woos, and not in vain, 

Your eyes to revel in a livelier sight : 
His be]l-mouth"d goblet makes me feel quite Danish,3 
Or Dutch with thirst— What, ho ! a flask of Rhenish. 

Lxxin. 

reader ! if that thou canst read, — and know, 
'T is not enough to spell, or even to read. 

To constitute a reader ; there must go 
Virtues of which both you and 1 have need. 

Firstly, begin with the beginning — (thoiigh 
That clause is hard) ; and secondly, proceed : 

Thirdly, commence not with the end — or, sinning 

In this sort, end at last with the beginning. 

LXXIV. 

But, reader, thou hast patient been of late, 
1 While I, without remorse of rhyme, or fear, 
i Have built and laid out ground at such a rate, 
Dan Phoebus takes me for an auctioneer. 

That poets were so from their earliest date, 
1 By Homer's " Catalogue of ships " is clear; 

But a mere modern must be moderate — 

1 spare you then the furniture and plate. 

LXXV 

The mellow autumn came, and with it came 
The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. 

The corn is cut, the manor full of game ; 
The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats 

In russet jacket : — lynx-like is his aim ; 
Full grows his bag, and wonder^ttZ his feats. 

Ah, nutbrown partridges ! Ah, brilliant pheasants ! 

And ah, ye poachers ! — 'T is no sport for peasants. 

LXXVL 

An English autumn, though it hath no vines, 
Blushing with Bacchant coronals along 

The paths, o'er which the far festoon entwines 
The red grape in the sunny lands of song. 

Hath yet a purchased choice of choicest wines; 
The claret light, and the Madeira strong. 

If Britain mourn her bleakness, we can tell her, 

The very best of vineyards is the cellar. 

LXXVH. 

Then, if she hath not that serene decline 

Which makes the southern autumn's day appear 

As if 't would to a second spring'resign 

The season, rather than to \\ inter drear,— , 

Of in-door comforts still she hath a mine,— 
The sea-coal fires, the " earliest of the year ; " 

Without doors, too, she may compete in mellow, 

As what is lost in green is gain'd in yellow. 

LXXVIIL 

And for the effeminate villeggiatnra — 

Rife with more horns than hounds — she hath the 
chase, 
So animated that it might allure a 

Saint from his beads^'to join the jocund race ; 
Even Nimrod's self might leave the plains of Dura,3 

And wear the Melton jacket 4 for a space : 
If she hath no wild boars, she hath a tame 
Preserve of bores, who ought to be made game. 

LXXIX. 

The noble guests, assembled at the Abbey, 
Consisted of — we give the sex the fas — 

The Duchess cf Fitz-'Fulke; the Countess Crabby; 
The Ladies Scilly, Busey ; — Miss Eclat, 

Miss Bombazeen, iVliss Mackstay, MissO'Tabby, 
And Mrs. Rabbi, the rich banker's squaw; 

Also the honourable Mrs. Sleep, 

Who look'd a white lamb, yet was a black sheep : 



2 If I err not, " your Dane" is one of lago's catalogue 
of nations " exquisite in their drinking." 

3 In Assyria. 

4 For a graphic account of Melton Mowbray, the head- 
quarters of the English chase, see Quarterly Keview, vol. 
xlvii. p. 216.— E. 




Canto XIII.l 



DON JUAN. 



585 



LXXX. 

With other Countesses of Blank — but rank ; 

At once the " lie " and the " elite " of crowds j 
Who pass like water filter'd in a tank, 

All purged and pious from their native clouds j 
Or paper turn'd to money by the Bank : 

No matter how or why, the passport shrouds 
The " passee " and the past ; for good society 
Is no less famed for tolerance than piety, — 

LXXXI. 

That is, up to a certain point ; which point 
Forms the most difficult in punctuation. 

Appearances appear to form the joint 
On which it hinges in a higher station; 

And so that no explosion cry ''Aroint 
Thee, witch ! " or each Medea has her Jason ; 

Or (to the point with Horace and with Pulci) 

<' Omne tulitpunctum, quae miscuit utile dulci.'" 

LXXXII. 

I can't exactly trace their rule of right, 
Which hath a little leaning to a lottery. 

I 've seen a virtuous woman put down quite 
By the mere combination of a coterie; 

Also a so-so matron boldly fight 
Her way back to the world by dint of plottery, 

And shine the very Siria i of the spheres, 

Escaping with a few slight, scarless sneers. 

LXXXIII. 

I have seen more than I '11 say : — but we will see 

How our villeggiatura will get on. 
The party might consist of thirty-three 

Of highest caste — the Brahmins of the ton. 
I have named a few, not foremost in degree, 

But ta'en at hazard as the rhyme may run. 
By way of sprinkling, scatter'd amongst these 
There also were some Irish absentees. 

LXXXIV. 

There was Parolles, too, the legal bully, 

Who limits all his battles to the bar 
And senate : when invited elsewhere, truly, 

He shows more appetite for words than war. 
There was the young bard Rackrhyme, who had newly 

Come out and glimmer'd as a six weeks' star. 
There was Lord Fyrrho, too, the great freethinker j 
And Sir John Pottledeep, the mighty drinker. 

LXXXV. 

There was the Duke of Dash, who was a — duke, 
" Ay, every inch a " duke ; there were twelve peers 

Like Charlemagne's — and all such peers in look 
And intellect, that neither eyes nor ears 

For commoners had ever them mistook. 
There were the six Miss Ravvbolds — pretty dears ! 

All song and sentiment ; whose hearts were set 

Less on a convent than a coronet. 

LXXXVI. 

There were four Honourable Misters, whose 
Honour was more before their names than after; 

There was the preux Chevalier de la Ruse, 
Whom France and Fortune lately deign'd to waft 
here. 

Whose chiefly harmless talent was to amuse ; 
But the clubs found it rather serious laughter, 

Because — such was his magic power to please — 

The dice seem'd charm'd, too, with his repartees. 

LXXXVH. 

There was Dick Dubious, the metaphysician, 
Who loved philosophy and a good dinner ; 

Angle, the soi-disant mathematician ; 
Sir Henry Silvercup, the great race-winner. 

There was the Severend Rodomont Precisian, 
Who did not hate so much the sin as sinner; 

And Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet, 

Good at all things, but better at a bet. 



1 Siria, i. e. bitch-star. 



LXXXVHL 

There was Jack Jargon, the gigantic guardsman; 

And General Fireface, famous in the field, 
A great tactitian, and no less a swordsman. 

Who ate, last war, more Yankees than he kill'd. 
There was the waggish Welsh Judge, Jefferies Hards- 
man,2 

In his grave office so completely skill'd. 
That when a culprit came for condemnation, 
He had his judge's joke for consolation. 

LXXXIX. 

Good company 's a chess-board — there are kings. 
Queens, bishops, knights, rooks, pawns ; the world 's 
a game; 

Save that the puppets pull at their own strings, 
Methinks gay Punch hath something of the same. 

My Muse, the butterfly hath but her wings. 
Not stings, and flits through ether without aim, 

Alighting rarely : — were she but a hornet, 

Perhaps there might be vices which would mourn it. 

XC. 

I had forgotten — but must not forget — 

An orator, the latest of the session. 
Who had deliver'd well a very set 

Smooth speech, his first and maidenly transgression 
Upon debate : the papers echoed yet 

With his debut, which made a strong impression, 
And rank'd with what is every day display "d — 
" The best first speech that ever yet was made." 

XCL 

Proud of his " Hear hims ! " proud, too, of his vote 

And lost virginity of oratory. 
Proud of his learning (just enough to quote), 

He revell'd in his Ciceronian glory : 
With memory excellent to get by rote, 

With wit to hatch a pun or tell a story, 
Graced with some merit, and with more effrontery, 
." His country's pride," he came down to the country. 

XCIL 

There also were two wits by acclamation. 
Longbow from Ireland, Strongbow from the Tweed,3 

Both lawyers and both men of education ; 
But Strongbow's wit was of more polish'd breed ; 

Longbow was rich in an imagination 
As beautiful and bounding as a steed, 

But sometimes stumbling over a potato, — 

While Strongbow's best Uaings might have come from 
Cato. 

XCIII. 

Strongbow was like a new-tuned harpsichord ; 

But Longbow wild as an ^olian harp. 
With which the winds of heaven can claim accord. 

And make a music, whether flat or sharp. 
Of Strongbow's talk you would not change a word : 

At Longbow's phrases you might sometimes carp : 
Both nits — one born so, and the other bred. 
This by his heart — his rival by his head. 

XCIV. 

If all these seem an heterogeneous mass 

To be assembled at a country-seat, 
Yet think, a specimen of every class 

Is better than a humdrum tete-a-tete. 
The days of Comedy are gone, alas ! 

When Congreve's fool could vie with Moliere's btU: 
Society is smooth'd to that excess. 
That manners hardly dilfer more than dress. 



2 George Hardinge, Esq., M. P., one of the Welsh 
judges, died in ItiJfi. His works were collected, in 1818, 
by Mr. Nichola.— K. 

3 Currnn and Erskine. — E. 



t 



586 



DON JUAN. 



[Canto XIII. 



xcv. 

Our ridicules are kept in the back ground — 

Ridiculous enough, but also dull ; 
Professions, too, are no more to be found 

Professional ; and there is nought to cull 
Of folly's fruit; for though your fools abound, 

They 're barren, and not worth the pains to pull. 
Society is now one poiish'd horde, 
Form'd of two mighty tribes, the Bor&s and Bored. 

xcvr. 

But from being farmers, we turn gleaners, gleaning 
The scanty but right-well thresh"d ears of truth ; 

And, gentle reader ! when you gather meaning, 
You may be Boaz, and I — modest Ruth. 

Farther I 'd quote, but Scripture intervening 
Forbids. A great impression in my youth 

Was made by Mrs. Adams, where she cries 

" That Scriptures out of church are blasphemies." i 

XCVII. 

But what we can we glean in this vile age 
Of chaif, although our gleanings be not grist. 

I must not quite omit the talking sage, 
Kit-Cat, the famous Conversafionist, 

Who, in his common-place book, had a page 
Prepared each morn for evenings. " List, ob 
list!''— 

" Alas, poor ghost ! " — What unexpected woes 

Await those who have studied their bons-mots ! 

XCVIII. 

Firstly, they must allure the conversation 
By many windings to their clever clinch j 

And secondly, must let slip no occasion. 
Nor bate (abate) their hearers of an inch, 

But take an ell — and make a great sensation, 
If possible; and thirdly, never flinch 

When some smart talkerputs them to the test, 

But seize the last word, which no doubt 's the best. 

XCIX. 
Lord Henry and his lady were the hosts ; 

The party we have touch'd on were the guests. 
Their table was a board to tempt even ghosts 

To pass the Styx for more substantial feasts. 
I will not dwell upon ragouts or roasts, 

Albeit all human history attests 
That happiness for man — the hungry sinner ! — 
Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner. 

C. 

Witness the lands which "flow'd with milk and 
honey," 

Held out unto the hungry Israelites : 
To this we have added since, the love of money, 

The only sort of pleasure which requites. 
Youth fades, and leaves our days no longer sunny ; 

We tire of mistresses and parasites ; 
But oh, ambrosial cash ! Ah ! who would lose thee ? 
When we no more can use, or even abuse thee ! 

CL 

The gentlemen got up betimes to shoot, 

Or hunt : the young, because they liked the sport— 
The first thing boys like, after play and fruit ; 

The middle-aged, to make the day more short, 
For ennui is a growth of English root, 

Though nameless in our language : — we retort 
The fact for words, and let the French translate 
That awful yawn which sleep can not abate. 

cn. 

The elderly walk'd through the library. 
And tumbled books, or criticised the pictures, 

Or saunter'd through the gardens piteously. 
And made upon the hot-house several strictures, 



1 "Mrs. Adams answered Mr. Adams, that it was blas- 
phemous to talk of Scripture out of church." This 
dogma was brocthed to her husband — the best Christian 
in any book. — See Joseph Andrews. 



Or rode a nag which trotted not too high. 

Or on the morning papers read their lectures, 
Or on the watch their longing eyes would fix, 
Longing at sixty for the hour of' six. 

cin. 

But none were " gene : " the great hour of union 
Was rung by dinner's knell ; till then all were 

Masters of their own time — or in communion, 
Or solitary, as they chose to bear 

The hours, which how to pass is but to few known. 
Each rose up at his own, and had to spare 

What time he chose for dress, and broke his fast 

When, where, and how he chose for that repast. 

CIV. 

The ladies — some rouged, some a little pale — 
Met the morn as they might. If fine, they rode, 

Or walk'd ; if foul, they read, or told a tale, 
Sung, or rehearsed the last dance from abroad; 

Discuss'd the fashion which might next prevail, 
And settled bonnets by the newest code. 

Or cramm'd twelve sheets into one little letter, 

To make each correspondent a new debtor. 



CV. 

For some had absent lovers, all had friends. 

The earth has nothing like a she epistle, 
And hardly heaven — because it never ends. 

I love the mystery of a female missal, 
Which, like a creed, ne'er says all it intends, 

But full of cunning as Ulysses' whistle, 
When he allured poor Dolon : — you had better 
Take care what you reply to such a letter. 

CVL 

Then there were billiards; cards, too, but no dice; 

Save in the clubs no man of honour plays ; — 
Boats when 't was water, skating when 't was ice, 

And the hard frost destroy 'd the scenting days : 
And angling, too, that solitary vice. 

Whatever Izaak Walton sings or says: 
The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet 
Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.3 

CVIL 

With evening came the banquet and the wine ; 

The conversazione ; the duet. 
Attuned by voices more or less divine 

(My heart or head aches with the memorj' yet). 
The four Miss Rawbolds in a glee \\ ould shine ; 

But the two youngest loved more to be set 
Do^vn to the harp — because to music's charms 
They added graceful necks, white hands and arms. 



2 It would have taught him humanity at least. This 
sentimental savage, whom it is a mode to quote (amongst 
the novelists) to show their symi)athy for innocent sports 
and old songs, leaches hnw to sew up frogs, and break 
their legs by way of experiment, in addition to the art of 
angling, — the cruelest, the coldest, and the stupidest of 
pretended sports. They may talk about the beauties of 
nature, but the angler merely thinks of his dish of fish; 
he has no leisure to take his eyes from off the streams, 
and a single hiteis worth to him more than all the scenery 
around. Besides, some fish bite best on a rainy day. 
The whale, the shark, and the tunny fishery have some- 
what of noble and perilous in them; even net fishing, 
trawling, &c. are more humane and useful. But angling ! 
— No angler can be a gord man. 

"One of the best men I ever knew, — as humane, deli- 
cate-minded, generous, and excellent a creature as any in 
the world, — was an angler: true, he angled with painted 
flies, and would have been incapable of the extravagancies 
of I. Walton." 

The above addition was made by a friend in reading 
over the MS. — "Audi alteram partem." — I leave it to 
counterbalance my own observation. 



■Mi 



^IMmS^^ 



Canto XIV.] 



DON JUAN 



587 



cviir. 

Sometimes a dance (though rarely on field days, 
For then the gentlemen were rather tired) 

Display "d some sylph-like figures in its maze ; 
Then there was small-talk ready when required j 

Flirtation — but decorous j the mere praise 
Of charms that should or should not be admired. 

The hunters fought their fox-hunt o'er again, 

And then retreated soberly — at ten. 

CIX. 

The politicians, in a nook apart, 

Discuss 'd the world, and settled all the spheres ; 
The wits watch'd every loophole for their art. 

To introduce a bon-mot head and ears j 
Small is the rest of those who would be smart, 

A moment's good thing may have cost them years 
Before they find an hour to introduce it ; 
And then, even then, some bore may make them lose it. 

ex. 

But all was gentle and aristocratic 

In this our party ; polish'd, smooth, and cold, 
As Phidian forms cut out of marble Attic. 

There now are no Squire Westerns as of old ; 
And our Sophias are not so emphatic, 

But fair as then, or fairer to behold. [Jones, 

We have no accomplish'd blackguards, like Tom 
But gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones. 

CXI. 

They separated at an early hour; 

That is, ere midnight — which is London's noon : 
But in the country ladies seek their bower 

A little earlier than the waning moon. 
Peace to the slumbers of each folded flower — 

May the rose call back its true colour soon ! 
Good hours of fair cheeks are the fairest tinters, 
And lower the price of rouge— at least some winters. 



CANTO THE FOURTEENTH. 
I. 

If from great nature's or our own abyss 
Of thought we could but snatch a certainty, 

Perhaps mankind might find the path they miss — 
But then 't would spoil much good philosophy. 

One system eats another up, and this 
Much as old Saturn ate his progeny ; 

For when his pious consort gave him stones 

In lieu of sons, of these he made no bones. 

II. 

But System doth reverse the Titan's breakfast. 
And eats her parents, albeit the digestion 

Is difficult. Pray tell me, can you make fast, 
After due search, your faith to any question ? 

Look back o'er ages, ere unto the stake fast 
You bind yourself, and call some mode the best one. 

Nothing more true than not to trust your senses j 

And yet what are your other evidences ? 

in. 

For me, I know nought ; nothing I deny. 

Admit, reject, contemn ; and what know you. 
Except perhaps that you were born to die ? 

And both may after all turn out untrue. 
An age may come. Font of Eternity, 

When nothing shall be either old or new. 
Death, so call'd, is a thing which makes men weep. 
And yet a third of life is pass'd in sleep. 

IV. 
A sleep without dreams, after a rough day 

Of toil, is what we covet most j and yet 
How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay ! 

The very Suicide that pays his debt 
At once, without instalments (an old way 

Of paying debts, which creditors regret) 
Lets out impatiently his rushing breath, 
Less from disgust of life than dread of death. 



'T is round him, near him, here, there, everywhere ; 

And there 's a courage which grows out of fear. 
Perhaps of all most desperate, v\ hich will dare 

The worst to know it ; — when the mountains rear 
Their peaks beneath your human foot, and there 

You look down o'er the precipice, and drear 
The gulf of rock yawns,— you can't gaze a minute. 
Without an awful wish to plunge within it. 

VL 

'T Is true, you don't— but, pale and struck with terror. 
Retire : but look into your past impression ! 

And you will find, though shuddering at the mirror 
Of your own thoughts, in all their self-confession, 

The lurking bias, be it truth or error, 
To the unknown; a secret prepossession. 

To plunge with all your fears — but where ? You 
know not, 

And that 's the reason why you do — or do not. 

VIL 

But what's this to the purpose ? you will say. 

Gent, reader, nothing; a mere speculation. 
For which my sole excuse is — 't is my way. 

Sometimes wUh and sometimes without occasion 
I write what 's uppermost, without delay ; 

T his narrative is not meant for narration, 
But a mere airy and fantastic basis, 
To build up common things with common places. 

VII L 

You know, or don't know, that great Bacon saith, 
" Fling up a straw, 't will show the way the wind 
blows ; " 

And such a straw, borne on by human breath. 
Is poesy, according as the mind glows ; 

A paper kite which flies 'twixt life and death, 
A shadow which the onward soul behind throws: 

And mine 's a bubble, not blown up for praise, 

But just to play with, as an infant plays. 

IX. 

The world is all before me — or behind ; 

For I have seen a portion of that same, 
And quite enough for me to keep in mind ; — 

Of passions, too, 1 have proved enough to blame, 
To the great pleasure of our friends, mankind, 

Who like to mix some slight alloy with fame; 
For I was rather famous in my time, 
Until I fairly knock 'd it up with rhyme. 

X. 

I have brought this world about my ears, and eke 
The other ; that 's to say, the clergy — who 

Upon my head have bid their thunders break 
In pious libels by no means a few. 

And yet 1 can't help scribbling once a week, 
Tiring old readers, nor discovering new. 

In youth I wrote because my mind was full, 

And now because 1 feel it growing dull. 

XI. 

But " why then publish ? " — There are no rewards 
Of fame or profit when the world grows weary. 

I ask in turn,— Why do you play at cards ? 

Why drink? Why read ? — To make some hour 
less dreary. 

It occupies me to turn back regards 
On what I 've seen or ponder'd, sad or cheery ; 

And what I write I cast upon the stream, 

To swim or sink — 1 have had at least my dream. 

XIL 

I think that were I certain of success, 

I hardly could compose another line : 
So long I 've battled either more or less, 

That no defeat can drive me from the Nine. 
This feeling 't is not easy to express, 

And yet tis not affected, I opine. 
In play, there are two pleasures for your choosing — 
The one is winning, and the other losing. 



m' 



588 



DON JUAN. 



[Canto XIV. 



XIII. 

Besides, my Muse by no means deals in fiction : 

She gathers a repertory of facts, 
Of course with some reserve and slisjht restriction, 

But mostly sings of human things and acts — 
And that 's one cause she meets with contradiction ; 

For too much truth, at tirst sight, ne'er attracts ; 
And were her object only what "s called glory, 
With more ease too she "d tell a ditferent"story. 

XIV. 

Love, war, a tempest — surely there 's variety : 
Also a seasoning slight of lucubration; 

A bird's-eye view, too, of that wild, Society; 
A slight glance thrown on men of every station. 

If you have nought else, here "s at least satiety, 
Both in performance and in preparation ; 

And though these lines should only line portmanteaus. 

Trade will be all the better for these Cantos. 

XV. 

The portion of this world which I at present 
Have taken up to fill the following sermon. 

Is one of which there "s no description recent : 
The reason why, is easy to determine : 

Although it seems both prominent and pleasant, 
There is a sameness in its gems and ermine, 

A dull and family likeness through all ages. 

Of no great promise for poetic pages. 

XVI. 

With much to excite, there 's little to exalt ; 

Nothing that speaks to all men and all times ; 
A sort of varnish over every fault; 

A kind of common-place, even in their crimes ; 
Factitious passions, wit without much salt, 

A want of that true nature which sublimes 
Whate'er it shows with truth ; a smooth monotony 
Of character, in those at least who have got any. 

XVII. 

Sometimes, indeed, like soldiers off parade, 
They break their ranks and gladly leave the drill ; 

But then the roll-call draws them back afraid, 
And they must be or seem what they were : still 

Doubtless it is a brilliant masquerade ; 

But when of the first sight you have had your fill, 

It palls — at least it did so upon me. 

This paradise of pleasure and ennui. 

XVIII. 

When we have made our love, and gamed our gaming, 
Brest, voted, shone, and, may be, something more ; 

With dandies dined ; heard senators declaiming; 
Seen beauties brought to market by the score, 

Sad rakes to sadder husbands chastely taming; 
There 's little left but to be bored or bore. 

Witness those '■^ ci-devant ^eunes hummes " who stem 

The stream, nor leave the world which leaveth them. 

XIX. 

'T is said — indeed a general complaint — 
That no one has succeeded in describing 

The monde, exactly as they ought to paint : 
Some say, that authors only snatch, by bribing 

The porter, some slight scandals strange and quaint, 
To furnish matter for their moral gibing; 

And that their books have but one style in common — 

My lady's prattle, filter'd through her woman. 

XX. 

But this can't well be true, just now ; for writers 
Are grown of the beau monde a part potential : 

I 've seen them balance even the scale with fighters, 
Especially when youns:, for that 's essential. 

Why do the'ir sketches fail them as inditers 
Of what they deem themselves most consequential. 

The real portrait of the highest tribe ? 

'T is that, in fact, there "s little to describe. 



XXI. 

" Ilaud ignara loquor ; " these are Nugx, " guarum 
Pars parva fui," but still art and part. 

Now I could much more easily sketch a harem, 
A battle, wreck, or history of the heart. 

Than these things ; and besides, I wish to spare 'em, 
For reasons which I choose to keep apart. 

" Vetabo Cereris sacrum qui vulgarit " — * 

Which means, that vulgar people must not share it. 

XXII. 

And therefore what I throw off is ideal — 
Lower'd, leaven'd, like a history of freemasons j 

Which bears the same relation to the real, 
As Captain Parry's voyage may do to Jason's. 

The grand arcanum 's not for men to see aJl ; 
My music has some mystic diapasons; 

And'there is much which could not be appreciated 

In any manner by the uninitiated. 

XXIII. 

Alas ! worlds fall — and woman, since she fell'd 
The world (as, since that history, less polite 

Than true, hath been a creed so strictly held) 
Has not yet given up the practice quite. 

Poor thing of usages ! coerced, compell'd. 
Victim when wrong, and martyr oft when right, 

Condemn'd to child-bed, as men for their sins 

Have shaving too entail d upon their chins. — 

XXIV. 

A daily plague, which in the aggregate 
May average on the whole with parturition. 

But as to women, who can penetrate 

The real sufferings of their she condition? 

Man's very sympathy with their estate 

Has much of selfishness, and more suspicion. 

Their love, their virtue, beauty, education, 

But form good housekeepers, to breed a nation. 

XXV. 

All this were very well, and cant be betterj 
But even this is difficult, Heaven knows. 

So many troubles from her birth beset her, 
Such small distinction between friends and foes, 

The gilding wears so soon from off her fetter, 
That but ask any woman if she 'd choose 

(Take her at thirty, that is) to have been 

Female or male ? a schoolboy or a queen ? 

XXVI. 

" Petticoat influence " is a great reproach. 

Which even those who o"bey would fain be thought 
To fiy from, as from hungry pikes a roach ; 

But since beneath it upon earth we are brought, 
I By various joltings of life's hackney-coach, 

I for one venerate a petticoat — 
A garment of a mystical sublimity, 
I No matter whether russet, silk, or dimity. 

XXVII. 

Much I respect, and much I have adored. 

In my young days, that chaste and goodly veil, 

Which holds a treasure, like a miser's hoard, 
And more attracts by all it doth conceal — 

A golden scabbard on a Uamasque sword, 
A loving letter with a mystic seal, 

A cure for grief— for what can ever rankle 

Before a petticoat and peeping ankle ? 

XXVIII. 
And when upon a silent, sullen day, 

With a sirocco, for example, blowing, 
When even the sea looks dim with all Its spray, 

And sulkily the river's ripple's flowing. 
And the sky shows that very ancient grey, 

The sober, sad antithesis to glowing,— 
'T is pleasant, if the,n any thing is pleasant, 
To catch a glimpse even of a pretty peasant. 



1 Hor. Carm. 1. iii. od. 2.— ] 



Canto XIV.] 



DON JUAN, 



589 



XXIX. 

We left our heroes and our heroines 

In that fair clime which don't depend on climate, 
Quite independent of the Zodiac "s signs, / 

Though certainly more difficult to rhyme at, 
Because the sun, and stars, and aught that shines, 

Mountains, and all we can be most sublime at, 
Are there oft dull and dreary as a du7i — 
Whether a sky's or tradesman s is all one. 

XXX. 

An in-door life is less poetical ; 

And out of door hath showers, and mists, and sleet. 
With which I could not brew a pastoral. 

But be it as it may, a bard must meet 
All difficulties, whether great or small. 

To spoil his undertaking, or complete, 
And work away like spirit upon matter, 
Embarrass'd somewhat both with tire and water. 

XXXI. 

Juan — in this respect, at least, like samts — 
Was all thing's unto people of all sorts, 

And lived contentedly, without complaints. 
In camps, in ships, in cottages, or courts — 

Born with that happy soul which seldom faints. 
And mingling modesty in toils or sports. 

He likewise could be most things to all women, 

Without the coxcombry of certain she men. 

XXXII. 

A fox-hunt to a foreigner is strange ; 

'T is also subject to the double danger 
Of tumbling first, and having in exchange 

Some pleasant jesting at the awkward stranger j 
But Juan had- been early taught to range 

The wilds, as doth an Arab turn'd avenger, 
So that his horse, or charger, hunter, hack. 
Knew that he had a rider on his back. 

XXXIII. 

And now in this new field, with some applause. 
He clear'd hedge, ditch, and double post, and rail, 

And never cra?ierf,i and made but few '■'■faux pas,^' 
And only fretted when the scent 'gan fail. 

He broke, 't is true, some statutes of the laws 
Of hunting — for the sagest youth is frail ; 

Rode o'er the hounds, it may be, now and then, 

And once o'er several country gentlemen. 

XXXIV. 

But on the whole, to general admiration 
He acquitted both himself and horse : the squires 

Marvelld at merit of another nation ; 
The boors cried " Dang it ! who 'd have thought 
it?" — Sires, 

The Nestors of the sporting generation, 
Swore praises, and" recall'd their former fires j 

The huntsman's self relented to a grin. 

And rated him almost a whipper-in. 

XXXV. 

Such were his trophies — not of spear and shield. 
But leaps, and bursts, and sometimes foxes' brusnes j 

Yet I must own,— although in this 1 yield 
To patriot sympathy a Briton's blushes, — 

He thought at heart like courtly Chesterfield, 
Who, after a long chase o'er hills, dales, bushes. 

And what not, though he rode beyond all price, 

Ask'd next day, " If men ever hunted twice ? " 2. 



1 Craiunf. — "To cran« " is, or was, an expression 
used to denote a gentleman's stretching out his neck over 
a hedge, "to loolt before he leaped:" — a pause in his 
"vaulting ambition," which in the field doth occasion 
some delay and execration in those who may be imme- 
diately behind the equestrian sceptic. "Sir, if you don't 
choose to take the leap, let me I " — wns a phrase which 
generally sent the aspirant on again; and to good purpose: 
for thnugh "the horse and rider" might fall, they made a 
gap through which, and over him and hie steed, the field 
might follow." 

2 See his Letters to his Son. 



XXXVI. 

He also had a quality uncommon 

To early risers after a long chase. 
Who wake in winter ere the cock can summon 

December's drowsy day to his dull race, — 
A quality agreeable to woman. 

When her soft, liquid words run on apace. 
Who likes a listener, whether saint or sinner, — 
He did not fall asleep just after dinner^ 

XXXVII. 
But, light and airy, stood on the alert, 

And shone in the best part of dialogue. 
By humouring always what they might assert, 

And listening to the topics most in vogue j 
Now grave, now gay, but never dull or pert; 

And smiling but in secret — cunning rogue ! 
He ne'er presumed to make an error clearer \ — 
In short, there never was a better hearer. 

XXXVIII. 

And then he danced : — all foreigners excel 

The serious Angles in the eloquence 
Of pantomime ; — he danced, I say, right well. 

With emphasis, and also with good sense — 
A thing in footing indispensable; 

He danced without theatrical pretence. 
Not like a ballet-master in the van 
Of his drill'd nymphs, but like a gentleman. 

XXXIX. 

Chaste were his steps, each kept within due bound. 
And elegance was sprinkled o'er his figure; 

Like swift Camilla, he scarce skimm'd the ground, 
And rather held in than put forth his vigour; 

And then he had an ear for music's sound, 
Which might defy a crotchet critic's rigour. 

Such classic pas — sans flaws — set oft" our hero, 

He glanced like a personified Bolero ; 3 

XL. 

Or, like a flying Hour before Aurora, 
In Guido's famous fresco,* which alone 

Is worth a tour to Rome, although no more a 
Remnant were there of the old world's sole throne. 

The " tooit ensemble" of his movements wore a 
Grace of the soft ideal, seldom shown, 

And ne'er to be described ; for to the dolour 

Of bards and prosers, words are void of colour. 

XLI. 
No marvel then he was a favourite ; 

A full-grown Cupid, very much admired ; 
A little spoilt, but by no means so quite; 

At least he kept his vanity retired. 
Such was his tact, he could "alike delight 

The chaste, and those who are not so much inspired. 
The Duchess of Fitz-Fuike, who loved ^^ tracasseriey" 
Began to treat him with some small " agou:ei\e.^' 

XLIL 

She was a fine and somewhat full-blown blonde. 

Desirable, distinguished, celebrated 
For several winters in the grand, grand monde. 

I 'd rather not say what might be related 
Of her exploits, for this were ticklish ground ; 

Besides there might be falsehood in what 's stated ; 
Her late performance had been a dead set 
At Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 

XLI 1 1. 

This noble personage began to look 
A little biack upon tiiis new flirtation ; 

But such small licenses must lovers brook, 
' Mere freedoms of the female corporation. 

Woe to the man who ventures a rebuke ! 
! 'T will but precipitate a situation 

Extremely disagreeable, but conmion 
, To calculators when they count on woman. 



3 A Spanish dance noted for its liveliness.— E. 

4 Guido's most celebrated work, in the palaces of Rome, 
is his frescoof the Aurora, in the Palazzo Rospigliosi.- E. 



50 



590 



DON JUAN. 



[Canto XIV. 



XLIV. 

The circle smiled, then whisper'd, and then sneer'd ; 

The misses bridled, and the matrons frovvn'd ; 
Some hoped things might not turn out as they fear'd ; 

Some would not deem such women could be found ; 
Some ne'er believed one half of what they heard ; 

Some look'd perplex d, and others look'd profound ; 
And several pitied with sincere regret 
Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 

XLV. 

But what is odd, none ever named the duke, 

Who, one might think, was something in the affair: 

True, he was absent, and "t was rumour'd, took 
But small concern about the when, or where, 

Or what his consort did : if he could brook 
Her gaieties, none had a right to stare : 

Theirs was that best of unions, past all doubt. 

Which never meets, and therefore can't fall out. 

XLVI. 

But, oh ! that I should ever pen so sad a line ! 

Fired with an abstract love of virtue, she, 
My Dian of the Ephesians, Lady Adeline, 

Began to think the duchess' conduct free; 
Regretting much that she had chosen so bad a line, 

And waxing chiller in her courtesy, 
Look'd grave and pale to see her friend's fragility, 
For which most friends reserve their sensibility. 

XLVII. 

There 's nought in this bad world like sympathy j 
'T is so becoming to the soul and face, 

Sets to soft music the harmonious sigh, 
And robes sweet friendship in a Brussels lace. 

Without a friend, what were humanit}'. 
To hunt our errors up with a good grace ? 

Consoling us with — " Would you had thought twice ! 

Ah ! if you had but foUow'd my advice ! " 

XLVI 1 1. 

Job ! you had two friends : one 's quite enough. 
Especially when we are ill at ease ', 

They are but bad pilots when the weather's rough, 
Doctors less famous for their cures than fees. 

Let no man grumble when his friends fall off. 
As they wi.'l do like leaves at the first breeze: 

When your affairs come round, one way or t' other. 

Go to the coffee-house, and take another, i 

XLIX. 

But this is not my maxim : had it been, [not — 

Some heart-aches had been spared mo : yet I care 

1 would not be a.tortoise in his screen [not. 

Of stubborn shell, which waves and weather wear 
'T is better on the whole to have felt and seen 

That which humanity may bear, or bear not : 
'T will teach discernment to the sensitive, 
And not to pour their ocean in a sieve. 

L. 

Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, 
Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast. 

Is that portentous phrase, " I told you so," 
Utter'd by friends, those prophets of the past. 

Who, 'stead of saying what you now should do. 
Own they foresaw that you would fall at last, 

And solace" your slight lapse 'gainst '■'■honos mores,^^ 

With a long memorandum of old stories. 



1 In Swift's or Horace Walpole's letters, I think it is 
mentioned that somebody, regretting the loss of a friend, 
was answered by an universal Pylades: "When I lose 
one, I go to the Saint James's Coffee-house, and take an- 
other." I recollect having heard an anecdote of the same 
kind.— Sir W. D. was a great gamester. Coming in one 
day to the club of which he was a member, he was ob- 
served to look melancholy. "What is the matter. Sir 
William?" cried Hare, of facetious memory. "Ahl" 
replied Sir W., "I have justZosf poor Lady D." — " Lost > 
What at? Quinze or Hazard? " was the consolatory re- 
joinder of the querist. 



LL 

The Lady Adeline's serene severity 

Was not confined to feeling for her friend. 

Whose fame she rather doubted with posterity. 
Unless her habits should begin to mend : 

But Juan also shared in her austerity, 
But mix'd with pity, pure as e'er was penn'd : 

His inexperience moved her gentle ruth. 

And (as her junior by six weeks) his youth. 

LI I. 

These forty days' advantage of her years — 
And hers were those which can face calculation, 

Boldly referring to the list of peers 

And noble births, nor dread the enumeration — 

Gave her a right to have maternal fears 
For a young gentleman's fit education. 

Though she was far from that leap year, whose leap, 

In female dates, strikes Time all of a heap. 

LIII. 

This may be fix'd at somewhere before thirty — 
Say seven-and-twenty ; for I never knew 

The strictest in chronology and virtue 
Advance beyond, while they could pass for new. 

Time ! why dost not pause"? Thy scythe, so dirty 
With rust, should sure'y cease to hack and hew. 

Reset it : shave more smoothly, also slower, 
If but to keep thy credit as a mower. 

LIV. 

But Adeline was far from that ripe age, 
Whose ripeness is but bitter at the best : 

'T was rather her experience made her sage, 
For she had seen the world and stood its test. 

As 1 have said in — I forgot what page ; 

My Muse despises reference, as yoii have guess'd 
'By this time ;— but strike six from seven-and-twenty, 

And you will find her sum of years in plenty. 

LV. 

At sixteen she came out ; presented, vaunted. 

She put all coronets into commotion : 
At seventeen, too, the world was still enchanted 

With the new Venus of their brilliant ocean : 
At eighteen, though below her feet still panted 

A hecatomb of suitors with devotion, 
She had consented to create again 
That Adam, called " 1 he happiest of men." 

LVL 

Since then she had sparkled through three glowing 
winters. 

Admired, adored ; but also so correct, 
That she had puzzled all the acutest hinters, 

Without the apparel of being circumspect : 
They could not even glean the slightest splinters 

From off the marble, which had no defect. 
She had also snatch'd a moment since her marriage 
To bear a son and heir — and one miscarriage. 

LVII. 

Fondly the wheeling fire-flies flew around her, 
Those little glitterers of the London night; 

But none of these possess'd a sting to wound her — 
She was a pitch beyond a coxcomb's flight. 

Perhaps she wish'd an aspirant profounder ; 
But whatsoe'er she wish'd, she acted right ; 

And whether coldness, pride, or virtue, dignify 

A woman, so she 's good, what does it signify ? 

LVIII. 

1 hate a motive, like a lingering bottle 

Which with the landlord makes too long a stand, 
Leaving all-claretless the unmoisten'd throttle. 

Especially with politics on hand ; 
I hate it, as I hate a drove of cattle. 

Who whirl the dust as simooms whirl the sand; 
I hate it, as 1 hate an argument, 
A laureate's ode, or servile peer's " content." 



Canto XIV.] 



DON JUAN. 



591 



LIX. 

'T is sad to hack into the roots of thinj^, 
They are so much intertwisted with the earth; 

So that the branch a i2:oodly verdure flings, 
I reck not if an acorn gave it birth. 

To trace all actions to their secret springs 
Would make indeed some melancholy mirth j 

But this is not at present my concern, 

And I refer you to wise Oxenstiern.i 

LX. 

With the kind view of saving an eclat. 

Both to the duchess and diplomatist, 
The Lady Adeline, as soon 's she saw 

That Juan was unlikely to resist — 
(For foreigners don't know that a faux pas 

In England ranks quite on a different list 
From those of other lands unblest with juries, 
Whose verdict for such sin a certain cure is ; — ) 

LXI. 

The Lady Adeline resolved to take 

Such measures as she thought might best impede 
The farther progress of this sad mistake. 

She thought with some simplicity indeed ; 
But innocence is bold even at the stake, 

And simple in the world, and doth not need 
Nor use those palisades by dames erected, 
Whose virtue lies in never being detected. 

LXIL 

It was not that she fear'd the very worst : 
His Grace was an enduring, married man, 

And was not likely all at once to burst 
Into a scene, and swell the clients' clan 

Of Doctors' Commons: but she dreaded first 
The magic of her Grace's talisman, 

And next a quarrel (as he seem'd to fret) 

With Lord Augustus Fitz-PIantagenet. 

Lxin. 

Her Grace, too, pass'd for being an intrigante, 
And somewhat mechante in her amorous sphere; 

One of those pretty, precious plagues, which haunt 
A lover with caprices soft and dear. 

That like to make a quarrel, when they can't 
Find one, each day of the delightful year ; 

Bewitching, torturing, as they freeze or glow. 

And — what is worst of all — won't let you go ; 

LXIV. 

The sort of thing to turn a young man's head, 
Or make a Werter of him in the end. 

No wonder then a purer soul should dread 
This sort of chaste liaison for a friend ; 

It were much better to be wed or dead. 
Than wear a heart a woman loves to rend. 

'T is best to pause, and think, ere you rush on, 

If that a " boixne fortune, " be really " bonne.''^ 

LXV. 

And first, in the o'erflowing of her heart. 

Which really knew or thought it knew no guile, 

She call'd her husband now and then apart. 
And bade him counsel Juan. With a smile 

Lord Henry heard her plans of artless art 
To wean Don Juan from the siren's wile ; 

And answer'd, like a statesman or a prophet, 

In such guise that she could make nothing of it. 



2 The famous Chancellor Oxenstiern said to his son, on 
the latter expressing his surprise upon the great effects 
arising from petty causes in the presumed mystery of 
politics: "You see by this, my son, with how lillje wis- 
dom the kingdoms of the world are governed." ~ [The 
true story is ; —young Oxenstiern, on being told he was 
to proceed on some diplomatic mission, expressed his 
doubts of his own tilness for such an office. The old 
Chancellor, laughing, answered,--" Nescis, mi fill, quan- 
tula scientia gubernatur mundus." — £.] 



LXVI. 

Firstly, he said, "he never interfered 

In any body's business but the king's : 
Next, that " he never judsed from what appear'd, 

Without strong reason, of those sort of things : " 
Thirdly, that " Juan had more brain than beard. 

And was not to be held in leading-strings ; " 
And fourthly, what need hardly be said twice, 
" That good but rarely came from good advice." 

LXVIL 

And, therefore, doubtless to approve the truth 
Of the last axiom, he advised his spouse 

To leave the parties to themselves, forsooth — 
At least as far as bienseancc allows : 

That time would temper Juan's faults of youth; 
That young men rarely made monastic vows; 

That opposition only more attaches 

But here a messenger brought in despatches : 

Lxviir. 

And being of the council call'd "the Privy," 

Lord Henry walk'd into his cabinet. 
To furnish matter for some future Livy 

To tell how he reduced the nation's debt; 
And if their full contents 1 do not give ye. 

It is because 1 do not know them yet ; 
But I shall add them in a brief appendix. 
To come between mine epic and its index. 

LXIX. 

But ere he went, he added a slight hint, 
Another gentle common-place or two. 

Such as are coin'd in conversation's mint. 
And pass, for want of better, though not new. 

Then broke his packet, to see what was in 't. 
And having casually glanced it through. 

Retired ; and, as he went out, calmly kissd her. 

Less like a young wife than an aged sister. 

LXX. 

He was a cold, good, honourable man. 
Proud of his birth, and proud of every thing; 

A goodly spirit for a state divan, 
A figure fit to walk before a king; 

Tall, stately, form'd to lead the courtly van 
On birthdays, glorious with a star and string; 

The very model of a chamberlain — 

And such 1 mean to make him when I reign. 

LXXI. 

But there was something wanting on the whole — 
I don't know what, and therefore cannot tell — 

Which pretty women — the sweet souls ! — call soul. 
Certes it was not body ; he was well 

Proportion'd, as a poplar or a pole, 
A handsome man, that human miracle ; 

And in each circumstance of love or war. 

Had still preserved his perpendicular. 

LXXIL 

Still there was something wanting, as I've said — 

That undefinable "/e ne scais quoi,'''' 
Which, for what 1 know, may of yore have led 

To Homer's Iliad, since it drew to Troy 
The Greek Eve, Helen, from the Spartan's bed; 

Though on the whole, no doubt, the Dardan boy 
Was much inferior to King Menelaus : — 
But thus it is some women will betray us. 

LXXIH. 

There is an awkward thing which much perplexes, 
Unless like wise Tiresias we had proved 

By turns the difference of the several sexes; 

Neither can show quite hmo they would be loved. 

The sensual for a short time but connects us — 
The sentimental boasts to be unmoved ; 

But both together form a kind of centaur, 

Upon whose back 't is better not to venture. 



592 



DON JUAN. 



[Canto XIV. 



LXXIV. 

A something all-sufficient for the heart 

Is that for which the sex are always seeking : 

But how to fill up that same vacant part ? 

1 here lies the rub — and this they are but weak in. 

Frail mariners afloat without a chart, 

They run before the wind through high seas break- 
ing j 

And when they have made the shore through every 
shock 

'T is odd, or odds, it may turn out a rock. 

LXXV. 

There is a flower calPd " Love in Idleness," 
For which see Shakspeare's ever blooming garden;— 

I will not make his great description less, 
And beg his British godship's humble pardon, 

If, in my extremity of rhyme's distress, 
I touch a single leaf where he is warden ; — 

But though the'flovver is different, with the French 

Or Swiss Rousseau, cry " Foila la PervencJie 1 " i 

LXXVI. 

Eureka ! I have found it ! What I mean 

To say is, not that love is idleness. 
But that in love such idleness has been 

An accessory, as I have cause to guess. 
Hard labour 's an indifferent go-between ; 

Your men of business are not apt to express 
Much passion, since the merchant-ship, the Argo, 
Convey'd Medea as' her supercai^o. 

LXXVII. 

" Beatus ilk. procul .'" from " negotiis,^^ 2 
Saith Horace : the great little poet 's wrong; 

His other maxim, " Noscitur a sociis,^^ 
Is much more to the purpose of his song ; 

Though even that were sometimes too ferocious, 
Unless good company be kept too long; 

But, in his teeth, whate'er their state or station, 

Thrice happy they who have an occupation ! 

LXXVIII. 
Adam exchanged his Paradise for ploughing, 

Eve made up millinery with fig leaves — 
The earliest knowledge from the tree so knowing. 

As far as I know, that the church receives : 
And since that time it need not cost much showing, 

That many of the ills o"er which man grieves, 
And still more women, spring from not employing 
Some hours to make the remnant worth enjoying. 

LXXIX. 

And hence high life is oft a dreary void, 
A rack of pleasures, where we must invent 

A something wherewithal to be annoy'd. 
Bards may sing what they please about Content ; 

Contented, when translated, means but cloy'd ; 
And hence arise the woes of sentiment, 

Blue-devils, and blue-stockings, and romances 

Reduced to practice, and performed like dances. 

LXXX. 

I do declare, upon an affidavit, 

Romances I ne'er read like those I have seen j 
Nor, if unto the world I ever gave it, 

Would some believe that such a tale had been : 
But such intent I never had, nor have it ; 

Some truths are better kept behind a screen. 
Especially when they would look like lies ; 
I therefore deal in generalities. 

LXXXI. 

" An oyster may be cross'd in love," 3 — and why ? 

Because he mopeth idly in his shell, 
And heaves a lonely subterraicjueous sigh, 

Much as a monk may do within his cell : 

1 See " La Nouvelle Hcloise." 

2 Hot. Epod. Od. ii. 

3 See Sheridan's "Critic." — E. 



And a-propos of monks, their piety 

With sloth hath found it difficult to dwell; 
Those vegetables of the Catholic creed 
Are apt exceedingly to run to seed. 

LXXXII. 

Wilberforce ! thou man of black renown, 
Whose merit none enough can sing or say. 

Thou hast struck one immense Colossus down, 
Thou moral Washington of Africa ! 

But there 's another little thing, I own. 

Which you should perpetrate some summer's day, 

And set the other half of earth to rights ; 

You have freed the blacks — now pray shut up the 
whites. 

LXXXI II. 

Shut up the bald coot 4 bully Alexander ! 

Ship off the Holy Three to Senegal ; 
Teach them that " sauce for goose is sauce for gander," 

And ask them how they like to be in tlu'all ? 
Shut up each high heroic salamander, 

Who eats fire gratis (since the pay 's but small); 
Shut up — no, not the King, but the Pavilion, s 
Or else 't will cost us all another million. 

LXXXIV. 

Shut up the world at large, let Bedlam out: 
And you will be perhaps surprised to fina 

All things pursue exactly the same route, 
As now with those of soi-disant sound mind. 

This I could prove beyond a single doubt, 
Were there a jot of sense among mankind ; 

But till that point d'appui is found, alas ! 

Like Archimedes, 1 leave earth as 't was. 

LXXXV. 

Our gentle Adeline had one defect — 

Her heart was vacant, though a splendid mansion; 
Her conduct had been perfectly correct, 

As she had seen nought claiming its expansion. 
A wavering spirit may be easier wreck'd. 

Because 't is frailer, doubtless, than a stanch one ; 
But when the latter works its own undoing. 
Its inner crash is like an earthquake's ruin. 

LXXXVI. 

She loved her lord, or thought so ; but that love 

Cost her an effort, which is a sad toil. 
The stone of Sysiphus, if once we move 

Our feelings 'gainst the nature of the soil. 
She had nothing to complain of, or reprove, 

No bickerings, no connubial turmoil: 
Their union was a model to behold. 
Serene and noble,— conjugal, but cold. 

LXXXVII. 

There was no great disparity of years, 
Though much in temper ; but they never clash'd: 

They moved like stars united in their spheres. 
Or like the Rhone by Leman's waters wash'd, 

Where mingled and yet separate appears 
The river from the lake, all bluely dash'd 

Through the serene and placid glassy deep. 

Which fain would lull its river-child to sleep. 

LXXX\TIL 

Now when she once had ta'en an interest 
In any thing, however she might flatter 

Herself that her intentions were the best. 
Intense intentions are a dangerous matter : 

Impressions were much stronger than she guess'd, 
And gather'd as they run like growing water 

Upon her mind ; the more so, as her breast 

Was not at first too readily impress'd. 

4 The bald-coot is a email bird of prey in marshes. The 
Emperor Alexander Vfas baldish.— E. 
6 The King's palace at Brighton.— E. 



Canto XIV.] 



DON JUAN, 



593 



LXXXIX. 

But when it was, she had that lurking demon 
Of double nature, and thus doubly named — 

Firnmess yclept in heroes, kings, and seamen, 
That is, when they succeed j but greatly blamed 

As obstinacy, both in men and women, 

Whene'er their triumph pales, or star is tamed : — 

And t will perplex the casuist in morality 

To fix the due bounds of this dangerous quality. 

XC. 

Had Buonaparte won at Waterloo, 
It had been firmness ; now 't is pertinacity : 

Must the event decide between the two ? 
I leave it to your people of sagacity 

To draw the line between the false and true, 
If such can e'er be drawn by man's capacity : 

My business is with Lady Adeline, 

Who in her way too was a heroine. 

XCI. 
She knew not her own heart ; then how should I? 

I think not she was then in love with Juan : 
If so, she would have had the strength to fly 

The wild sensation, unto her a new one: 
She merely felt a common sympathy 

(I will not say it was a false or true one) 
In him, because she thought he was in danger, — 
Her husband's friend, her own, young, and a stranger. 

XCII. 

She was, or thought she was, his friend — and this 
Without the farce of friendship, or romance 

Of Platonism, which leads so oft amiss 
Ladies who have studied friendship but in France, 

Or Germany, where people purely kiss. 
To thus nmch Adeline would not advance ; 

But of such friendship as man's may to man be 

She was as capable as woman can be. 

xcin. 

No doubt the secret influence of the sex 
Will there, as also in the ties of blood, 

An innocent predominance annex, 
And tune the concord to a finer mood. 

If free from passion, which all friendship checks, 
And your true feelings fully understood, 

No friend like to a woman earth discovers. 

So that you have not been nor will be lovers. 

XCIV. 

Love bears within its breast the very germ 
Of change j and how should this be otherwise? 

That violent things more quickly find a term 
Is shown through nature's whole analogies j 

And how should the most fierce of all be firm ? 
Would you have endless lightning in the skies ? 

Methinks Love's very title says enough : 

How should " the tender passion " e'er be tcnigh? 

xcv. 

Alas ! by all experience, seldom yet 
(I merely quote what I have heard from many 

Had lovers not some reason to regret 
The passion which made Solorhon a zany. 

I 've also seen some wives (not to forget 
The marriage state, the best or worst of any) 

Who were the very paragons of wives. 

Yet made the misery of at least two lives. 

XCVL 

I 've also seen some female friends ('t is odd. 
But true — as, if expedieiit, I could prove) 

That faithful were through thick and thin, abroad. 
At home, far more than ever yet was Love — 

Who did not quit me when Oppression trod 
Upon me ; whom no scandal could remove j 

Who fought, and fight, in absence, too, my battles, 

Despite the snake Society's loud rattles. 



xcvn. 

Whether Don Juan and chaste Adeline 
Grew friends in this or any other sense. 

Will be discuss'd hereafter, I opine: 
At present I am glad of a pretence 

To leave them hovering, as the ett'ect is fine, 
And keeps the atrocious reader in suspense^ 

The surest way for ladies and for books 

To bait their tender or their tenter hooks, 

XCVIIL 

Whether they rode, or walk'd, or studied Spanish 

To read Don Quixote in the original, 
A pleasure before which all others vanish; 

Whether their talk was of the kind call'd "small," 
Or serious, are the topics I must banish 

To the next Canto ; where perhaps I shall 
Say something to the purpose, and display 
Considerable talent in my way. 

XCIX. 

Above all, I beg all men to forbear 

Anticipating aught about the matter: 
They'll only make mistakes about the fair, 

And Juan too, especially the latter. 
And I shall take a much more serious air 

Than I have yet done, in this epic satire. 
It is not clear that Adeline and Juan 
Will fall ; but if they do, 't will be their ruin. 

C. 

But great things spring from little : — Would you think, 
That in our youth, as dangerous a passion 

As e'er brought man and s\ oman to the brink 
Of ruin, rose from such a slight occasion^ 

As few would ever dream could form the hnk 
Of such a sentimental situation ? 

You '11 never guess, I 'II bet you millions, milliards ■— 

It all sprung from a harmless game at billiards. 

CL 

'Tis strange,— but true ; for truth is always strange j 
Stranger than fiction : if it could be told, 

How much would novels gain by the exchange ! 
How differently the world would men behold ! 

How oft would vice and virtue places change ! 
The new world would be nothing to the old. 

If some Columbus of the moral seas 

Would show mankind their souls' antipodes. 

GIL 

What "anfres vast and deserts idle" then 
Would be discover'd in the human soul ! 

What icebergs in the hearts of mighty men, 
With self-love in the centre as their pole ! 

What Anthropophagi are nine in ten 
Of those who hold the kingdoms in control ! 

Were things but only call'd by their right name, 

Caesar himself would be ashamed of fame. 



CANTO THE FIFTEENTH.^ 



Ah ! —What should follow slips from my reflection ; 

Whatever follows ne'ertheless may be 
As a-propos of hope or retrospection. 

As though the lurking thought had follow'd free. 
All present life is but an interjection, 

An " Oh ! " or "Ah ! " of joy or misery, 
Or a " Ha ! ha ! " or " Bah ! " — a yawn, or "Pooh ! " 
Of which perhaps the latter is most true. 

IL 

But, more or less, the whole's a syncope 

Or a singultus — emblems of emotion. 
The grand antithesis to great ennui, 

Wherewith we break our bubbles on the ocean, 



1 Cantos XV. and X'VI. were published in London, in 
March, 18'i!4.— E. 



50* 



38 



594 



DON JUAN 



[Canto XV. 



That wateiT outline of eternity, 

Or miniature at least, as is my notion, 
Which ministers unto the soul's delight, 
In seeing matters which are out of sight. 

III. 

But all are better than the sigh supprest, 

Corroding in the cavern of the heart. 
Making the" countenance a masque of rest, 

And turning human nature to an art. 
Few men dare show their thoughts of worst or best 5 

Dissimulation always sets apart 
A corner for herself; and therefore fiction 
Is that which passes with least contradiction. 

IV. 

Ah ! who can tell ? Or rather, who can not 
Remember, without telling, passion's errors? 

The drainer of oblivion, even the sot. 

Hath got blue devils for his morning mirrors : 

What though on Lethe's stream he seem to float, 
He cannot sink his tremors or his terroi-s ; 

The ruby glass that shakes within his hand 

Leaves a sad sediment of Time's worst sand. 

V. 

And as for love — love ! We. will proceed. 

The Lady Adeline Amundeville, 
A pretty name as one would wish to read, 

Must perch harmonious on my tuneful quill. 
There "s music in the sighing of a reed ; 

There 's music in the gushing of a rill ; 
There 's music in all thinp, if men had ears : 
Their earth is but an echo of the spheres. 

VI. 

The Lady Adeline, right honourable, 
And honoured, ran a risk of growing less so; 

For few of the soft sex are very stable 

In their resolves — alas ! that I should say so ! 

They differ as wine differs from its label, 

When once decanted ; — I presume to guess so, 

But will not swear : yet both upon occasion, 

Till old, will undergo adulteration. 

vn. 

But Adeline was of the purest vintage. 
The unmingled essence of the grape ; and yet 

Bright as a new Napoleon from its mintage, 
Or glorious as a diamond richly set ; 

A page where Time should hesitate to print age, 
And for which Nature might forego her debt — 

Sole creditor whose process doth involve in 't 

The luck of finding every body solvent. 

VIIL 

Death ! thou dunnest of all duns ! thou daily 
Knockest at doors, at first with modest tap. 

Like a meek tradesman when, approaching palely. 
Some splendid debtor he would take by sap: 

But oft denied, as patience 'gins to fail, he 
Advances with exasperated rap, 

And (if let in) insists, in terms unhandsome, 

On ready money, or " a draft on Ransom." 1 

IX. 

Whatever thou takest, spare a ^vhile poor Beauty ! 

She is so rare, and thou hast so much prey. 
What though she now and then may slip from duty, 

The more 's the reason why you ought to stay. 
Gaunt gourmand ! with whole nations for your 
booty. 

You should be civil in a modest way : 
Suppress, then, some slight feminine diseases. 
And take as many heroes as Heaven pleases. 



1 Ransom, Kinnaird. and Co., were Lord Byron's bank- 
ers.— E, 



X. 

Fair Adeline, the more ingenuous 
Where she was interested (as was said), 

Because she was not apt, like some of us. 
To like too readily, or too high bred 

To show it — (points we need not now discuss) — 
Would give up artlessly both heart and head 

Unto such'feelings as seem 'd innocent. 

For objects worthy of the sentiment 

XL 

Some parts of Juan's history, which Rumour, 
That live gazette, had scatter"d to disfigure, 

She had heard ; but women hear with more good 
humour 
Such aberrations than we men of rigour : 

Besides, his conduct, since in England, grew more 
Strict, and his mind assumed a manlier vigour ; 

Because he had, like Alcibiades, 

The art of living in all climes with ease. 

XII. 

His manner was perhaps the more seductive, 

Because he ne'er seem'd anxious to seduce; 
Nothing affected, studied, or constructive 

Of coxcombry or conquest : no abuse 
Of his attractions marr'd the fair perspective, 

To indicate a Cupidon broke loose. 
And seem to say, " Resist us if \-ou can " — 
Which makes a dandy while it spoils a man. 

XIIL 
They are vrrong — that 's not the way to set about it ; 

As, if they told the truth, could well be shown. 
But, right or \%Tong, Don Juan was without it; 

In fact, his manner was his own alone : 
Sincere he was — at least you could not doubt it, 

In listening merely to his voice's tone. 
The devil hath not in all his quivers choice 
An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice. 

XIV. 
By nature soft, his whole address held off 

Suspicion ; though not timid, his regard 
Was such as rather seem'd to keep aloof. 

To shield himself than put you on your guard : 
Perhaps 't was hardly quite assured enough. 

But modesty 's at times its own reward, 
Like virtue ; and the absence of pretension 
Will go much farther than there 's need to mention. 

XV. 
Serene, accomplish'd, cheerful but not loud ; 

Insinuating without insinuation ; 
Obsers'ant of the foibles of the crowd. 

Yet ne'er betraying this in conversation ; 
Proud with the proud, vet courteously proud, 

So as to make them feel he knew his station 
And theirs : — without a struggle for priority, 
He neither brook'd nor claim'd superiority. 

XVI. 
That is, with men : with women be was what 

1 hey pleased to make or take him for ; and their 
Imagination 's quite enough for that ; 

So that the outline "s tolerably fair. 
They fill the canvass up — and" '' verbum sat." 

If once their phantasies be brought to bear 
Upon an object, Avhether sad or playful. 
They can transfigure brighter th;ui a Raphael. 2 

XVIL 

Adeline, no deep judge of character, 

Was apt to add a colouring from her own : 

'Tis thus the good will amiably err. 
And eke the wise, as has been often shown. 

Experience is the chief philosopher. 
But saddest when his science is well known : 

And pei-secuted sages teach the schools 

Their folly in forgetting there are fools. 



2 Raphael's masterpiece is called the Transfigan< 

tion.— E, 



Canto XV.] 



DON JUAN. 



595 



^ XVIII. 

Was it not so, great Locke ? and greater Bacon ? 

Great Socrates ? And thou, Diviner still, i 
Whose lot it is by man to he mistaken. 

And thy pure creed maie sanction of all ill ? 
Redeeming \vorlds to be by bigots shaken, 

How was thy toil rewarded? We might fill 
Volumes with similar sad illustrations. 
But leave them to the conscience of the nations. 

XIX. 

I perch upon an humbler promontory, 

Amidst life's infinite variety: 
With no great care for w hat is nicknamed glory, 

But speculating as I cast mine eye 
On what may suit or may not suit my story, 

And never straining hard to versify, 
I rattle on exactly as 1 'd talk 
With any body in a ride or walk. 

XX. 

I don't know that there may be much ability 
Shown in this sort of desultory rhyme ; 

But there 's a conversational facility, 

Which may round oS an hour upon a time. 

Of this 1 'm sure at least, there 's no servility 
In mine irregularity of chime, 

Which rings what 's uppermost of new or hoary. 

Just as I feel the "Improvvisatore." 

XXI. 

" Omnia vult belle Matho dicere — die aliquando 
Et bene, die ncutrum, die aliquando male.^' 

The first is rather more than mortal can do ; 
Ihe second may be sadly done or gaily j 

The third is still more difficult to stand to ; 
The fourth we hear, and see, and say too, daily: 

The whole together is what 1 could wish 

To serve in this conundrum of a dish. 

XXII. 

A modest hope — but modesty 's my forte, 
And pride my foible : — let us ramble on. 

I meant to make this poem very short, 
But now I can't tell where it may not run. 

No doubt, if I had wish'd to pay my court 
To critics, or to hail the setting sun 

Of tyranny of all kinds, my concision 

Were more j — but I was born for opposition. 

XXIII. 

But then 't is mostly on the weaker side; 

So that I verily believe if they 
Who now are basking in their full-blown pride 

Were shaken down, and " dogs had had their day," 
Though at' the first I might perchance deride 

Their tumble, I should turn the other way. 
And wax an ultra-royalist in loyalty. 
Because I hate even democratic royalty. 

XXIV. 

I think I should have made a decent spouse, 
If I had never proved the soft condition ; 

1 think I should have made monastic vows, 
But for my own peculiar superstition : 

'Gainst rhyme I never should have knock'd my brows, 
Nor broken my own head, nor that of Priscian, 

Nor worn the motley mantle of a poet. 

If some one had not told me to forego it. 



1 As it is necessary in these times to avoid ambiguity, 
I say that I mean, by " Diviner still," Christ. If ever 
God was man — or man God — he was both. I never 
airaigned his creed, but the use— -or abuse — made of it. 
Mr. Canning one day quoted Christianity to sanction 
negro slavery, and Mr. Wilberforce had liltle to say in 
reply. And was Christ crucified, that black men might 
be scourged? If so, he had belter been born a Mulatto, 
to give both colours an equal chance of freedom, or at 
kast salvation. 



XXV. 

But " laissez aller" — knights and dames I sing, 
Such as the times may furnish. 'T is a flight 

Which seems at first to need no lofty wing. 
Plumed by Longinus or the Stagyrite : 

The difficulty lies in colouring 

(Keeping the due proportions still in sights 

With nature manners which are artificial. 

And rend'ring general that which is especial. 

XXVI. 

The difference is, that in the days of old 
Men made the manners ; manners now make men — 

Pinn'd like a flock, and fleeced too in their fold, 
At least nine, and a ninth beside of ten. 

Now this at all events must render cold 
Your writers, who must either draw again 

Days better drawn before, or else assume 

The present, with their common-place costume. 

XXVII. 

We '11 do our best to make the best on 't : — March ! 

March, my Muse ! If you cannot fly, yet flutter; 
And when you may not be sublime, be arch. 

Or starch, as are the edicts statesmen utter. 
We surely may find something worth research: 

Columbus found a new world in a cutter. 
Or brigantine, or pink, of no great tonnage, 
While" yet America was in her non-age. 

XXVIII. 

When Adeline, in all her growing sense 

Of Juan's merits and his situation. 
Felt on the whole an interest intense, — 

Partly perhaps because a fresh sensation, 
Or that he had an air of innocence. 

Which is f r innocence a sad temptation, — 
As women hate half measures, on the whole, 
She 'gan to ponder how to save his soul. 

XXIX. 

She had a good opinion of advice. 
Like all who give and eke receive it gratis. 

For which small thanks are still the market price, 
Even where the article at highest rate is : 

She thought upon the subject twice or thrice. 
And morally decided, the best state is 

For morals, marriage ; and this question carried, 

She seriously advised him to get married. 

XXX. 

Juan replied, with all becoming deference. 

He had a predilection for that tie ; 
But that, at present, with immediate reference 

To his own circumstances, there might lie 
Some difficulties, as in his own preference, 

Or that of her to whom he might apply : 
That still he 'd wed with such or such a lady. 
If that they were not married all already. 

XXXL 

Next to the making matches for herself, 
And daughters, brothers, sisters, kith or kin, 

Arranginglhem like books on the same shelf, 
1 here 's nothing women love to dabble in 

More (like a stock-holder in growing pelf) 
Than match-making in general : 't is no sin 

Certes, but a preventative, and therefore 

That is, no doubt, the only reason wherefore. 

XXXH. 

But never yet (except of course a miss 

Unwed, or mistress never to be wed, 
Or wed already, who object to tliis) 

Was theie chaste dame who had not in her head 
Some drama of the marriage unities. 

Observed as strictly both at board and bed 
As those of Aristotle, though sometimes 
They turn out melodrames or pantomimes. 



[596 



DON JUAN. 



[Canto XV. 



XXXIII. 
They generally have some only son, 

Some heir to a large properry, some friend 
Of an old family, some gay Sir John, 

Or grave Lord George, with whom perhaps might 
end 
A line, and leave posterity undone. 

Unless a marriase was applied to mend 
The prospect and their morals : and besides, 
They have at hand a blooming glut of brides. 

XXXIV. 

From these they will be careful to select, 
For this an heiress, and for that a beauty j 

For one a songstress who hath no defect, 
For t' other one who promises much duty ; 

For this a lady no one can reject. 

Whose sole accomplishments were quite a booty j 

A second for her excellent connexions ; 

A third, because there can be no objections. 

XXXV. 

When Rapp the Harmonist embargo'd marriage i 
In his harmonious settlement — (which flourishes 

Strangely enough as yet without miscarriage, 
Because it breeds no more mouths than it nourishes, 

Without those sad expenses which disj)arage 
What Nature naturally most encourages) — 

Why call d he " Harmony " a state sans wedlock ? 

Now here 1 have got the preacher at a dead lock. 

XXXVI. 

Because he either meant to sneer at harmony 
Or marriage, by divorcing ttiem thus oddly. 

But whether reverend Rajjp learn "d this in Germany 
Or no, 't is said his sect is rich and godly. 

Pious and pure, beyond what i can term any 
Of ours, although they propagate more broadly. 

My objection 's to his title, not his ritual, 

Although 1 wonder how it grew habitual. 

XXXVII. 

But Rapp is the reverse of zealous matrons, 
Who favour, malgre Maltlius, generation — 

Professors of that genial art, andpatrons 
Of all the modest part of propagation ; 

Which after ail at such a desperate rate runs, 
That half its produce tends to emigration, 

That sad result of p;issions and potatoes — 

Two v/eeds which pose our economic Catos. 

XXXVIII. 

Had Adeline read Malthus ? I can't tell ; 

I wish she had : his book 's the eleventh command- 
ment. 
Which says, " Thou shalt not marry," unless well : 

This he (as far as I can unders'and) meant. 
'T is not my purpose on his views to dwell. 

Nor canvass wh^t " so eminent a hand " meant ', ^ 
But certes it conducts to lives ascetic, 
Or turning marriage into arithmetic. 

XXXIX. 

But Adeline, who probably presumed 
That Juan had enough of maintenance, 

Or stjiaraU maintenance, in case 't was doom'd — 
As on the whole it is an even chance 



1 This extraordinary and flourishing German colony in 
America, does not entirely exclude matrimony, as the 
" Shakers " do ; but lays such restrictions upon it as pre- 
vent more than a certain quantum of births within a cer- 
tain number of years; which birihs (as Mr. Hulme 
observes) generally arrive "in a little flock like those of a 
farmer's lambs, all within the same mouth perhaps." 
These Harmonists (so called from the name of their set- 
tlement) are represented as a remarkably flourishing, 
pious, and quiet people. See the various recent writers 
on America. 

2 Jacob Tonson, according to Mr. Pope, was accustomed 
to call his writers "able pens," "persons of honour," 
and especially "eminent hands." Vide Correspondence, 
&c. ice. 



That bridegrooms, after they are fairly grootiVd, 

May retrograde a little iiitlie d.ance 
Of marriage — (which might form a painter's fame. 
Like Holbein's " Dance of Death " 3 _ but 't is the 
same) : — 

XL. 
But Adeline determined Juan's wedding 

In her own mind, and that 's enough for woman : 
But then, with whom? 'Ihere was the sage Miss 
Reading, 
Miss Raw, Miss Flaw, Miss Showman, and Miss 
Knowman, 
And the two fair co-heiresses Giltbedding, 
She deem'd his merits something more than com- 
mon : 
All these were unobjectionable matches, 
And might go on, if well wound up, like watches. 

XLI. 

There was Miss Millpond, smooth as summer's sea. 

That usual paragon, an only daughter. 
Who seem'd the cream of equanimity. 

Till skimm'd — and then there was some milk and 
water. 
With a slight shade of blue too, it might be. 

Beneath the surface; but what did1t matter? 
Love 's riotous, but marriage should have quiet, 
And being consumptive, live on a milk diet. 

XLIL 

And then there was the Miss Audacia Shoestring, 

A dashing demoiselle of good estate. 
Whose heart was fixd upon a star or blue string; 

But whether English dukes grew rare of late. 
Or that she had not harp'd upon the true string. 

By which such sirens can attract our great. 
She took up with some foreign younger brotlier, 
A Russ or Turk — the one 's as good as t' other. 

XLIIL 

And then there was — but why should I go on. 
Unless the ladies should go oft'? — there was 

Indeed a certain fair and fairy one. 
Of the best class, and better than her class, — 

Aurora Raby, a young star who shone 
O'er life, too sweet an image for such glass, 

A lovely being, scarcely fonn'd or moulded, 

A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded j 

XLIV. 
Rich, noble, but an orphan ; left an only 

Child to the care of guardians good and kind; 
But still her aspect had an air so lonely ! 

Blood is not water ; and where shall we find 
Feelings of youth like those which overthrown lie 

By death, when we are left, alas ! behind, 
To feel, in friendless palaces, a home 
Is wanting, and our best ties in the tomb ? 

XLV. 

Early in years, and yet more infantine 
In figure, she had sometiiing of sublime 

In eyes which sadly shone, as seraphs' shine. 
All youth — but with an aspect beyond .time j 

Radiant and grave — as pitying man's decline; 
Mournful — but mournful of another's crime. 

She look'd as if she sat by Eden's door, 

And grieved for those who could return no more. 

XLVL 

She was a Catholic, too, sincere, austere, 
As far as her own gentle heart allow'd, 

And deem'd that fallen worship far mofe dear 
Perhaps because 't was fallen : her sires were proud 

Of deeds and days w hen they had till'd the ear 
Of nations, and had never bent or bow'd 

To novel power; and as she was the last. 

She held their old faith and old feelings fast. 



3 See D'lsraeli's Curiosities of Literature, New Series, 
and the Dissertation prefixed to Mr. Douce's valuable 
edition of Hollar's Daiice of Death. — E. 



Canto XV.J 



DON JUAN. 



597 



XLVII. 

She ?azed upon a world she scarcely knew, 
As seeking not to know it; silent, lone, 

As grows a flower, thus quietly she grew, 
And kept her heart serene within its zone. 

There was awe in the homage which she drew j 
Her spirit seem'd as seated on a throne 

Apart from the surrounding world, and strong 

In its own strength — most strange in one so young ! 

XLVIII. 

Now it so happen'd, in the catalogue 

Of Adeline, Aurora was omitted. 
Although her birth and wealth had given her vogue, 

Beyond the charmers we "ve already cited j 
Her beauty also seem'd to form no clog 

Against her being mention'd as well fitted, 
By many virtues, to be worth the trouble 
Of single gentlemen who would be double. 

XLIX. 

And this omission, like that of the bust 
Of Brutus at the pageant of Tiberius,^ 

Made Juan wonder, as no doubt he must. 
This he express'd half smiling and half serious j 

When Adeline replied with some disgust, 
And with an air, to say the least, imperious, 

She marvell'd " what he saw in such a baby 

As that prim, silent, cold Aurora Raby ? " 



Juan rejoin'd — " She was a Catholic, 
And therefore fittest, as of his persuasion: 

Since Jie was sure liis motlier would fall sick, 
And tiie Tope thunder excommunication, 

" " '^ut here Adeline, who seem'd to pique 

Herself extremely on the inoculation 

Of others with her own opinions, stated — 

As usual — the same reason wJiicli she late did. 

LI. 

And wherefore not ? A reasonable reason, 
If good, is none the worst for repetition ; 

If bad, the best \v-ay 's certainly to tease on, 
And amplify: yo'u lose niucli by concision, 

Whereas insisting in or out of season 
Convinces all men, even a politician; 

Or— what is just the same — it wearies out. 

So the end 's gain'd, what signifies the route? 

LII. 

Why Adeline had this slight prejudice — 
For prejudice it was — against a crea^ture 

As pure as sanctity itself from vice, 

With all the added charm of form and feature. 

For me appears a (lueslion far too nice, 
Siiice Adeline was liberal by nature; 

But nature 's nature, and has more caprices 

Than I have time, or will, to take to pieces. 

LI 1 1. 

Perhaps she did not like the quiet way 

Wit!) which Aurora on those baubles look'd. 

Which charm most jjeople in their earlier day: 
For there are few things by mankind less brook'd, 

And womankind too, if we so may say. 

Than finding thus their srenius stand rebuked. 

Like "Antony's by Caesar,'" by the few 

Who look upon them as they ought to do. 

LIV. 

It was not envy— Adeline had none; 

Her place was far beyond it, and her mind. 
It was not scorn — whicli could not liglit on one 

Whose greatest fault \vas leaving few to find. 
It was not jealousy, 1 think : but shun 

Following the '' ignes fatui " of mankind. 

It was not but 't is easier far, alas ! 

To say what it was not than what it was. 



1 See TacituB, b. vi. 



LV. 
Little Aurora deem'd she was the theme ' 

Of such discussion. She was there a guest ; 
A beauteous ripple of the brilliant stream 

Of rank and youth, though purer than the rest. 
Which flow'd on for a moment in the beam 

Time sheds a moment o'er each sparkling crest. 
Had she known this, she would have calmly smiled — 
She had so much, or little, of the child. 

LVI. 

The dashing and proud air of Adeline 
imposed not upon her : she saw her blaze 

Much as she would have seen a glow-worm shiae, 
Then turn'd unto the stars for loftier rays. 

Juan was something she could not divine, 
Being no sibyl in the new world's ways ; 

Yet she was nothing dazzled by the meteor. 

Because she did not pin her faith on feature. 

LVIL 

His fame too, — for he had that kind of fame 
Which sometimes p'ays the deuce with womankind, 

A heterogeneous mass of glorious blame. 

Half virtues and whole vices being combined ; 

Faults which attract because they are not tame j 
Follies trick'd out so brightly that they blind : — 

These seals upon her wax made no impression, 

Such was her coldness or her self-possession. 

Lvm. 

Juan knew nought of such a character — 
High, yet resembling not his lost Haidee ^ 

Yet each was radiant in her proper sphere : 
The island girl, bred up by the lone sea. 

More warm, as lovely, and not less sincere, 
Was Nature's all : Aurora could not be. 

Nor would be thus : — the dift'erence in them 

Was such as lies between a flower and gem. 

LIX. 

Having wound up with this sublime comparison, 
Methinks we may proceed upon our narrative, 

And, as my friend Scott says, " I sound my warison j " 
Scott, the superlative of my comparative — 

Scott, who can paint your Christian knight or Saracen, 
Serf, lord, man, with such skill as none would share 
it, if 

There had not been one Shakspeare and Voltaire, 

Of one or both of whom he seems the heir. 

LX. 

I say, in my slight way I may proceed 
To play upon the surfce of hunianity. 

I write the world, nor care if the world read. 
At least for this I cannot sj)are its vanity. 

My Muse hath bred, and still perhaps may breed 
More foes by this same scroll : when 1 began it, I 

Thought that It might turn out so — now I know it. 

But still I am, or was, a pretty poet. 

LXI. 

The conference or congress (for it ended 

As congresses of late do) of the Lady 
Adeline and Don Juan rather blended 

Some acids with the sweets — for she was heady ; 
But, ere the matter could be marr'd or mended, 

The silvery bell rang, not for "dinner ready," 
But for that hour, call'd half-hour, given (o dress. 
Though ladies' robes seem scant enough for less. 

LXIL 

Great things were now to be achieved at table. 
With massy ])late for armour, knives and forks 

For weai)ous ; but what Muse since Homer 's able 
(His feasts are not the worst part of his works) 

To draw up in array a single day-bill 
Of modern dinners ? where more mystery lurks. 

In soups or sauces, or a sole ragout, 

Than witches, b— ches, or physicians, brew. 



598 



DON JUAN 



[Canto XV. 



LXIII. 

There was a goodly " soupe a la bonne femme," 
Though God knows whence it came from ; there 

Aturbot for relief of those who cram, [was, too, 
Relieved with "dindon a la Parigeux j" 

There also was the sinner that 1 am ! 

How shall 1 get this gourmand stanza through ? — 

"Soupe a la Beauveau," whose relief was dory, 

Relieved itself by pork, for greater glory. 

LXIV. 

But I must crowd all into one grand mess 
Or mass ; for should I stretch into detail, 

My Muse would run much more into excess. 
Than when some squeamish people deem her frail. 

But though a "bonne vivante, ' I must confess 
Her stomach 's not her peccant part ; this tale 

However doth require some slight refection. 

Just to relieve her spirits from dejection. 

LXV. 

Fowls "a la Conde," slices eke of salmon, 

With " sauces Genevoises,'" and haunch of venison : 

Wines too, which might again have slain young Am- 
mon — 
A man like whom I hope we sha'n't see many soonj 

They also set a glazed Westphalian ham on. 
Whereon Apicius would bestow his benison; 

And then there was champagne with foaming whirls, 

As white as Cleopatra's melfcd pearls. 

Lxvr. 

Then there was God knows what "a I'Allemande," 

"A I'Espagnole," "tirnballe," and "salpicon" — 
With things I can't withstand or understand. 

Though swaliow'd with much zest upon the whole ; 
And "entremets " to piddle wi[h at hand. 

Gently to lull down the subsiding soulj 
While great Lucullus' Role trium-fhal muffles — 
(There's fame) — young partridge fillets, deck'd with 
truffles. 1 

LXVH. 
What are the fillets on the victor's brow 

To these ? They are rags or dust. Where is the 
Which nodded to the natioli's spoils below ? [arch 

Where the triumphal chariots' haughty march? 
Gone to where victoiies must like dinners go. 

Farther I shall not follow the research : 
But oh ! ye modern heroes with your cartridges. 
When will your names lend lustre e"en to partridges? 

LXVIH. 

Those truffles too are no bad accessaries, 
Follow'd by " petits puits d'amour " — a dish 

Of which perhaps the cookery rather varies. 
So every one may dress it to his wish. 

According to the best of dictionaries, 
Which encyclopedize both flesh and fish ; 

But even sans " confitures," it no less true is, 

There 's pretty picking in those "petits puits." 3 

LXIX. 

The mind is lost in mighty contemplation 
Of intellect expanded on two courses j 

And indigestion's grand multiplication 
Requires arithmetic beyond my forces. 

Who would suppose, from Adam's simjile ration. 
That cookery could have call'd forth such resources. 

As form a science and a nomenclature 

From out the commonest demands' of nature ? 



1 A dish "a la Lucullus." This hero, who conquered 
the East, has left his more extended celebrity to the 
transplantation of cherries (which he first brought into 
Europe), and the nomenclature of some very good dishes ; 
--and 1 am not sure that (barring indigestion) he has not 
done more service to mankind by his cookery, than by his 
conquests. A cherry-tree may weigh against a bloody 
laurel : besides, he has contrived to earn celebrity from 
both. 

2 "Petits puits d'amour garnis des confitures,"-- a 
classical and well-known dish for part of the flank of a 
second course. 



LXX. 

The glasses jingled, and the palates tingled ; 

'I he diners of celebrity dined well ; 
The ladies with more moderation mingled 

In the feast, pecking less than I can tell; 
Also the younger men too : for a springald 

Can't, like ripe age, in gormandize excel. 
But thinks less of good eating than the whisper 
(When seated next him) of some pretty lisper. 

LXXI. 

Alas ! I must leave undescribed the gibier, 

The salmi, the consomme, the puree, 
All which I use to make my rhymes run glibher 

Than could roast beef in our rough John Bull way : 
I must not introduce even a spare rib here, 

"Bubble and squeak" would spoil my liquid lay, 
But I have dined, and must forego, alas ! 
The chaste description even of a " becasse j " 

Lxxir. 

And fruits, and ice, and all that art refines 
From nature for the service of the gout — 

Taste or the gout, — pronounce it as inclines 
Your stomach ! Ere you dine, the French will do ; 

But after, there are sometimes certain signs 
Which prove plain English truer of the two. 

Hast ever had the gout ? 1 have not had it — 

But 1 may have, and you too, reader, dread it. 

LXXHI. 

The simple olives, best allies of wine. 

Must i pass over in my bill of fare ? 
I must, although a favourite " plat " of mine 

In Spain, and Lucca, Athens, every where : 
On them and bread "t was oft my luck to dine, 

The grass my table-cloth, in open air, 
On Sunium or Hymettus, like Diogenes, 
Of whom half my philosophy the progeny is. 

LXXIV. 

Amidst this tumult of fish, flesh, and fowl, 

And vegetables, all in masquerade. 
The guests were placed accoiding to their roll, 

But various as the various meats display "d : 
Don Juan sat next an " a I'Espagnole " — 

ISO damsel, but a dish, as hath been said _; 
But so far like a lady, that 't was drest 
Superbly, and contained a world of zest. 

LXXV. 

By some odd chance too, he was placed between 

Aurora and the Lady Adeline — 
A situation difficult, I'ween, 

For man therein, with eyes and heart, to dine. 
Also the conference which we have seen 

Was not such as to encourage him to shine. 
For Adeline, addressing few words to him, [him. 
With two transcendent eyes seem'd to look through 

LXXVI. 

I sometimes almost think that eyes have ears: 
This much is sure, that, out of earshot, things 

Are somehow echoed to the pretty dears, [springs. 
Of which I can't tell whence their knowledge 

Like that same mystic music of the spheres, 
Which no one hears, so loudly though it rings, 

'T is wonderful how oft the sex have heard 

Long dialogues — which pass'd without a word ! 

Lxxvn. 

Aurora sat with that indifference 

Which piques a preux chevalier — as it ought: 
Of all offences that "s the worst oHence, 

Which seems to hint you are not worth a thought. 
Now Juan, though no coxcomb in pretence, 

Was not exactly pleased to be so caught \ 
Like a good ship entangled anjong ice. 
And after so much excellent advice. 



Canto XV. 1 



DON JUAN. 



599 



LXXVIII. 

To his p.y nothings, nothing was replied, 

Or something which was nothing, as urbanity- 
Required. Aurora scarcely lookd aside, 
Nor even smiled enough for any vanity. 
The devil was in the girl ! Could it be pride ? 

Or modesty, or absence, or inanity ? 
Heaven knows! But Adeline's malicious eyes 
Sparkled with her successful prophecies, 

LXXiX. 

And look'd as much as if to say, " I said it j " 
A kind of triumph I'll not recommend, 

Because it sometimes, as 1 have seen or read it, 
Both in the case of lover and of friend. 

Will pique a gentleman, for his own credit, 
To bring what was a jest to a serious end : 

For all men prophesy what is or was, 

And hate those who won't let them come to pass. 

LXXX. 

Juan was drawn thus into some attentions, 
Slight but select, and just enough to express, 

To females of perspicuous comprehensions, 
That he would rather make them more than less. 

Aurora at the last (so history mentions. 

Though probably much less a fact than guess) 

So far relax'd her thoughts from their sweet prison, 

As once or twice to smiie, if not to listen. 

Lxxxr. 

From answering she began to question : this 
With her was rare ; and Adeline, who as yet 

Thought her predictions went not much amiss, 
Began to dread she 'd thaw to a coquette — 

So very difficult, they say, it is 

To keep extremes "from meeting, when once set 

In motion ; but she here too much refined — 

Aurora's spirit was not of that kind. 

Lxxxir. 

But Juan had a sort of .winning way, 

A proud humility, if such there be. 
Which show'd such deference to what females say, 

As if each charming word were a decree. 
His tact, too, tempered him from grave to gay, 

And taught him when to be reserved or free: 
He had the art of drawing people out. 
Without their seeing what he was about. 

Lxxxiir. 

Aurora, who in her indift'erence 

Confounded him in common with the crowd 
Of flatterers, though she deem'd he had more sense 

Than whispering foplings, or than witlings loud — 
Commenced (from such slight things will great com- 
mence) 

To feel that flattery which attracts the proud 
Rather by deference than compliment. 
And wins even by a delicate dissent. 

LXXXIV. 

And then he had good looks ;— that point was carried 
Ntm. con. anjongst the women, which 1 grieve 

To say leads oft to crirn. con. with the married — 
A case which to the juries we may leave. 

Since with digressions we too long have tarried. 
Now though we know of old that looks deceive. 

And always have done, somehow these good looks 

Make more impression than the best of books. 

LXXXV. 

Aurora, who look'd more on books than faces, 
Was very young, although so very sage, 

Admiring more Minerva than the Graces, 
Especially upon a i)rinted page. 

But Virtue's self, with all her tightest laces. 
Has not the natural stays of strict old age; 

And Socrates, tbat model of all duty, 

Own'd to a penchant, though discreet, for beauty. 



LXXXVI. 

And girls of sixteen are thus far Socratic, 

hut innocently so, as Socrates; 
And really, if the sage sublime and Attic 

At seventy years had phantasies like these, 
Which liato in his dialogues dramatic 

Has shown, 1 know not why they should displease 
In virgins — always in a modest way, 
Observe j for that with me 's a " sine qua." 1 

LXXXVII. 

Also observe, that, like the great Lord Coke 
(See Littleton), whene'er l have express'd 

Opinions two, which at first sight may look 
Twin opposites, the second is the best. 

Perhaps 1 have a third too, in a nook. 
Or none at all — which seems a scirry jest : 

But if a writer should be quite consistent, 

How could he possibly show things existent? 

LXXXVIIL 

If people contradict themselves, can I 

Help contradicting them, and every body, 
Even my veracious self? — But that 's a lie : 

1 never did so, never will — how should I ? 
He who doubts all things nothing can deny : 

Truths fountains may be clear — her streams are 
muddy, 
And cut through such canals of contradiction, 
That she must often navigate o'er fiction, 

LXXXIX. 
Apologue, fable, poesy, and parable, 

Are false, but may be render'd also true, 
By those who sow them in a land that 's arable. 

'T is wonderful what f.ble will not do ! 
'T is said it makes reality more bearable : 

But what 's reality ? W ho has its clue ? 
Philosophy? No: she too much rejects. 
Religion ? Yes ; but which of all her sects ? 

XC. 

Some millions must be wrong, that 's pretty clear; 

Perhaps it may turn out that all were right. 
God help us ! Since we have need on our career 

To keep our holy beacons always bright, 
'T is time that son;e new prophet should appear. 

Or old indulge man wilh a second sight. 
Opinions wear out in some ihousand years, 
Without a small refreshment from the spheres, 

xcr. 

But here again, why will I thus entangle 
Myself with metaphysics ? None can hate 

So much as 1 do any kind of wrangle ; 
And yet, such is my folly, or my fate, 

I always knock my head against some angle 
About the present, past, or future state: 

Yet I wis!: well to 'I rojan and to Tyrian, 

For I was bred a moderate Presbyterian. 

XCII. 

But though I am a temperate theologian, 

And also meek as a metaphysician. 
Impartial between I yrian and '1 rojan 

As Eldon 2 on a lunatic commission, 
In politics my duty is to show John 

P.uil something of the lower world's condition. 
It makes my blood boil like the spi ings of Hecla,3 
To see men let these scoundrel sovereigns break law. 

XCIH. 
But politics, and policy, and piety. 

Are topics which I sometimes introduce, 
Not only for the sake of their vaiiely, 

But as subservient to a moral use ; 
Because my business is to di'css society. 

And stuff" with A'flge that very verdant goose. 
And now, that we may furnish with some matter all 
Tastes, we are going to try the supernatural. 

1 Subauditur " non;" omitteil for the sake of euphony. 

2 John Scott, Earl of lililoii, Chamellor of EiiRland 
(with the interrupliou of fourteen moiilhu) from IbOl to 
1830.— E. 

3 Ilecia is a famous hot-spring in Iceland. 



600 



DON JUAN 



[Canto XVI. 



XCIV. 
And now I will give up all argument ; _ 

And positively henceforth no temptation 
Shall " fool me to the top up of my "bent : " — 1 

Yes, I '11 begin a thorough reformation. 
Indeed, 1 never knew what people meant 

By deeming that my Muse's conversation 
Was dangerous ; — 1 think she is as harmless 
As some who labour more and yet may charm less. 

XCV. 
Grim reader ! did you ever see a ghost ? 

No ; but you have heard— 1 understand— be dumb 
And don't regret the time you may have lost, 

For you have got that pleasure still to come : 
And do not think I mean to sneer at most 

Of these things, or by ridicule benumb 
That source of the sublime and the mysterious : — 
For certain reasons my belief is serious. 

XCVI. 

Serious ? You laugh ; — you may : that will I not j 
My smiles must be sincere or not at all. 

I say I do believe a haunted spot 
Exists — and ^\here ? That shall I not recall, 

Because I 'd rather it should be forgot, 

"Shadows the scul of Richard "' may appal. 

In short, upon that subject I "ve some qualms very 

Like those of the philosopher of Malmsbury.2 

XCVII. 

The night — (I sing by night — sometimes an owl, 
And now and then a nightingale) — is dim, 

And the loud shriek of sage Minerva's fowl 
Rattles around me her discordant hymn : 

Old portraits from old walls upon me scowl — 
I wish to heaven they v.ould not look so grim; 

The dying embers dwindle in the grate — 

I think too that I have sate up too late : 

xcviir. 

And therefore, though 't is by no means my way 
To rhyme at noon — when I have other things 

To think of, if I ever think— I say 

I feel some chilly midnight shudderings, 

And prudently postpone, until mid-day. 
Treating a to{)ic which, alas ! but brings 

Shadows ; — but you must be in my condition, 

Before you learn to call this superstition. 

XCIX. 

Between two worlds life hovers like a star, 

'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge. 

How little do we know that which we are ! 
How less what we may be ! The eternal surge 

Of time and tide rolls on. and bears afar 
Our bubbles ; as the old burst, new emerge, 

Lash'd from the foam of ages j while the graves 

Of empires heave but like some passing waves. 



CANTO THE SIXTEENTH. 



The antique Persians taught three useful things, 
To draw the bow, to ride, and speak the triith.s 

This was the mode of Cyrus, best of kings — 
A mode adopted since by modern youth. 

Bows have they, generally with two strings; 
Horses they ride without remorse or ruth ; 

At speaking truth perhaps they are less clever, 

But draw the long bow better now than ever. 



1 Hamlet, Act III. |c. ii. 

2 Hohbes : who, doubting of his own soul, paid that 
compliment to the souls of other people, as to declioe their 
Yisits, of which he had some apprehension. » 

3 Xenophon, Cyrop. 



II. 

The cause of this effect, or this defect,— 

" For this effect defective comes by cause," — 4 

Is what I have not leisure to inspect ; 
But this 1 must say in njy own applause, 

Of all the Muses that 1 recollect, 
Whate'er may be her follies or her flaws 

In some things, mine 's beyond all contradiction 

The most sincere that ever dealt in fiction. ^ 

III. 

And as she treats all things, and ne'er retreats 
From any thing, this epic will contain 

A wildemess of the most rare conceits. 

Which you might elsewhere hope to find in vain. 

'T is true there be some bitters with the sweets, 
Yet mix'd so slightly, that you can't complain, 

Rut wonder they so few are, since my tale is 

" De rebus cunctis et quibusdam aliis." 

IV. 

But of all truths which she has told, the most 
True is that which she is about to tell. 

I said it was a story of a ghost — 
What then ? 1 only know it so befell. 

Have you explored the limits of the coast, 

W here all the dwellers of the e irth must dwell ? 

' T is time to strike such puny doubters dumb as 

The sceptics who would not believe Columbus. 

V. 

Some people wou'd impose now with authority, 
Turpin's or Monmouth Geoffry's Chronicle; 

Men whose historical superiority 
Is always greatest at a miracle. 

But Saint Au^us'iue has the g'eat priority, 
Who bids all men believe the impossible. 

Because 't is so. Who nibble, scribble, quibble, he 

Quiets at once with '■'■quia impossibile." 

VI. 

And therefore, mortals, cavil not at all ; 

Believe : — if 't is improbable, you must, 
And if it is impossible, you shall : 

'T is always best to take things upon trust. 
I do not speak profanely, to recall 

Those holier mysteries which the wise and just 
Receive as gospel, and which grow more rooted. 
As all truths must, the more they are disputed : 

VII. 

I merely mean to say what Johnson said, 
'I hat in the course of some six thousand years, 

All nations have believed that from the dead 
A visitant at interva's appears; 

And what is strangest upon this strange head, 
Is, that whatever bar the reason rears 

'Gainst such belief, there 's something stronger still 

In its behalf, let those deny who will. 

VIII. 

The dinner and the soiree too were done, 
'1 he supper too discuss'd, the dames admired. 

The banqueters had diopp'd off one by one — 
T he song was silent, and the dance expired : 

The last thin petticoats were vanish'd, gone 
Like fleecy clouds into the sky retired. 

And nothing brighter gleam 'd through the saloon 

Than dying tapers — and the peeping moon. 

IX. 

The evaporation of a joyous day 

Is like the last glass oi champagne, without 
The foam which made i's virgin bumper gay; 

Or like a system coupled with a doubt ; 
Or like a soda bottle when its spray 

Has sparkled and let half its spirit out; 
Or like a billow left by storms behind, 
Without the animation of the wind ; 



4 Hamlet, Act II. sc. ii. 



Canto XVI.j 



DON JUAN. 



601 



X. 

Or like an opiate, which brings troubled rest, 

Or none ; or like — like nothing tliat I know 
Except itself; — such is the human breast j 

A thing, of which similitudes can show 
No real likeness,— like the old i yrian vest 

Dyed purple, none at present can tell how, 
If from a shell-fish or from cochineal. i 
So perish every tyrant's robe piece-meal ! 

XI. 
But next to dressing for a rout or ball, 

Undressing is a woe j our robe de chambre 
May sit like that of Nessus, and recall 

Thoughts quite as yellow, but less clear than amber. 
Titus exclaim'd, " I 've lost a day ! " Uf all 

The nights and days most people can remember, 
(I have had of both, some not to be disdain'd,) 
I wish they'd state how many they have gain'd. 

XII. 
And Juan, on retiring for the night, 

Felt restless, and perplex'd, and compromised : 
He thought Aurora Raby"s eyes more bright 

1 han Adeline (such is advice) advised ; 
If he had known exactly his onn plight. 

He probably would have philosophised: 
A great resource to all, and ne'er denied 
Till wanted ', therefore Juan only sigh'd. 

XIII. 

He sigh'd ; — the next resource is the full moon, 
Where all sighs are deposited; and now 

Ithappsn'd luckily, the chaste orb shone 
As clear as such a climate will allow; 

And Juan"s mind was in the proper tone 

To hail her with the apostrophe — "0 thou ! " 

Of amatory egotism the Tuism, 

Which further to explain would be a truism. 

XIV. 
But lover, poet, or astronomer, 

Shepherd, or swain, whoever may behold, 
Feel some abstraction when they gaze on her : 

Great thoughts we catch from thence (besides a cold 
Sometimes, unless my feelings rather err) ; 

Deep secrets to her rolling light are told ; 
The oceans tides and mortals' brains she sways, 
And also hearts, if there be truth in lays. 

XV. 

Juan felt somewhat pensive, and disposed 
For contemplation rather than his pillow: 

The Gothic chamber, where lie was enclosed, 
Let in the rippling sound of the lake's billow. 

With all the mystery by midnight caused; 
Below his window waved (of course) a willow; 

And he stood gazing out on the cascade 

That flash'd and after darken'd in the shade. 

XVI. 

Upon his table or his toilet,— which 

Of these is not exactly ascertain'd, — 
(I state this, for I am cauiious to a pitch 

Of nicety, where a fact is to be gain'd,) 
A lamp burn'd high, while he leant from a niche, 

Where many a Gothic ornament remain"d, 
In chisell'd stone and painted glass, and all 
That time has left our fathers of their hall. 

XVII. 
Then, as the night was clear though cold, he threw 

His chamber door wide open — and went forth 
Into a gallery, of a sombre hue, 

Long, furnish'd with old pictures of great worth. 
Of knights and dames heroic and chaste too, 

As doubtless should be people of iiigh birth. 
But by dim lights the portraits of the dead 
Have something ghastly, desolate, and dread. 

1 The composition of the old Tyrian purple, whether 
from a shell-ttMh, or from cochint^ul, or from kermes, is 
still an article of dispute; and even its colour — some say 
purple, others sc.irlel : I say nothing. 



32 



XVIH. 

The forms of the grim knight and pictured saint 
Look living in the moon : and as you turn 

Backward and forward to tne echoes faint 
Of your own footsteps — voices from the urn 

Appear to wake, and shadows wild and quaint 
Start from the frames which fence their aspects 
stern, 

As if to ask how you can dare to keep 

A vigil there, where all but death should sleep. 

XIX. 

And the pale smile of beauiies in the grave, 
'1 he charms of other days, in starlight gleams, 

Glimmer on high; their buried locks still wave 
Along the canvass ; their eyes glance like dreams 

On ours, or spars within some dusky cave, 
But death is imaged in their shadowy beams. 

A picture is the past ; even ere its frame 

Be gilt, who sate hath ceased to be the same. 

XX. 

As Juan mused on mutability, 

Or on his mistress — terms synonymous — 
No sound except the echo of his sigh 

Or step ran sadly through that aniique house ; 
When suddenly he heard, or thought so, nigh, 

A supernatural agent — or a mouse, 
Whose little nibbling rustle will embarrass 
Most people as it plays along the arras. 

XXI. 

It was no mouse, but lo ! a monk, array'd 
In cowl and beads, and dusky garb, appear'd, 

Now in the moonlight, and novvlapsed in shade, 
With steps tlat trod as heavy, yet unheard ; 

His garments only a slight murmur made ; 
He moved as shadowy as the sisters weird. 

But slowly ; and as he passed Juan by, 

Glanced, without pausing, on him a bright eye. 

xxn. 

Juan was petrified ; he had heard a hint 

Of such a spirit in these halls of old. 
But thought, like most men, there was nothing in 't 

Beyond the rumour which such spots unfold, 
Coiu'd from sui viving superstition's mint, 

Which passes ghosts in cunency like gold, 
But rarely seen, like gold compared with paper. 
And did he see this ? or was it a vapour ? 

XXIII. 

Once, twice, thrice pass'd, repassed- the thing of air, 
Or earth beneath, or heaven, or t'other place ; 

And Juan gazed upon it with a stare. 
Yet could not speak or move; but, on its base 

As stands a statue, stood : he felt his hair 
Twine like a knot of snakes around his face; 

He tax'd his tongue for woi ds,which were not granted. 

To ask the reverend person what he wanted. 

XXIV. 
The third time, after a still longer pause, 

The shadow pass'd away — but where P^the hall 
Was long, and thus far there was no great cause 

To think his vanishing unnatural : 
Doors there were many, through which, by the laws 

Of physics, bodies whether short or tall 
Might come or go ; but Juan could not state 
Through which the spectre seem'd to evaporate. 

XXV. 

He stood — how long he knew not, but it seem'd 
An age — expectant, powerless, with his eyes 

Strain"d on the spot where first the figure gleam'd ; 
Then by degrees recalled his energies, 

And would have pass d the whole oft as a dream, 
But could not wake; he was, he did surmise, 

Waking already, and return'd at length 

Back to his chamber, shorn of half his strength. 



602 



DON JUAN 



[Canto XVI. 



xxvr. 

All there was as he left it : still liis taper 
Burnt, and not blue, as modest tapers use, 

Receiving sprites with sympathetic vapour j 
He rubb d his eyes, and they did not refuse 

Their oflice ; he took up an old newspaper j 
The paper was right easy to peruse ; 

He read an article the king attacking. 

And a long eulogy of " patent blacking." 

XXVII. 

This savour'd of this world ; but his hand shook : 
He simt his door, and after having read 

A paragraph, I think about Home tooke, 
Undrest, and rather slowly went to bed. 

There, couch'd all snugly on his pillow's nook, 
With what he had seen his phantasy he fed j 

And though it was no opiate, slumber crept 

Upon him by degrees, and so he slept. 

XXVIII. 

He woke betimes ; and, as may be supposed, 

Ponder'd upon his visitant or vision. 
And whether it ought not to be disclosed. 

At risk of being quizz'd for superstition. 
The more he thought, the more his mind was posed : 

In the mean time, his valet, whose precision 
Was great, because his master brook'd no less, 
Knock'd to inform him it was time to dress. 

XXIX. 

He dress 'd ; and like young people he was wont 
To take some trouble with his toilet, but 

This morning rather spent less time upon 't; 
Aside his very mirror soon was put ; 

His curls fell negligently o"er his front, 
His clothes were not curb'd to their usual cut. 

His very neckcloth's Gordian knot was tied 

Almost an hair's breadth too much on one side. 

XXX. 

And when he walk'd down into the saloon, 
He sate him pensive o'er a dish of tea, 

Which he perhaps had not discover'd soon. 
Had it not happen'd scalding hot to be, 

Which made him have recourse unto his spoon; 
So much distrait he was, that all could see 

That something was the matter — Adeline 

The first — but what she could not well divine. 

XXXI. 

She look'd, and saw him pale, and turn'd as pale 
Herself; then hastily look'd down, and mutterd 

Something, but what "s not stated in my tale. 
Lord Henry said, his mui^n was ill butter'd ; 

The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke jjlay'd with her veil, 
And look'd at Juan hard, but nothing utter'd. 

Aurora Raby with her large dark eyes 

Survey'd him with a kind of calm surprise. 

XXXII. 

But seeing him all coU and silent still, 
And every body wondering more or less, 
j Fair Adeline enquired, " If he were ill ?" 

He started, and said, '• Yes — no ~ rather — yes." 

The family physician had great skill. 
And being present, now began to express 

His readiness to feel his pulse anJ tell 

The cause, but Juan said, " He was quite well." 

XXXIII. 

"Quite well; yes, — no." — These answers were 
mysterious, 

And yet his looks appear'd to sanction both, 
However they might savour of delirious ; 

Something like illness of a sudden growth 
Weigh'd on his spirit, though by no means serious: 

But for the rest, as he himself seem d loth 
To state the case, it might be ta'en for granted 
It was not the physician that he wanted. 



XXXIV. 

Lord Henry, who had now discuss'd his chocolate. 
Also the muffin whereof he complain'd, 

Said, Juan had not got his usual look elate, 
At which he marvell'd. since it had not rain'd ; 

Then ask d her Grace what news were of the duke 
oflnte? 
Hei- Grace replied, his Grace was rather pain'd 

With some slight, light, hereditary twinges 

Of gout, which rusts aristocratic hinges. 

XXXV. 

Then Henrj- turn'd to Juan, and address'd 
A few words of condolence on his state : 

"You look," quoth he, "as if you 'd had your rest 
Broke in upon by the Black Friar of late." 

" What Friar ?■' said Juan ; and he did his best 
To put the question with an air sedate, 

Or careless ; but the effort was not valid 

To hinder him from growing still more pallid. 

XXXVI. 

" Oh ! have vou never heard of the Black Friar ? i 
The spirit of these walls ? " — '• In truth not I." 

" Why Fame — but Fame you know 's sometimes a 
liar — 
Tells an odd story, of which by and by : 

Whether with time the spectre has grown shyer, 
Or that our sires had a more gifted eye 

For such sights, though the tale is half believed, 

The Friar of late has not been oft perceived. 

XXXVII. 

" The last time was » _ " I pray," said Adeline— 

(Who watch'd the charges of D' n Juan's brow, 

And from its context thought she could divine 
Connexions stronger than he chose to avow 

With this same legend) — "if you but design 
To jest, you '11 choose some other theme just now, 

Because the present tale has oft been told, 

And is not nmch improved by growing old." 

XXXVIII. 

" Jest ! " quoth Milor; " why, Adeline, you know 
That we ourselves — 't was in the honey-moon — 

Saw " — " Well, no matter, 't was so long ago ; 

But, come, I '11 set your story to a tune." 

Graceful as Dian, when she draws her bow. 
She seiz"d her harp, whose strings were kindled soon 

As touch'd, and plaintively besran to play 

The air of " 'T was a Friar of Orders Grey." 

XXXIX. 

" But add the words," cried Henry, " which you made; 

For Adeline is half a poetess,' 
Turning round to the rest, he smiling said. 

Of course the others could not but express 
In courtesy their wish to see display'd 

By one three talents, for there were no less — 
The voice, the words, the harper's skill, at once 
Could hardly be united by a dunce. 

XL. 

After some fascinating hesitation, — 

The charming of these charniers, who seem bound, 
[I can't tell why, to this dissinmlation, — 
I Fair Adeline, with eyes fix'd on the ground 
At first, then kindling into animation. 

Added her sweet voice to the lyric sound, 
AnJ sang with much simplicity, — a merit 
^^ot the less precious, that we seldom hear it. 



1 During a visit to Newstead, in 1814, Lord Byron 
i actually fancied he saw the ghost of Die Black Friar, 
I which was supposed to have haunted the Abbey from the 
time of the dissolution of the monasteries. — MOORE.— E. 



Canto XVI. 1 



DON JUAN. 



603 



Beware ! beware ! of the Black Friar, 

Who sitteth by Norman stone, 
For he mutters his prayer in the midnight air, 

And his mass of the days that are gone. 
When the Lord of the Hill, Amundeville, 

Made Norman Church his prey, 
And expell'd the friars, one friar still 

Would not be driven away. 

2. 

Though he came in his might, with King Henry's 
right, 

To turn church lands to lay, 
With sword in hand, and torch to light 

Their walls, if they said nay; 
A monk remain'd, unchased, unchain'd, 

And he did not seem form'd of clay. 
For he 's seen in the porch, and he 's seen in the 
church. 

Though he is not seen by day. 

3. 

And whether for good, or whether for ill, 

It is not mine to say; 
But still with the house of Amundeville 

He abideth night and day. 
By the marriage-bed of their lords, 't is said, 

He flits on the bridal eve ; 
And 't is held as faith, to their bed of death 

He comes — but not to grieve. 

4. 
When an heir is born, he 's heard to mourn, 

And when aught is to befall 
That ancient line, in the pale moonshine 

He walks from hall to hall. 
His form you may trace, but not his face, 

'T is shadow'd by his cowl ; 
But his eyes may be seen from the folds between, 

And they seem of a parted soul. 



But beware ! beware ! of the Black Friar, 

He still retains his sway. 
For he is yet the church's heir, 

Whoever may be the lay. 
Amundeville is lord by day. 

But the monk is lord by night; 
Nor wine nor wassail could raise a vassal 

To question that friar's right. 

6. 
Say nought to him as he walks the hall, 

And he '11 say nought to you ; 
He sweeps along in his dusky pall. 

As o'er the grass the dew. 
Then granunercy! for the Black Friar; 

Heaven sain him ! fair or foul. 
And whatsoe'er may be his prayer. 

Let ours be for his soul. 

XLL 

The lady's voice ceased, and the thrilling wires 
Died from the touch that kindled them to sound ; 

And the pause follow'd, which when song expires 
Pervades a moment those who listen round: 

And then of course the circle much admires. 
Nor less applauds, as in politeness bound, 

The tones, the feeling, and the execution, 

To the performer's diffident confusion. 

XLH. 

Fair Adeline, though in a careless way, 
As if she rated such accomplishment 

As the mere pastime of an idle day. 
Pursued an instant for her own content. 

Would now and then as 't were without display, 
Yet with display in fact, at times relent 

To such performances with haughty smile, 

To show she could, if it were wortli her while. 



XLin. 
Now this (but we will whisper it aside) 

Was — pardon the pedantic illustration — 
Trampling on Plato's i)ride with greater pride. 

As did the Cynic on some like occasion; 
Deeming the sage would be much mortified. 

Or thrown into a philosophic passion. 
For a spoilt carpet — but the "Attic Bee " 
Was much consoled by his own repartee.i 

XLIV. 

Thus Adeline would throw into the shade 

(By doing easily, whene'er she chose. 
What dilettanti do with vast parade) 

Their sort of half jirojession ; for it grows 
To something like this when too oft display'd j 

And that it is so, every body knows, 
Who have heard Miss 'i hat or J his, or Lady T'other, 
Show oil' — to please their company or mother. 

XLV. 
Oh ! the long evenings of duets and trios ! 

The admirations and the speculations; 
The '• Mamma Mia's ! " and the " ^mor Mio's! " 

The " 'J ami palpiti's " on such occasions : 
The " Lascianii's," and quavtring " Addio's ! " 

Amongst our own most musical of nations; 
With " J u mi chamas's " from Portingale, 
To soothe our ears, lest Italy should faii.^ 

XLVL 

In Babylon's bravuras — as the home 

Heart-ballads of Green Erin or Grey Highlands, 
That bring Lochaber back to eyes that roam 

O'er far Atlantic continents or islands, 
The calentures of music which o'ercome 

All mountaineers with dreams that they are nigh 
lands, 
No more to be beheld but in such visions — 
Was Adeline well versed, as compositions. 

XLVII. 

She also had a twilight tinge of " J5Ztte," 
Could write rhymes, and compose more than she 
wrote. 

Made epigrams occasionally too 
Upon her friends, as every body ought. 

But still from that sublimer azure hue. 
So much the present dye, she was remote; 

Was weak enough to deem Pope a great poet. 

And what was worse, was not ashamed to show it. 

XLVHI. 

Aurora — since we are touching upon taste, 
Which now-a-d;iys is the thermometer 

By whose degrees all characters are class'd — 
Was more Shakspearian, if I do not err. 



1 I think that it was a carpet on which DioKenes trod, 
with—'- Thus I trample on the pride of Plato 1 " — "'With 
greater pride," as the other replied. But as carpets are 
meant to be trodden upon, my memory probably miispives 

. me, and it might be a robe, or tapestry, or a table-doth, 
'cr some other expensive and uncyuiial piece of furniture. 

2 I remember that the mayoress of a provincial town, 
somewhat surfeited with a similar display from foreign 
parts, did rather indecorously break through the applauses 
of an intellifjent audience — inlflligeut, I mean, as to 
music — for the W(;rds, besides being in recondite langua- 
ges (it was some years beloie the peace, ere all the world 
had travelled, and while I was a collegian), were sorely 
disguised by the performers: — this mayoress, I say, 
broke out with, "Rot your Iialianos! for my part, I loves 
a simple ballat ! " Rossini will go a good way to bring 
most people to the same opinion, some day. Who would 
imagine that he was to be the successor of Mozbrt 7 
However, I state this with diffidence, as a liepe and loyal 
admirer of Italian music in general, and of much of Ros- 
sini's; but we may say, as the connoisseur did of point- 
ing, in "The Vicar of Wakefield," "that the picture 
would be better painted if the painter had taken more 
pains." 



604 



DON JUAN. 



[Canto XVI. 



The worlds beyond this world's perplexing waste 

Had more of her exisrence, for in her 
There was a depth of fee:in5 to embrace 
Thoughts, boundless, deep, but silent too as Space. 

XLIX. 

Not so her g:racious, graceful, graceless Grace, 
The full-grown Hebe of Fitz-Fulke, whose mind, 

If she had any, was upon her face, 
And that was of a fascinating kind. 

A little turn for mischief 3'ou might trace 
Also thereon,— but that 's not much ; we find 

Few females without some such gentle leaven. 

For fear we should suppose us quite in heaven. 



I have not heard she was at all poetic, 

Thous:h once she was seen reading the "Eath 
Guide," 
And "Hayley's Triumphs," which she deem'd pathetic, 

Because she said her tmifer had been tried 
So much, the bard had really been prophetic 

Of what she had gone through with— since a bride. 
But of all verse, what most ensured her praise 
Were sonnets to herself, or " bouts rimes." i 

LI. 

'T were difficult to say what -was the object 

Of Adeline, in bringing this same lay 
To bear on what appear"d to her the subject 

Of Juan's nervous feelings on that day. 
Perhaps she merely had the simple project 

To laugh him out of his supposed dismay ; 
Perhaps she might wish to cojitirm him in it. 
Though why I cannot say — - at least this minute. 

LII. 

But so far the immediate effect 

Was to restore him to his self-propriety, 

A thing quite necessary to the elect, 

Who wish to take the tone of their society: 

In which ynu cannot be too circumspect. 
Whether the mode be persiflage or piety. 

But wear the newest mantle of hypocrisy. 

On pain of much displeasing the gynocracy. 

LIII. 

And therefore Juan now began to rally 
His spirits, and without more explanation 

To jest upon such themes in many a sally. 
Her Grace too, also seized the same occasion, 

With various similar remarks to tally, 

But wish'd for a still more delaiTd narration 

Of this same mystic friar "s curious doings, 

About the present family's deaths and wooings. 

LTV. 
Of these few could say more than has been said j 

They pass'd as such things do, for superstition 
With some, while others, who had more in dread 

The theme, half credited the strange tradition ; 
And much was talk'd on all sides on that head; 

But Juan, when cross-question'd on the vision. 
Which some supposed (though he had not avow'd it) 
Had stirr'd him. answer'd in a way to cloud it. 

LV. 

And then, the mid-day having worn to one, 

The company prepared to separate ; 
Some to their several pastimes, or to none. 

Some wondering 't was so early, some so late. 
There was a goodly match too, to be run 

Between some greyhounds on my lords estate, 
And a young race-horse of old pedigree, 
Match'd for the spring, whom several went to see. 

1 The last wor<l8 or rhymes of a number of verses given 
to a poet to be filled up.— TODD.— B. 



LVI. 

There was a picture-dealer who had brought, 

A special 1 itian, warranted original. 
So precious that it was not to be bought, 

'I hough princes the possessor were besieging all. 
The king himseif had cheapen'd it, but thought 

The civil list he deigns to accept, (obliging all 
His subjects by his gracious acceptation) — 
Too scanty, in these times of low taxation. 

LVII. 

But as Lord Henry was a connoisseur, — 

The friend of artists, if not arts, — the owner, 

With motives the most classical and pure. 
So that he would have been the very donor. 

Rather than seller, had his wants been fewer, 
So much he deem'd his patronage an honour, 

Had brought the capo d opera,^ not for sale. 

But for his judgment — never known to fail. 

LVIII. 

There was a modern Goth, I mean a Gothic 
Bricklayer of Babel, call'd an architect, 

Brought to survey these grey walls, ^^ hich though so 
thick, 
Might have from time acquired some slight defect; 

Who after rummaging the Abbey through "thick 
And thin, produced a plan whereby to erect 

New buildings of correctest conforn)ation, 

And throw down old, which he call'd restoration. 

LIX. 

The cost would be a trifle — an " old song," 
Set to some thousands ('t is the usual burden 

Of that same tune, when people hum it long) — 
The pi ice would speedily repay its worth in 

An edifice no less sublime than strong, 
By \\hich Lord Henry's good taste would go forth in 

Its glory, through all ages shining sunny, 

For Gothic daring shown in English money.3 

LX. 

There Avere two lawyers busy on a mortgage 
Lord Henrj' wish d" to raise for a new purchase ; 

Also a lawsuit upon tenures burgage, 
And one on tithes, which sure are Discord's torches, 

Kindling Reliajion till she throws down ht,r gage, 
" Untying'' squires " to fight against the churches j"* 

There was a prize ox, a piize pig, and ploughman, 

For Henry was a sort of Sabine showman. 

LXI. 

There were two poachers caught in a steel trap, 
Ready for gaol, their place of convalescence ; 

There was a country girl in a close cap 
And scarlet cloak (1 hate the sight to see, since — 

Since — since — in youth, I had the sad mishap — 
But luckily I have paid few parish fees since) : 

That scarlet cloak, alas ! unclosed with rigour, 

Presents the problem of a double figure. 

2 Capo d' opera — chef-d'oeuvre. — master-piece. — K. 

3 "Ausu Romano, aere Veneto " is the inscription 
(and well inscribed in this instance) on the sea walls be- 
tween the Adriatic and Venice. The walls were a repub- 
lican work of the Venetians: the inscription, I believe, 
Imperial; and inscribed by Napoleon the First. It is 
time to continue to him that title — there will be a 
second by and by," Spes altera mundi," if he live ; let 
him not'defeat it like his father. But, in any case, he 
will be preferable to Imbeciles. There is a glorious field 
for him, if he know how to cultivate it. — [Napoleon — 
Francois— Charles— Joseph, Duke of Reichstadt, died at 
the palace Schonbrunn, July 22, 1832 — to the disappoint- 
ment of many prophets. He had just completed his 
twenty-first year.]~E. 

4 "I conjure yoj, by that which you profess, 

(Howe'er you come to know it) answer me : 
Though ye vntie the winds, and let them fight 
Against the cAurcAes. "-- iMACBKTH. 



Canto XVL] 



DON JUAN. 



605 



LXII. 
A reel within a bottle is a mystery, 

One can't tell how it e'er got in or out^ 
Therefore the present piece of natuial history 

I leave to those who are fond of solving doubt j 
And Hierely state, though not for the consistory, 

Lord Henry was a justice, and that ^cout 
The constable, beneath a warrant's banner. 
Had bagg'd this poacher upon Nature's manor. 

LXIII. 

Now justices of peace must judge all pieces 
Of mischief of all kinds, and keep the game 

And morals of the country from caprices 
Of those who 've not a license for the same ; 

And of all things, excepting tithes and leases, 
Perhaps the^e are most difficult to tame : 

Preserving partridges and pretty wenches 

Are puzzles to the most precautious benches. 

LXIV. 

The present culprit was extremely pale. 
Pale as if painted so ; her cheek being red 

By nature, as in higher dames less hale 

'T is white, at least when they just rise from bed. 

Perhaps she was ashamed of seeming frail, 
Poor soul ! for she wns country born and bred, 

And knew no better in her immorality 

Thaa to wax white — for blushes are for quality. 

LXV. 

Her black, bright, downcast, yet espiegle eye, 
Had gather'd a large tear into its corner, " 

Which the poor thing at times essay'd to dry, 
For she was not a sentimental mourner 

Parading all her sensibility. 

Nor insolent enough to scorn the scorner, 

But stood in trembling, patient tribulation, 

To be cali'd up for her examination. 

LXVI. 

Of course these groups were scatter'd here and there, 
Not nigh the gay saloon of ladies gent. 

The lawyers in the study; and in air 
The prize pig, ploughman, poachers; the men sent 

From town, viz, architect and dealer, were 
Both busy (as a general in his tent 

Writing despatches) in their several stations, 

Exulting in their brilliant lucubrations. 

Lxvn. 

But this poor girl was left in the great hall, 
While Scout, the parish guardian of the frail, 

Discuss 'd (he hated beer yclept the "small "J 
A mighty mug of moral double ale. 

She waited until Justice could recall 
Its kind attentions to their proper pale, 

To name a thing in nomenclature rather 

Perplexing for most virgins — a child's father. 

LXVHI. 

You see here was enough of occupation 
For the Lord Henry, link'd with dogs and horses. 

There was much bustle too, and preparation 
Below stairs on the score of second courses; 

Because, as suits their rank and situation. 

Those who in counties have great land resources 

Have " public days," when all men may carouse. 

Though not exactly what 's cali'd " open house." 

LXIX. 

But once a week or fortnight, w^iinvited 
(Thus we translate a general invitation) 

All country gentlemen, esquired or knighted, 

May drop in without cards, and take their station 

At the full board, and sit alike delighted 
With fashionable wines and conversation ; 

And, as the isthmus of the grand connexion. 

Talk o'er themselves the past and next election. 



LXX. 

Lord Henry was a great electioneerer, 

Burrowing for boroughs like a rat or rabbit. 
But county contests cost him rather dearer, fgabbit 
Because the neighbouring Scotch Earl of Gift- 
Had English influence, in the self-same sphere here; 

His son, the Honourable Dick Dicedrabbit, 
Was member for the " other interest " (meaning 
The same self-interest, with a difl'erent leaning). 

LXXL 

Courteous and cautious therefore in his county, 
He was all things to all men, and dispensed 

To some civility, to others bounty. 
And promises to all — which last commenced 

To gather to a somewhat large amount, he 
Not calculating how much they condensed ; 

But what with keeping some, and breaking others, 

His word had the same value as another's. 

Lxxn. 

A friend to freedom and freeholders — yet 
No less a friend to government — he held. 

That he exactly the just medium hit 
'Tvvixt place and patriotism — albeit compell'd, 

Such was his sovereign's pleasure, (though unfit, 
He added modestly, when rebels rail'd,) 

To hold some sinecures he wish'd abolish'd. 

But that with them all law would be demolish''d. 

LXXHI. 

He was "free to confess" — (whence comes this 
phrase ? 

Is 't English ? No — 't is only parliamentary) 
That innovation's spirit now-a-days 

Had made more progress than for the last century. 
He would not tread a factious path to praise, 

Though for the public weal disposed to venture high. 
As for his place, he could but say this of it. 
That the fatigue was greater than the profit. 

LXXIV. 

Heaven, and his friends, knew that a private life 
Had ever been his sole and whole ambition ; 

But could he quit his king in times of strife. 

Which threaten'd the whole country with perdition? 

When demagogues would with a butcher's knife 
Cut through and through (oh ! damnable incision !) 

The Gordian or the Geordi-an knot, whose strings 

Have tied together commons, lords, and kings. 

LXXV. 

Sooner " come place into the civil list [keep it, 

And champion him to the utmost — "l he would 

Till duly disappointed or dismiss'd : 
Profit he cared not for, let others reap it; 

But should the day come when place ceased to exist. 
The country would have far more cause to weep it : 

For how could it go on ? Explain who can ! 

He gloried in the name of Englishman. 

LXXVL 

He was as independent — ay, much more — 
Than those v.ho were not paid for independence. 

As common soldiers, or a common shore. 

Have in their several arts or parts ascendance 

O'er the irregulars in lust or gore. 
Who do not give professional attendance. 

Thus on the mob all statesmen are as eager 

To prove their pride, as footmen to a beggar. 

Lxxvn. 

All this (save the last stanza) Henry said. 

And thought. I say no more— 1 've said too much ; 

For all of us have either heard or read — 
Oflt"— or upo7i the hustings — some slight such 

Hints from the independent heart or head 
Of the official candidate. 1 '11 touch 

No more on this — the dinner-bell hath rung, 

And grace is said ; the grace 1 should have sung — 



1 "Rather than t30, come, fate, into the list, 

And champion me to the utterance." — MACBETH. 



606 



DON JUAN. 



[Canto XVI. 



LXXVIII. 

But I 'm too late, and therefore must make play. 

'T was a great banquet, such as Albion old 
Was wont to boast — as if a jluttnn's tray 

Were something very glorious to behold. 
But 't was a public feast and public day,— 

Quite full, right dull, guests hot, and dishes cold, 
Great plenty, much formality, small cheer, 
And everybody out of their own sphere. 

LXXIX. 

The squires familiarly formal, and 
My lords unid ladies proudly condescending ; 

The very servants puzzling how to liaud 
'i heir plates— without it miijht be too much bending 

From their high places by the sideboard's stand — 
Yet, like their masters, fearful of offending. 

For any deviation from the graces 

Might cost both mau and master too — their places. 

LXXX. 

There were some hunters bold, and coursers keen, 
Whose hounds ne'er err'd, nor greyhounds deign'd 
to lurch ; 

Some deadly shots too, Septembrizers, seen 
Earliest to rise, and last to quit the search 

Of the poor partridge throush his stubble screen. 
There were some massy members of the church, 

Takers of tithes, and makers of good matches. 

And several who sung fewer psalms than catches. 

LXXXI. 

There were some country wags too — and, alas ! 

Some exiles from the to\vn,"who had been driven 
To gaze, instead of pavement, upon grass, 

And rise at nine in lieu of long eleven. 
And lo ! upon that day it came to pass, 

I sate next that o'cruhelming son of heaven, 
The very powerful pai-son, Peter Fith,i 
The loudest wit I e'er was deafen'd with. 

LXXXII. 

I knew him in his livelier London daj'^, 
A brilliant diner-out, though but a curate j 

And not a joke he cut but earn'd its praise, 
Until preferment, ciming at a sure rate, 

(0 Providence ! how wondrous are thy ways ! 

Who would suppose thy gifts sometimes obdurate ?) 

Gave him, to lay the devil who looks o'er Lincoln, 

A fat fen vicarage, and nought to think on. 

LXXXIII. 

His jokes were sermons, and his sermons jokes ; 

But both were thrown away amongst the fens; 
For wit hath no great friend in aguish folks. 

No longer ready eare and short-hand pens 
Imbibed the gay bon-mot, or happy hoax : 

The poor priest was reduced to common sense, 
Or to coarse efforts very loud and long, 
To hammer a hoarse laugh from the thick throng. 

LXXXIV. 

There is a difference, says the song, "between 
A beggar and a queen," or ivas (of late 

The latter worse used of the two we 've seen — 
But we 'II siy nothing of affairs of state) 

A difference " 'twixt a bishop and a dean," 
A difference between crockery ware and plate, 

As between English Leef and Spartan broth — 

And yet great heroes have been bred by both. 

LXXXV. 

But of all nature's discrepancies, none 

Upon the whole is greater than the difference 

Beheld between the country and the town, 
Of which the latter merits every preference 

From those wlio "ve few resources of their own, 
And only think, or act, or feel, with reference 

To some small plan of interest or ambition — 

Both which are limited to no condition. 



1 Query, Sidney Smith, author of Peter Plimley's Let- 
ters 7 — Printer's Devil.— E. 



LXXXVL 

But " en avant ! " The light loves languish o'er 
Long banquets and too many guests, although 

A slight repast makes people love much more", 
Pacchus and Ceres being, as we know, 

Even from our grammar upwards, friends of yore 
With vivifying Venus, who doth owe 

To these the invention of champagne and truffles: 

Temperance delights her, but long fasting ruffles. 

LXXXVH. 

Dully past o'er the dinner of the day ; 

And Juan took his place, he knew not where, 
Confused, in the confusion, and distrait, 

And sitting as if nail'd upon his chair: 
Though knives and forks clang d round as in a fray, 

He seem'd unconscious of all passing there, 
Till some one, with a groan, exprest a wish 
(Unheeded twice) to have a fin of fish. 

LXXXVIIL 

On which, at the third asking of the bans. 
He started ; and perceiving smiles around 

Broadening to grins, he colour'd more than once, 
And hastily — as nothing can confound 

A wise man more than laughter from a dunce — 
Inflicted on the dish a deadly wound. 

And with such hurry, that ere" he could curb it, 

He had paid his neighbour's prayer with half a turbot. 

LXXXIX. 

This was no bad mistake, as it occurr'd, 

The supplicator being an amateur ; 
But others, who were left with scarce a third, 

Were anarry — as they well might, to be sure. 
They wonder'd how a young man so absurd 

Lord Henrv^ at his table should endure; 
And this, and' his not knowing how much oats 
Had fall'n last market, cost his host three votes. 

XC. 

They little knew, or might have sympathised, 
"1 hat he the night before had seen a ghost, 

A prologue which but s'ightly harmonised 
With the substantial company engross'd 

By matter, and so nmch materialised, 

That one scarce knew at what to marvel most 

Of two things — how (the question rather odd is) 

Such bodies could have souls, or souls such bodies. 

XCL 

But what confused him more than smile or stare, 
From all the squiies and squiresses around, 

Who wonder'd at the abstraction of his air, 
Especially as he had been renown'd 

For some vivacity anions: the fair. 
Even in the country circle's narrow bound — 

(For lirtle things upon my lord's estate 

Were good small talk for others still less great) — 

xcn. 

Was, that he caught Aurora's eye on his, 
And something like a smile upon her cheek. 

Now this he really rather took amiss : 
In those who rarely smile, their smile bespeaks 

A strong external motive; and in this 
Smile of Aurora's there was nought to pique 

Or hope, or love, with any of the wiles 

Which some pretend to trace in ladies' smiles. 

XCIH. 

'T was a mere quiet smile of contemplation, 

Indicative of some surprise and pity ; 
And Juan grew carnation wi»h vexation, 

Which \^•as not very wise, and still less witty, 
Since he had gain'd at least her observation, 

A most important outwork of the city — 
As Juan should have known, had not his senses 
By last night's ghost been driven from their defences. 



Canto XVI.] 



DON JUAN 



607 



XCIV. 

But what was bad, she did not blush in turn, 
Nor seem embarrass'd — quite the contrary ; 

Her aspect was as usual, still — not stern — 
And she withdrew, but cast not down, her eye, 

Yet fi;revv a little pale — with what ? concern ? 
I know not ; but her colour ne'er was high — 

Though sometimes faintly flush "d-and always clear, 

As deep seas in a sunny atmosphere. 

xcv. 

But Ade'ine was occupied by fame 

'I'his dav; and watching, witching, condescending 
To the consumers of fish, foal, and game, 

And dignity with courtesy so blending, 
As all must blend whose part it is to aim 

(Especially as the sixth year is ending) 
At their lord's, son's, or similar connexion's 
Safe conduct through the rocks of re-elections. 

xcvi. 

Though this was most expedient on the whole, 
And usual — Juan, when he cast a glance 

On Adeline while playing lier grand role. 

Which she went thr uich as though it were a dance, 

Betraying only now and then her soul 
By a look scarce perceptibly askance 

(Of weariness or scorn), began to feel 

Some doubt how much of Adeline was real; 

XCVII. 

So well she acted all and every part 
By turns — with that vivacious versatility. 

Which many people take for want of heart. 
They err — 't is merely what is cail'd mobility,! 

A, thing of temperament and not of art, 
Though seeming so, from its supposed facility j 

And false — though true ; for surely they 're sincerest, 

Who are strongly acted on by what is nearest. 

xcvin. 

This makes your actors, artists, and romancers, 
Heroes sometimes, though seldom — sages never: 

But speakers, bards, diplomatists, and dancers, 
Little that 's great, but much of what is clever; 

Most orators, but very few financiers, 
Though all Exchequer chancellors endeavour, 

Of late years, to dispense with Cocker's rigours, 

And grow quite figurative with their figures. 

XCIX. 

The poets of arithmetic are they 

Who, though they prove not two and two to be 
Five, as they might do in a modest way. 

Have plamly made it out that four are three. 
Judging by what they take, and what they pay. 

The sinking Fund's unfathomable sea. 
That most unliquidating liquid^ leaves 
The debt unsunk, yet sinks all it receives. 

C. 

While Adeline dispensed her airs and graces, 
The fair Fitz-Fuike seem'd very much at ease ; 

Though too well-bred to quiz men to their faces, 
Her laughing blue eyes with a glance could seize 

The ridicules of people in all places — 
That honey of your fashionable bees — 

And store it up for mischievous enjoyment; 

And this at present was her kind employment. 

CI. 

However, the day closed, as days must close ; 

The evening also waned — and coffee came. 
Each carriage was announced, and ladies rose, 

And curtsying off, as curtsies country dame, 



1 In French "mo6«7j7e." I am not sure that mobility 
is English; but it is expressive of a quality which rather 
belongs to other chmates. though it is sometimes seen to 
a great extent in our own. It may be defined as an ex- 
cessive susceptibility of immediate impressions —at the 
same time without losing the past; and is, though some- ; 
times apparently useful to the possessor, a most painful | 
and unhappy atiiibute. I 



Retired : with most unfashionable bows 

Their docile esquires also did the same, 
Delighted with their dinner and their host, 
But with the Lady Adeline the most. 

CIL 
Some praised her beauty : others her great grace ; 

'1 he warmth of her politeness, whose sincerity 
Was obvious in each feature of her face. 

Whose traits were radiant » ith the rays of verity. 
Yes; slie, was truly worthy her high place! 

Iso one could envy her deserved prosperity. 
And then her dress— what beautiful simplicity 
Draperied her form with curious felicity !* 

cni. 

Meanwhile sweet Adeline deserved their praises, 

By an impartial indemnification 
For all her past exertion and soft phrases, 

In a most edifying conversation, 
Which turn'd upon their late guests' miens and faces. 

And families even to the last relation ; 
Their hideous wives, their horrid selves and dresses, 
And truculent distortion of their tresses. 

CIV. 
True, she said little — 't was the rest that broke 

Forth into universal epigram ; " 
But then 't was to the purpose what she spoke : 

Like Addison's "faint praise," so wont to damn. 
Her own but served to set ott' every joke. 

As music chimes in with a melodrame. 
How sweet the task to shield an absent friend ! 
I ask but this of mine, to not defend. 

CV. 

There were but two exceptions to this keen 

Skirmish of wits o'er the departed ; one 
Aurora, with her pure and placid mien; 

And Juan, too, in general behind none 
In gay remark on what he had heard or seen, 

Sate silent now, his usual spirits gone: 
In vain he heard the others rail or rally. 
He would not join them in a single sally. 

CVI. 
'T is true he saw Aurora look as though 

She approved his silence ; she perhaps mistook 
Its motive for that charity we owe 

But seldom pay the absent, nor would look 
Farther; it might or it might not be so. 

But Juan, sitting silent in his nook, 
Observing little in his reverie. 
Yet saw this much, which he was glad to see. 

CVII. 
The ghost at least had done him this much good. 

In making him as silent as a ghost, 
If in the circumstances which ensued 

He gain d esteem where it was v\orth the most, 
And certainly Aurora had renew'd 

In him some feelings he had lately lost. 
Or harden'd; feelings which, perhaps ideal, 
Are so divine, that 1 must deem them real : — 

CVIII. 

The love of higher things and better days; 

The unbounded hope, and heavenly ignorance 
Of what is cail'd the world, and the world's ways; 

The moments when we gather from a glance 
More joy than from all future pride or praise. 

Which kindle manhood, but can ne'er entrance 
The heart in an existence of its own. 
Of which another's bosom is the zone. 

CIX. 

Who would not sigh Ai at rav KvBtQuav 
That hath a memory, or that had a heart ? 

Alas ! her star must fade like that of Dian : 
Ray fades on ray, as years on years depart. 

Anacreon only had the soul to tie an 
Unwithering myrile round the unblunted dart 

Of Eros; but though thou hast play'd us many tricks, 

Still we respect thee, "Alma Venus Genetrix 1" 

2"Curiosa feiicitas." — PETRONIUS ARBITER. 



608 



DON JUAN. 



[Canto X^ 



ex. 

And full of sentiments, sublime as billows 
Heaving between this world and worlds beyond, 

Don Juan, when the midnight hour of pillows 
Arrived, retired to his ; but to despond 

Rather than rest. Instead of poppies, willows 
Waved o'er his couch ; he meditated, fond 

Of those s^veet bitter thoughts which banish sleep, 

And make the worldling sneer, the youngling weep. 

CXI. 

The night was as before : he was undrest, 
Saving his night-gown, which is an undress; 

Completely '*sans culotte," and without vest; 
In short, he hard'y coud be clothed with less: 

But apprehensive of his spectral guest, 
He sate with feelings aukward to express 

(By those who have not had such visitations), 

Expectant of the ghosts fresh operations. 

CXII. 

And not in vain he listen'd ; — Hush ! what 's that? 

I see — I see ~ Ah, no ! — 't is not — yet 't is — 
Ye powers ! it is the — the — the — Pooh ! the cat ! 

The devil may take that stealthy pace of his ! 
So like a spiritual pit-a-pat. 

Or tiptoe of an amatory Miss, 
Gliding the first time to a rendezvous, 
And dreading the chaste echoes of her shoe. 

CXIII. 

Again — what is 't ? The wind ? No, no,— this time 

It is the sable Friar as before, 
With awful footsteps regular as rhyme. 

Or (as rhymes may be in these days) much more. 
Again through shadows of the night sublime. 

When deep sleep fell on men. and the world wore 
The starry darkness round her like a girdle 
Spangled with gems — the monk made his blood 
curdle. 

CXIV. 
A noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass, i 

Which sets the teeth on edge ; and a slight clatter 
Like showers which 6n the midnight gusts will pass. 

Sounding like very supernaturafwaTer, 
Came over Juan's ear, which throbbd, alas ! 

For immaterialism's a serious matter ; 
So that even those whose faith is the most great 
In souls immortal, shun them tete-a-tete. 

cxv. 

Were his eyes open ? —Yes ! and his mouth too. 

Surprise has this effect — to make one dumb. 
Yet leave the gate which eloquence slips through 

As wide as if a long speech were to come. 
Nigh and more nigh the awful echoes drew, 

'1 remendous to a mortal tympanum : 
His eyes were open, and (as was before 
Stated) his mouth. What open'd next ? — the door. 

CXVI. 

It open'd with a most infernal creakj 
Like that of hell. " Lasciate ogni speranza 

Voi che entrate ! " The hinge seem"d to speak. 
Dreadful as Dante's rhima, or this stanza ; 

Or — Lut all words upon such themes are weak: 
A single shade 's sufficient to entrance a 

Hero — for what is substance to a spirit ? 

Or how is 't matter trembles to come near it ? 



1 See the account of the ghost of the uncle of Prince 
Charles of Saxouy, raised by Schroepfer — " Karl -- Karl 
— was wollfit du init mich 7 " 



CXVIL 

The door flew wide, not swiftly, — but, as fly 
The sea-gulls, with a steady, sober flight — 

And then swung back ; nor close — but stood aw 
Half letting in long shadows on the light, 

Which still in Juan's candlesticks burn'd high, 
For he had two, both tolerably bright. 

And in the door-way, darkening darkness, stood 

The sable Friar in his solemn hood. 

CXVIIL 

Don Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken 
The night before ; but being sick of shaking, 

He first inclined to think he had been mistaken; 
And then to be ashamed of such mistaking; 

His own internal ghost began to awaken 

Within him, and to queTl his corporal quakinj 

Hinting that soul and body on the whole 

Were odds against a disembodied soul. 

CXIX. 

And then his dread grew wrath, and his wrath fi 
And he arose, advanced — the shade retreated: 

But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce, 

FoUow'd, his veins no longer cold, but heated, 

Resolved to thrust the mystery carte and tierce. 
At whatsoever risk of being defeated : 

The ghost stopp'd, menaced, then retired, until 

He reach'd the ancient wall, then stood stoDe sti 

CXX. 

Juan put forth one arm — Eternal powers ! 

It touch'd no soul, nor body, but the wall. 
On which the moonbeams fell in silvery showei 

Chequer'd with all the tracery of the hall ; 
He shudder'd, as no doubt the bravest cowers 

When he can't tell what't is that doth appal. 
How odd, a single hobgoblin's nonentity 
Should cause more fear than a whole host's ideclj 

CXXI. 

But still the shade remain'd : the blue eyes glar 
And rather variably for stony death : 

Yet one thing rather good the grave had spared. 
The ghost had a remarkably sweet breath : 

A straggling curl show'd he had been fair-hair'd 
A red lip, with two rows of pearls beneath, 

Gleanfd forth, as through the casement's ivy sb 

The moon peep'd, just escaped from a grey'cloi 

CXXIL 

And Juan, puzzled, but still curious, thrust 
H is other arm forth — Wonder upon wonc 

It press'd upon a hardj^jut glowing bust, 
Which beat as if there was a warm heart un 

He found, as people on most trials must. 
That he had made at first a silly blunder. 

And that in liis confusion he had caught 

Only the wall, instead of what he sought. 

CXXIIL 

The ghost, if ghost it were, seem'd a sweet sou 
As ever lurk'd beneath a holy hood : 

A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory, stole 

Forth into s lujething much like flesh and blc 

Back fell the sable frock and dreary cow], 
And they reveal'd — alas ! that e'er they shot. 

In full, voluptuous, but not o'crgrown bulk, 

The phantom of her frolic Grace — Fitz-Fulke 



2 " Shadows to-night 

Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard, 
Thau could the substance of ten thousand soldiers,' 
Rickard 



THE END. 



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